window. Outside a parking area. He saw his own car. He took several deep breaths. A bit better. Where the devil were his clothes?
He stumbled towards a cupboard, opened it, found the clothes hanging inside. Leaning against the wall, he stripped off the pyjama trousers, hauled on his underpants, his own trousers. He wrestled himself inside his shirt, stuffed his tie inside a pocket, sat down on a chair and eased his feet into socks and shoes. He was fully dressed when the nurse flew into the room.
'Mr Nield! What are you doing? Get back into bed at once…'
'I'm leaving…'
A man in a white coat who had glanced through the window came in. He heard Nield's reply. Walking over, he took hold of him by the arm.
'I'm Dr Nicholson. You're suffering a case of mild… that is, severe… concussion. You must…'
'Where is this hospital?'
The Queen Elizabeth, King's Lynn…'
'And… what day is it? Wednesday?'
'Thursday. Early morning…'
'That's what… I meant. How long have I…'
'You were brought in only four hours ago. I really insist you must get back into bed. This is a reaction from the concussion. You don't know what you're doing.'
'Want to bet?'
Nield forced himself to grin. God knows how he managed it. He was using up all his willpower to stay on his feet. Couldn't call Park Crescent from here. Too public. He got his jacket on. Fully dressed, his morale rose. He could sort these people out.
'My personal effects. My wallet. Keys…'
'At the reception desk, locked away safely.'
'Lay on, MacDuff.'
'I beg your pardon.'
A bit stiff-necked. Stuffy type, Dr Nicholson. Still, trying to do his job. Nield had a terrible thirst. He looked round, saw a jug covered with a cloth, a glass beside it.
'I could do with a drink of water.'
He moved slowly towards the table. The nurse ran past him – as he had hoped. He'd have spilt more on the floor than in the glass. She filled it, gave it to him with tight lips. He drank the lot in four separate gulps, thanked the nurse and looked at Nicholson.
'Which way to reception desk?'
Til show you.' Nicholson continued his efforts as they went down a long silent corridor. 'I can't recommend this course of action at all. You're not a fit man.'
'But you can't keep me here. I'm discharging myself.'
'I'd rather gathered that,' Nicholson said drily. 'Here is the desk. Nurse, Mr Nield requires his personal effects. See he signs a receipt.' He looked at Nield. 'I refuse to call a cab. If you must be so foolish you do that yourself. And keep those bandages on. Go straight to your local doctor when you get home. We got your details from your driving licence.'
'Thank you. And Good Night,' said Nield, turning to the nurse.
He told her he wanted a breath of fresh air just outside first and left the building. He had a little trouble finding the car park. No one was about as he climbed behind the wheel, fastened his belt and started the engine.
He soon found himself in a familiar part of King's Lynn and took the turning for London. Nield still felt peculiar. There were moments when his vision blurred. At that time of night the road was deserted but he slowed when he saw an isolated pair of headlights approaching. He wasn't worried about himself, but he had to think of other people. He had driven through Woburn when the strain began to tell. He found it harder to concentrate. No point in trying to find a public phone box. He gritted his teeth and drove on, knowing he could reach Park Crescent by dawn on the traffic-free roads. That was, if he could keep control of himself – and the car.
' Lesbos,' Tweed repeated. The ship carrying all those explosives was wrecked off the Norfolk coast. I've been a complete idiot. When Bellenger from the Admiralty told me that bomb on Paula's doorstep was the latest Soviet type I should have guessed. Somehow they transported that hellish armoury ashore, then stored it under our noses.'
'And now you know where?' Newman said.
'Cockley Ford. Those heavy wheel tracks leading from the entrance to the churchyard to Sir John Leinster's mausoleum.'
'Clever bloody Klein,' Newman remarked. 'Hid the stuff where no one would think of looking. So, is the target still Antwerp?'
'No,' Tweed said grimly. 'I've just realized the significance of the strange incident Colonel Ralston told me about aboard his cruiser. Remember he grasped that Klein's English wasn't perfect? Ralston made some remark to Klein about him talking Double Dutch. Klein flew at him. That Sergeant Bradley had to separate them.'
'I'm not following you,' Butler remarked.
'Double-Dutch,' Tweed repeated. 'Klein had never heard the colloquial phrase. He didn't like – was unnerved by – Ralston's reference to Dutch. Because the target is Dutch – not Belgian. It's been staring us in the face. It's Europort, the gateway to Europe.'
'And how is Klein going to transport the explosives across the North Sea?'
'Maybe Nield can tell us that. I'll get Monica on the phone. Which means back to Grand'Place and the scrambler. Nield may have found the key we've been looking for.'
'Nield,' Butler commented, 'is usually in the right place at the right moment.'
40
The Met forecast had held. The sea was calm as the proverbial millpond. Inside the bridge of the coaster, midway across the North Sea, Caleb Fox bent over a chart with Dr Portch beside him. The engines were stopped, the vessel drifted gently with the current, no other ship was in sight on radar.
This is where they meet us,' Fox said. 'We'll wait until we get the signal they're close, then I'll tell the First Mate.'
'Expect any trouble?'
'I'm master of this vessel,' the weasely Fox replied. 'And here they come.'
He had glanced to the port side facing Holland. In the black moonless light a green light was flashing. Three longs, three shorts, two longs. The First Mate came on to the bridge and asked his question.
'Why are we waiting here, Skipper?'
'We're taking on board a group of stevedores. Orders from Head Office. It's a bit secret. Don't tell the crew the real reason, Bates.'
'Which is?'
'After we've unloaded Dr Portch's stuff at Europort we sail up to Hamburg. Some shipyard has a strike. Shipyard owners are taking on this new lot of stevedores, sacking the lot on strike. And we're being well paid for the job.
Bonus in it for you later, Bates. Inform the crew we'll have extra passengers. Handle it in your own way.'
'I'd better go and make preparations. How many stevedores?'
'A dozen I was told. We'll have to see, won't we?'
Half an hour later four lighters hove to on the port side, two ladders had been slung over the coaster's hull, the first man to swarm up and come aboard was Grand-Pierre. He carried a bedroll and a small case. Other men dressed in seamen's gear climbed rapidly up and dropped on deck. Grand-Pierre made straight for the engine room, slamming shut the steel door behind him, gazing down from an iron platform as a stench of oil hit his nostrils.
