like a graven image. He looked up as Benoit stood by Newman, holding a sheaf of papers in his hands.
'Several radio messages. Van Gorp, The Hague police chief, welcomes you to Holland. He's meeting us at the Hilton. He says if you're coming something must be up. And we've had a report of a large explosion in the North Sea between Norfolk and Europort.'
Tweed glanced at Newman. 'What kind of explosion?'
'No one seems to know. A Nimrod aircraft setting off on a patrol saw it from a distance. When it got there it could find nothing to explain it – no sign of a ship's wreckage. Which is strange. They thought at first a vessel's boilers must have blown.'
Benoit handed the messages to Tweed and went back to the pilot's cabin. Tweed read the signals, handed them to Newman.
'Don't like the sound of that,' he said. 'A normal explosion, there should have been plenty of wreckage…'
'Whereas a Triton Three bomb might leave nothing behind?'
'Exactly. I do wish we had news from Nield. Not like him to leave us in the dark. And still no news of that bargee, Haber. We'll just have to wait.'
Nield was nearly at the end of his tether as he drove through the deserted streets of London. Thank God he'd arrived before traffic built up. His head was pounding like a bass drum, his vision blurring. With a sigh of relief he pulled up outside Park Crescent.
George, the all-night doorman, let him in, stared at his bandaged head. 'My, been in the wars, sir?'
'Something like that.'
He hauled himself up the stairs, saw a light under the door to Tweed's office, pushed it open. Monica, now fully dressed, also stared at him. He sagged into Tweed's armchair, began talking quickly while she made coffee. She made him keep quiet until he'd drunk the first cup, then went on listening.
That's it,' he said eventually. 'You know where Tweed is?'
'In Brussels last night. I'll send a message via police HQ in Brussels after I've called a doctor…' 'Send the message first.' 'As soon as I've called the doctor,' she said firmly.
The Alouette had just landed when Benoit hurried from the pilot's cabin with more signals. He handed them to Tweed who scanned them quickly. He pursed his lips and stared outside where several cars were drawn up.
'Van Gorp sent them to meet us,' Benoit explained.
'What's happened?' asked Newman.
'I think we were right about that explosion at sea. Nield drove through the night to Park Cresent. In Blakeney last night he watched that coaster of Caleb Fox's being loaded with so-called furniture belonging to Dr Portch. Portch has left Norfolk to take up a post in, guess where – here in Holland.'
'You think something went wrong? That the coaster carried the whole Triton Three armament and blew up?'
'No. I see the hand of Klein behind that. I'm sure he offloaded all the bombs and sea-mines except one. He couldn't leave the coaster's crew behind to tell the tale. So he liquidated every man jack of them. A massacre. Fiend is the word for Klein. But it follows the same pattern. The one that started in Marseilles and Geneva. Leave no one alive who has any knowledge. Those bombs and sea-mines have been landed somewhere in Holland by some method. I'm really afraid, Bob.'
Newman stared at him. He'd never heard Tweed say anything like that before. That's it?' he enquired.
'No. Van Gorp reports they've found Joseph Haber. Don't too much like the sound of that either. Just that they've found him.'
'So, that's it.'
'Not quite. Monica has transmitted another brief message from Olympus.' He kept his voice low. 'My contact inside Klein's organization. The message is that it's not Antwerp – it's Europort. Probably.'
'Olympus never seems sure…'
'Which is because I'm certain Klein is working on the cell system. Maybe only two or three members of his team actually know each other. And no one except Klein will know the target until the last moment. He's a devil – his security is very professional. But then, considering his background and training, it would be. And that may be the last message I receive from Olympus. I'm very worried about my contact.'
'Why?'
'Because Klein is so clever. Olympus is now in mortal danger.'
Klein dropped Lara at the entrance to Kruiskade opposite the Hilton. She walked the short distance to the Hotel Central, an old five-storey building with a facade which had survived the wartime bombing.
Reception was expecting her, a room had been reserved, she registered and went up to her room on the second floor. As the door closed on the porter she sank on to the bed. Was this the objective at long last?
Lara felt unsure – Klein had led her such a dance. There were other potential targets further north. The German ports of Bremen and Hamburg. On the way Klein had given her the usual instructions.
Check Europort after hiring a car. Check the security. And check the potential for a safe escape route – more than one if possible.
She checked her watch. 7.30 a.m. Better get on with it. She unlocked her suitcase, opened the lid, undid the inner straps to save her clothes from being too compressed. Taking out her camera and binoculars, she went downstairs and had breakfast in the dining room.
She was dressed in her smart gaberdine suit – chosen deliberately before she left the Antwerp hotel. She felt good in it, which helped her keep up a front of still being besotted with Klein.
After breakfast she decided she needed a breath of fresh air to take the ache out of her limbs from travelling in the BMW. She turned left out of the entrance and soon entered a large spacious shopping precinct.
Rotterdam was different from what she'd expected. She'd anticipated a congested mass of concrete blocks. They existed, but the precinct was beautiful. Paved in stone, it was decorated with raised troughs containing evergreen shrubs. Pergolas projected from modern shop fronts. Hanging baskets of flowers were suspended from the overhead beams. She sat on a seat, taking in the beauty of the place. Was it Europort? she kept asking herself. After ten minutes' rest – Lara had enjoyed very little sleep – she walked to the car hire agency whose address she'd obtained from the directory in her bedroom, aided by the street plan obtained from the concierge. Near the agency was a row of phone booths.
'There is the barge, Erika, and there is the late Joseph Haber,' said Van Gorp.
Poker-faced, Tweed stepped aboard the barge, followed by Newman and Benoit. They had been driven from the airport to the Hilton. They had dumped their bags. They had driven straight to the huge docking basin of Waalhaven.
It was almost an exact replica of the horror Tweed had seen in the Dames de Meuse – where the other bargee, Broucker, had been buried up to his chest in mud. The Erika 's hold still carried its load of gravel. Near the bows two shovels lay where men had carefully started removing gravel – until they unearthed what Tweed now stood staring down at.
Haber was buried up to his chest in gravel. His head flopped back, exposing the rim of dried blood which curved from ear to ear. His mouth was open, slack, and he appeared to be grinning. His skin had a deathly pallor.
'Found him in the middle of the night,' Van Gorp explained. 'Benoit called me, extended the search across the border. We checked and it was reported the barge had been seen in Waalhaven.'
'So,' Tweed said slowly, 'Klein now has the last instruments he needs to organize his catastrophe. The timer devices which will explode the bombs and the sea-mines. Have you issued a general alert? Declared an emergency?'
'No.'
Van Gorp was an impressive-looking man. Towering over Tweed, six feet one tall, in his forties, his hair was greying and he sported a trim moustache. There was a natural air of command about the man, softened by a hint of humour in the eyes. Slim in build with a longish face, he stood in a grey overcoat and a grey trilby hat.
'For God's sake why not?' Tweed rapped out. 'Klein has been here. Haber is wearing his trademark. He carried the timers aboard this barge, I'm certain.'
'I've already spoken with the Minister of the Interior at The Hague. Benoit sent me a long radio message giving me the information you've accumulated.'
'With what result?'
