'I thought Rotterdam was the target,' she said, 'after you told me about poor Joseph Haber. He'd delivered the timers so – like the others before him – he was someone with dangerous information, someone this swine, Klein, no longer needed. What's the significance of Euromast?'
'I haven't a clue,' Tweed confessed. 'Maybe I'll find one when we get there.'
'Where have you been?' Klein asked as he sat at the table in the little restaurant outside Delft.
Marler's expression turned bleak as he sat down, glanced at the other tables, saw no one was near enough to hear him. He leaned forward.
'I've been to the loo. Let's get one thing straight between us now. You're paying me to do a job. You'll get value for services rendered. But I'm damned if I'm going to have you breathing down my neck when I go for a pee.'
'No need to get worked up…'
'I'm a good deal cooler than you are – to judge from the expression on your corpse-like face. End of discussion. Next?'
'I see you took your bag with you,' Klein remarked as Marler tucked it between his chair and the wall. 'Does that contain all the equipment you need for the job?'
'It does.'
'What about your clothes back at the Hilton? Could they be left there? For good? Your room is paid for. I assume you paid for meals as you had them?'
'I did. And the clothes are surplus to requirements. They carry no maker's labels. And two suits are the wrong size – crumpled to look as though they've been worn. That way no policeman can estimate my exact height and weight. Why?'
'Because when we leave here we're on our way.'
'Would it strain your security to the limits if I asked you where we are going?'
'No call for sarcasm.'
Marler's reply was to wipe his mouth carefully with his napkin, crumple it and leave it on the table. Independent bastard, Klein said to himself. But that, he reflected again, was what had made The Monk so effective.
'To storm Euromast,' Klein replied.
The call from Paris for Tweed came through just before they left his room to drive to Euromast. Paula was talking with Newman, telling him how she'd broken the news of her husband's death to Martine Haber. 'Pretty grim,' she said, 'but I did my best…'
Benoit was talking to Van Gorp and Butler. Blade stood alone by the window, gazing down at the traffic circling the large road intersection below.
'Lasalle here,' the voice on the phone informed Tweed. 'I've been checking up on the whereabouts of The Monk. God knows how many calls I've made to various countries but I got lucky. I know where he is – or supposed to be.'
Tweed's grip on the instrument tightened. 'Where, Rene?'
'Shut away in a clinic in Lucerne, Switzerland. Suffering a major nervous breakdown. No visitors allowed. Beck, chief of police in Berne just phoned me back. He was able to get a description of the patient. Fair-haired with a bald patch on the crown of his head.'
'So, he again has his alibi. He's somewhere here in Rotterdam. Maybe within a mile of where I'm standing. If he slips through our fingers he's in the clear again. I must go now. Thank you.'
The assembled group stopped talking as he put down the phone. Tweed again sensed the atmosphere of frustration, depression. He smiled broadly, spread his hands, his tone jaunty.
The Monk is supposed to be ill in a Swiss clinic.'
'You said he'd be here,' Blade barked. 'The deadliest marksman in Europe you called him.'
'But that proves to me he is here. He always provides himself with an ironclad alibi. You are coming with us, Van Gorp? Despite your suspension from duty?'
'Oh, that.' The Dutchman grinned. 'I told the Minister I needed the instruction in writing before I could accept it. Didn't you know? The Dutch are great ones for the formal procedures being observed? Drives me mad at times. On this occasion the tradition has its uses. The cars are ready – when you are.'
'Just before we leave…'Tweed's manner was exuberant. 'I don't think you realize we have one big ace up our sleeves.'
'I'd like to know what that is,' rapped back Newman.
'Klein has no idea we've caught up with him – that we have found the target, that we are already here.'
As they piled into the three waiting cars Tweed noted there was a change of atmosphere, morale had soared.
For Tweed it was a nightmare.
He stood with the others at the foot of the steps leading up to the entrance. He gazed up at the structure which reminded him of the most gigantic periscope in the world. The sheering tower, the overhanging viewing platform far above his head. And above that the slimmer needle of concrete spiralling its way endlessly to the final observation point at its tip.
Vertigo.
Only Paula noticed the way he stood stock still, as though hypnotized by the horrific height of the thing. Oh, my God, she thought, I'd forgotten. It's his ultimate terror. Vertigo.
She squeezed his arm. He shook his head to stop her saying anything. He'd realized that she'd understood. He took a deep breath as Van Gorp emerged from the entrance and waved for them to come on. What were they waiting for?
They were waiting for Blade who had wandered off on his own. The Sabre Troop commander was studying the tower from every angle and position. Tweed obviously thought it might be important. He had checked it with a critical eye. He joined Van Gorp and the others mounted the steps and went into the spacious reception hall.
'I've bought tickets,' Van Gorp announced breezily. 'The lift is over there. I think we can all just squeeze in if we have it to ourselves…'
The lift – with no view of the outside world – ascended faster than Paula had expected. They had all managed to cram themselves in but they were pressed together and Tweed was hidden behind Blade's tall straight back. He caught Paula looking at him anxiously and winked. There were several levels he noticed from the button panel he could see in a gap between Newman and Van Gorp. One for the restaurant. Who the devil could get any food down – keep it down – up here?
The lift doors slid back. Van Gorp led the way. 'We're on the viewing platform,' he called back cheerily.
Fresh air met Tweed as he stepped out and for the fraction of a second he paused, then forced himself to keep moving, stiff-legged. The platform running round the tower was open. A rail no higher than his waist circled it. Christ! Paula touched his elbow as though by accident. He walked to the rail, grasped it with both hands, stared down. Like gazing over an abyss. Straight down. Sheer drop. Paula stood close on one side, Van Gorp on the other. In the basin barges like match-boxes were moored four abreast. Tweed saw his knuckles were white, gripping the rail like a vice. He forced his hands to relax, holding the metal rail lightly. He concentrated, made himself observe.
Several police launches berthed at the inner end of the basin. He raised his level of vision. The Maas stretched away, a wide river flowing towards the distant sea. Crammed with shipping. Barges, freighters, tourist boats returning with their living cargo.
It was late in the afternoon, early evening. The sun was setting, a wave of purple dusk darkening the clear sky. Lights coming on all over the miniaturized city. He felt a little giddy. The drop was drawing him over the rail. He looked up quickly.
'Glorious view,' said Van Gorp. 'Most spectacular in Holland.'
'Must be,' Tweed said. 'Think I'll walk round the platform. You stay with our friend, Paula.'
He moved away before she could protest. He had a strong urge to stay close to the circular tower, away from the rail. He compelled himself to put one foot in front of another, staring out at the panoramic view.
Blade had disappeared. Continuing his slow walk, Tweed found him leaning out over the rail, far out, gazing down as though estimating the possibility of scaling the tower. God, if he slips… Tweed walked on. The platform was deserted. He changed direction, crossed to the rail to see what was below.
