Assuming we are in time. Benoit isn't going to form up a cavalcade behind us, I trust?'
`He has three cars packed to the gunwales with armed men. And he's promised me not to come within a quarter of a mile of the chateau. Reluctantly. Ladies and gentlemen,' Newman went on in a lighter vein, 'we have just arrived at the great River Meuse..
It was dark as he drove alongside the major waterway for barges and other traffic, the river from distant Dinant in the south, which progressed via Namur and Liege to become the Maas in Holland before it finally reached the North Sea.
Tweed peered out of the window. Street lamps provided better illumination here. The wide river down below with massive concrete embankments like fortress walls. The water was a muddy colour. Paula touched Tweed's arm.
`Look at those apartment blocks on the opposite bank. They're modern – but even they are hideous.'
Tweed nodded. The apartment blocks were painted in a variety of primary colours, all an offence to the eye. They gave the curious impression they were built of plastic. Newman called out again.
`Now for Herstal. It's roughly north-west of Liege, as you'll see from the map. Not far now.'
Tweed hardly heard him. He was staring out of the window. There was a large yacht basin, a branch of the river closed in by a low wall. Again the element of water and various craft. As at Lymington and Buckler's Hard.
Headlights undimmed, the woman behind the wheel of the black Mercedes raced through the night, blaring her horn frequently to blast other motorists out of her way. Belgian drivers swore as she overtook them, made rude gestures she never noticed. Her whole mind was concentrated on reaching her destination, and God help anyone who got in her way.
It wasn't easy to identify her as a woman. She was wearing a crash helmet, goggles, her leather jacket turned up at the collar. Her gloved hands rested lightly on the wheel. As always, she was perfectly in control of the situation.
A large truck edged out on to the motorway. She pressed her hand on the horn non-stop, increased speed. The truck driver used foul language as he jammed on his air-brakes. Then the black projectile was past him, its red lights disappearing in the distance.
`Crazy bastard!' the truck driver said to himself.
The black Mercedes, with a taxi sign, raced on and on. Its tyres screeched as she swung round a bend, never slackening for a second. Her hand was on the horn again as she overtook more vehicles, several shaking in the slipstream of her fantastic speed.
She checked a road sign, glanced at the dashboard clock, rammed her foot down another inch. The Mercedes was practically flying, seemed about to take off at any moment. She drove on, ruthlessly forcing other traffic to give way.
Her destination: Herstal.
18
`That must be his armaments factory,' Newman commented. 'I thought Delvaux had gone out of business.'
`So did I,' Tweed replied from the back of the Mercedes.
They had reached Herstal. Tweed peered out of the window at a modern single-storey factory complex of white buildings close to the edge of the Meuse. Across the road from the plant was a large landing stage with two huge barges berthed.
A searchlight perched high on top of the main building was switched on. The spotlight of the beam hit the road ahead of Newman, moved swiftly towards him. Just in time he lowered the visor, half-closed his eyes. The glare of the spotlight focused on the car, paused, followed it for several seconds.
`Bloody traffic hazard,' Newman growled.
`Their security is extraordinary,' Tweed observed.
The factory was surrounded with a high wire fence he suspected was electrified. Behind the fence uniformed guards patrolled, holding Alsatians straining at their leashes. Even above the sound of the engine he could hear their fierce barking. The walls of the buildings had no windows but in the sloping roofs were large fanlights and from these powerful lights glowed in the night. A door opened, a fork-lift truck piled high with crates was driven inside, the door closed. A huge sign proclaimed Delvaux SA – with no indication that this was an armaments factory.
`I don't understand it,' Paula said. 'They're working full blast at this time of night.'
`Another mystery,' Tweed remarked.
`You turn off soon now,' Paula called out. 'A curving road to the right, according to the map. Just beyond this bend in the river.'
`Here, I'd say,' Newman replied. 'Yes. See that sign – Chateau Orange? This is Delvaux's place.'
`Bob!' Tweed spoke quickly. 'Look out for somewhere to park the car out of sight of the entrance to the chateau. But we're all going in together…'
The headlights were sweeping round bends as the Mercedes climbed a hill. On both sides were dense woods and wide grass verges. The headlights shone on open entrance gates. Newman drove slowly, edged the car along a track. It turned almost immediately in a clearing. He swung the car round ready for a swift departure, switched off the engine, opened his trench coat so he could reach his gun swiftly. He locked the car and they hurried back.
The gravel drive beyond the entrance gates bore evidence of neglect. Weeds sprouted through the gravel. Which didn't seem like Delvaux, a tidy man. Tweed paused in the middle of the tarred road. Just above the entrance the road curved again round a sharp bend. The silence created a brooding atmosphere, despite the light of a moon.
`What is it?' Paula whispered.
`Listening for the sound of cars. Looks as though Benoit has kept his word. I couldn't see any trace that we were being followed through the rear window.' He took a deep breath. 'Let's get on with it.'
Tweed walked with Paula alongside him while Newman came up behind them, the Smith amp; Wesson held by his side. Hemmed in by overgrown shrubberies, the drive had a creepy feel, and Paula's right hand was tucked inside her shoulder-bag, gripping the Browning. Their feet crunched on the gravel, advertising their approach.
The large three-storey chateau came into view suddenly. It had a mansard roof with circular dormer windows in the roof. A wide flight of steps led up to the main entrance, a pair of double doors. There were lights in the ground-floor windows.
`What a beautiful place,' Paula enthused.
`Must have cost a few million-'
Newman broke off as a small bare-headed man of slight build and small stature appeared round the side of the chateau. Tweed immediately recognized him as Gaston Delvaux. The night air was cold and there was frost on the shrubs, but the Belgian wore no coat over his dark business suit.
As he came forward Paula was struck by the impression of cleverness – even brilliance – he made on her. Clean shaven, his head was large, his hair grey, and his forehead bulged. He reminded her of a large elf. Newman slipped his gun behind his back, tucked it down inside his trench-coat belt.
Tweed was shocked by Delvaux's slow movements: normally he was so nimble. His face was drawn and he looked hollow eyed. Only his voice seemed normal as he greeted Tweed in English.
`The last person on God's earth I expected to see here. Would you mind if we wandered outside round the back?'
Tweed felt he was witnessing a repeat performance, experiencing the same nightmare of Andover at Prevent. His reaction was strengthened as Delvaux lowered his voice.
`There are listening devices all over the chateau. We shall not be overheard in the garden.'
Paula reacted quickly, after Tweed had made brief introductions.
`Mr Delvaux, could I possibly go inside to your loo?'
`Of course, Miss Grey.' Delvaux paused. 'It is rather a large house. No one else is inside, so do not feel afraid…'
