…'
'Move the whole unit to Colmar. Where will you be staying? The Hotel Bristol. Got it. It's a short drive from here. I'll be there. What about the courier with the dough?'
'Locked in a hotel room. You know which hotel. I have the key.'
'Take him with you – with the money. Whoever has what I'm after will try a fresh exchange. Get moving…'
Norton began packing his clothes in the single case he moved around with. Small enough to take aboard a plane. Save hanging about at the friggin' carousel. The phone rang again.
'Yes, who is it?'
'The guy who's given you ten days to clean up,' March barked. 'I know now you're in Basle. What gives? You had three different places to cover in the Zurich area to exchange the money for the film and tape.'
'It was a bust. I had them covered. No one turned up. Someone is playing smart. Using kidnappers' technique. Send you to one place – three in this case – then they don't turn up. Trying to break our nerve. You'll get a fresh call, new rendezvous. I'm just moving to the Hotel Bristol in Colmar, France. Give you the phone number when I get there. We're going to score. All four targets wiped out, plus grabbing your film and tape…'
'Norton, you've no idea how encouraging I find what you just said,' March replied with vicious sarcasm. 'You read me? And how are you going to play it this time – before March 13?'
'They'll be in mountain country. I'll use the mountains to get them. By ambush…'
For the first time Norton was the one who slammed down the phone.
PART TWO
30
Norton was the first to arrive in Colmar. Clad in a black astrakhan coat and a fur hat, he looked like a Russian professor as he peered through his half-moon glasses at the receptionist of the Hotel Bristol.
What was it about the new arrival that made the girl behind the counter shiver inwardly? He stood motionless and the eyes behind the lenses which stared at her seemed dead, devoid of all human feeling.
'I want to book a double room for five days,' Norton told her. 'I have business elsewhere so I may not be here every night. I will pay in advance for the five days…'
He registered in the name of Ben Thalmann, paid in French francs, then produced the Michelin map of the Vosges area he had purchased in Basle. He had left that city within twenty minutes of speaking to President March.
'I have to visit the Chateau Noir, the residence of a Mr Amberg, a Swiss. Can you show me how to reach this chateau by driving there?'
'You'll have to hurry, sir,' she replied in her excellent English. 'It gets dark early and there is snow on the mountains. The roads will be icy…'
'Just show me
She stopped talking, studied the map, marked a route up the N83 to Kaysersberg and then high up into the Vosges mountains along the N415. It became complicated and she carefully drew her pen along a side road. She was repeating her warnings about the hazards when Norton interrupted her brusquely.
'Can I use that phone to make a private call?'
'Certainly, sir…'
Discreetly, she opened a door behind her and closed it. The truth was she was only too anxious to escape from the presence of that black figure. Norton smiled as he dialled the number of the Drei Konige. He had sensed the fear the girl had felt and it gave him a kick. He asked the hotel operator for Tweed. There was a brief pause.
'Who is speaking?' a man's voice enquired.
'Barton Ives,' Norton said through the silk handkerchief he had stuffed in the mouthpiece. 'Who is that?'
'Tweed here. Where are you, Ives…?'
Norton put down the phone. Tweed was still in Basle. At last he had arrived ahead of the enemy. Which would give him time to prepare the death-trap. And it was interesting that Tweed expected to meet Barton Ives. Clean up the whole lot out here in the wilds of Alsace.
Norton hurried outside and got behind the wheel of the blue Renault he'd hired in Basle. He had never stayed at the Drei Konige – he had simply had an early lunch and sat in the lobby area afterwards. In time to see Tweed and his friends arrive.
Using the same approach, he wouldn't be staying at the Hotel Bristol. He had picked up a brochure in the railway station opposite the hotel, a brochure which gave the names of several small hotels in the Old Town. One of those hotels would be his base.
He drove rapidly across the flatlands beyond Colmar. It was a cold sunny afternoon, the air fresh as wine. But this was wine territory – grids of vineyards stretched away on either side as he came close to the foothills.
He drove more slowly through the medieval town of Kaysersberg, little more than a large village. Norton did not notice its picturesqueness. He did notice a narrow stone bridge spanning a small river in the centre.
An excellent place to plant a bomb under the bridge, detonated by remote control. Mencken, who still had to reach Colmar, was an expert with explosives. Driving from Basle to Colmar, Norton had observed a stone quarry, a shed with the warning sign in French, Danger -Explosives. He had marked this location on his map.
He drove on beyond Kaysersberg into the foothills. Looming above them was the long chain of the snowbound Vosges mountains. Norton had taken the precaution of hiring a car with snow tyres. The road began to twist and climb, up, up, up…
There was no other traffic and dense stands of firs began to close in on both sides. The road surface was icy, treacherous, then covered with snow. The temperature nose-dived. The firs were blanketed with frozen snow, the branches pressed down under the weight. It was like Siberia,
Norton smiled to himself. This was ideal territory for what he had in mind. At numerous places the topography lent itself to lethal ambushes. He foresaw that Tweed and his minions would disappear from the face of the earth until spring came – only spring would reveal the frozen vehicles, the rotting bones of their occupants.
On the other side of the road the mountain slope fell away into a sheer abyss. Norton had a view of a deep ravine plunging into the depths. The territory was getting better and better. He had no doubt Tweed would be driving up to see Amberg at the Chateau Noir.
He drove on up the steep winding ascent, alert for hidden ice under the snow. By his side the map the girl at the Bristol had marked lay open. He glanced at it frequently. Soon he'd be coming to the turn-off on to the side road leading to Lac Noir.
The intense cold was penetrating his coat. He turned up the heaters full on. His breath steamed up his glasses. He took them off – they were merely a disguise. Still only rare. signs of human habitation – the odd whitewashed old house with its ancient pantile roof crusted with snow. Norton could stand the cold, but this was something else again.
He passed through a small village called Orbey, which was on his route. No sign of a soul. Everyone huddled inside, he imagined. By now he had turned off the N415 and studied the map more frequently. Driving along a narrow road he suddenly arrived at Lac Noir and gasped.
Once, still with the FBI, Norton had operated in Europe for the State Department on secret missions – which under American law were forbidden and were extremely illegal. Norton was familiar with the Continent, but he had never seen anything like this.
On the far side of the lonely silent lake rose a sheer granite wall, towering above him. At its summit was perched a castle with turrets and lights in some of the windows. He was staring up at the Chateau Noir. On an
