`The next move is for us to hurry to Belgium to have a talk with Professor Gaston Delvaux of Liege. A fresh link in the chain, I hope. Monica has tickets for the three of us. But first I must speak to my old friend, Chief Inspector Benoit of the Brussels police. A man who knows everything going on inside his country.'
`Let's hope he doesn't give us a shock,' Paula said. `Why should he?' Newman demanded.
`I just have a feeling.'
`More intuition?' Newman asked ironically.
Monica phoned the Brussels number and requested the call to be put on a scrambler phone. She was told they would call back. Several minutes later the phone rang.
`Benoit?' Tweed enquired. 'Tweed here.'
`Ah, my old friend has at long last remembered me,' a warm voice greeted him in English. 'How are you? Good. So you must have a problem. Always a problem when you contact me. Shoot, as the vulgar Americans say.'
`I am coming over very shortly..
`Tell Monica to phone me the flight details. I will meet you with a car at Zaventem Airport.'
`A more pleasant welcome to Belgium I can't imagine.
Thank you. I need to visit a M. Gaston Delvaux..
`Are you also on scrambler?' Benoit interjected quickly. `Yes.' Tweed's grip tightened on the phone. 'Why?' `Delvaux the armaments genius in Herstal outside Liege?'
`That's the man,' Tweed confirmed.
`You may have difficulty seeing him, I fear. There is a mystery there. Very strange.'
'What kind of mystery?'
`I don't know. Yes,' Benoit stated, 'I agree that sounds a peculiar thing to say but it is the truth. We are banned from going anywhere near his chateau.'
`What on earth is going on?' Tweed pressed.
`I am not making myself clear. Let me try. But it will not be easy to describe the indescribable.'
The cold facts would help.'
A sigh. 'Gaston Delvaux, so active all his life, and in his fifties still, has withdrawn from all public and commercial activities. He has become a recluse. Possibly a nervous breakdown? Why then has no doctor been to see him as far as I know?'
`How much of a recluse?' Tweed probed. 'And for how long?'
Paula had leaned forward. At the mention of the word `recluse' her eyes gleamed. She watched Tweed closely. Newman, previously drumming his fingers quietly, had stopped and sat upright, also staring at Tweed's expression, which gave nothing away.
`For three to four months. Apparently his wife has left him, ran off with an American millionaire. I find that a little hard to believe.'
Tweed had a jab of memory. His own wife had left him for a Greek shipping magnate. So far as he knew they were living somewhere in South America. He was surprised how little the reminder affected him. It had happened, after all, quite a few years ago. All this flashed through his mind as he immediately responded to Benoit.
`I also find it hard to believe that about Lucie,' Tweed said grimly. 'Gaston brought her to London once for a meeting of INCOMSIN. I had dinner with them. His wife struck me as a very stable woman, very attached to Gaston.'
`My impression also,' Benoit agreed. 'Of course, you cannot always tell with women. But it still does not sound like Lucie. Not at all. But that's what Delvaux has told people.'
`That's the extent of the mystery then?'
`By no means. There is more. I said he had become a recluse. He suddenly resigned all his posts – Scientific Adviser to NATO, Defence Consultant to the EC, etc. All thrown up overnight.'
'How long ago?'
`Three to four months.'
`Which must have just about coincided with the disappearance of his wife, Lucie?'
`That is so. It was assumed here that caused him to withdraw from public life. Myself, I think the psychology is wrong. To cushion the shock of losing his wife he would have immersed himself in his work. I repeat, a mystery.'
`Monica will let you know when we are coming, Benoit.'
'We? Is the delightful Paula coming with you?'
`She is.' Tweed smiled to himself. Benoit had a soft spot for Paula. 'We'll see you soon…'
The phone rang on Dr Wand's desk. He picked it up, glanced at his Rolex watch.
`Yes?'
`I'm phoning from a call box,' a woman's voice informed him. 'I have completed the assignment at London Airport. The job is done.'
`Did anyone see you?'
`Of course not. Conditions were perfect. A large jostling crowd. Ideal atmosphere for the operation.'
`Excellent, my dear,' Wand purred. His pursed mouth smiled with satisfaction. His eyes gleamed behind the pince-nez. 'We shall soon be leaving for Brussels, where I may have another assignment for you. Come here in your usual guise.'
`I'm dressed as a cleaning woman now. I'm on my way…'
Dr Wand put down the phone. He rubbed his large hands together. Everything was proceeding satisfactorily. The next target to check on was in Belgium.
`This is all so weird and disturbing,' Paula said when they had heard Tweed's resume of his conversation with Benoit. 'It sounds like a repeat performance of the experience with Sir Gerald Andover.'
`It does indeed,' Tweed replied. 'I find it most sinister. Which is an added reason for going to Brussels.'
He handed her Andover's file as Cord Dillon came back into the office with Howard. The Director of the SIS was a tall pink-faced man, clean shaven and immaculately clad in a blue chalk-stripe Chester Barrie suit from Harrods. He also wore the obligatory fashionable striped shirt and his accent was upper crust.
`Most unfortunate – to say the least – this incident at London Airport,' he began.
`To say the least,' Tweed repeated drily, wishing he would go away.
`An appalling welcome for our distinguished visitor,' Howard went on. 'And all the information was inside the dead woman's head..
Tweed glanced at Dillon. His expression was poker-faced – clearly he had not said one word about Stealth to Howard, a man he had never liked.
`… so I suppose we'll never know what she was going to tell us,' Howard waffled on. 'I really find this all most regrettable. As you know, Tweed, I'm just back from a visit to Washington.' He looked at Dillon. 'Your Director said there was nothing much going on now. Except the chaos in Russia.' He turned his attention again to Tweed. `So what about the home front..
Huddled over files on her desk Monica groaned inwardly. The home front. Howard would keep using his out-of-date phraseology. His club language.
`Anything startling to report? Any new activity during my absence?' Howard continued.
`This and that,' Tweed replied off-handedly. 'Too early to draw any conclusions. Much too early.'
`Ah!' Howard removed a speck of dust from his lapel, glanced at Dillon, 'Mum's the word?'
Tweed nodded. Howard had assumed that Tweed didn't wish to reveal anything in front of Dillon. A reaction Tweed had stage-managed to avoid telling Howard anything yet.
`I'd better delve into my files,' Howard decided. 'And if you can find the time, Dillon, do come and have dinner at my club one evening. Welcome to the old UK.
Dillon waited until he had gone. He sat in a chair Paula brought for him, started speaking in his usual abrasive manner.
`What the hell I can't understand is how they had someone waiting at London Airport for Vane to arrive. Had to be planned in advance to have an assassin on the spot.'
`Cord, understandably you're probably suffering from jet lag or you'd have seen it yourself,' Tweed said diplomatically. 'This has to be a big, international, organization we're up against. Your flight from Washington was delayed by five or six hours with a bomb scare – which turns out to be a hoax. You must have been seen with Vane at Dulles Airport. The hoax held up your plane's arrival long enough for the assassin to get to London Airport. Diabolically simple.'
`So we listen to a voice from the dead,' Dillon said.