`Then go back to sleep. Sorry to disturb you. I may not be available for a few days. Take a rare rest, get out of London into the country. Call you when I get back…'
Tweed jumped up, went over to the cupboard where he kept a packed case ready for instant travel. He spoke to Monica as he hauled out the case.
`You have three tickets, Business Class, booked on the Sabena flight to Brussels today?'
`Yes. I've been moving the reservations from one day to the next. You pick them up from the counter at London Airport.'
`So we are off,' said Paula, collecting her own case from the cupboard Tweed had left open. 'With what aim?'
`To visit Gaston Delvaux in Liege as quickly as I can get to him. I didn't like the sound of what Benoit told me. I just hope to God we're in time.'
Dr Wand stood behind a net-curtained window on the first floor of the mansion in The Boltons. Beside him stood the gaunt, grim-faced Mrs Kramer.
`We are being spied on,' Wand told her. 'That white van parked up the road. Supposedly Straker's the Florist. A large window in the side. One-way glass, I'm certain. For unseen cameras to photograph who calls or leaves. A job for our Mr Briggs. Rather urgent. The Daimler will be arriving soon to take me to London Airport. Briggs must remove the intruder. Tell him from me, please – any method he chooses.'
Mrs Kramer left the window immediately. She picked up a phone, gave the instruction to Briggs in careful phrases. Describing the van exactly, she put down the phone.
`Briggs says fifteen minutes. He has a vehicle standing by for emergencies.'
Dr Wand turned away from the window, lips pursed, gave his ice-cold smile. Briggs was reliable. He didn't think the van driver – and any other occupants – were due to survive much longer.
Harry Butler sat behind the wheel of the white van parked in The Boltons wearing a white coat – the type worn by florist delivery men sometimes. He was also clad in a peaked cap pulled well down and a dead fag hung from the corner of his lips.
The van was equipped with a large rear-view mirror and several wing mirrors. The rear was always the dangerous area. Despite the raw cold of a sunny November day, he had his window down. On the seat beside him was a large plastic bag containing a dark liquid.
He had seen the net curtain in the first-floor window twitch and guessed he had been observed. Fifteen minutes later by his watch he heard the sound of a large vehicle approaching. Trundling round a distant corner of the curved crescent a huge dustcart was approaching. Butler switched on his engine.
Twenty feet away he saw a man in a dark overcoat with an astrakhan collar, a dark hat, and gold pince-nez walking down the steps of No. 185. He carried a suitcase as a gleaming Daimler overtook Butler, pulled up outside the mansion.
Butler saw all this with a brief glance. His attention was concentrated on the huge dustcart which had paused at the bend. Suddenly the driver accelerated as the Daimler glided away from the curve with its passenger in the rear seat.
The dustcart roared round the curving crescent, moving at such speed that Butler guessed the engine was souped up. He changed gear. The truck was thundering alongside him when the driver swung his wheel right over. Butler reversed at high speed, one hand on the wheel. His other hand threw out the plastic bag, which burst, spilling a lake of oil on the road surface. Tweed had told him of their experience with the helicopter next to Hatchet Pond down in the New Forest. Always learn from the enemy.
Behind the wheel of the dustcart Briggs had expected to smash into the side of the van at speed, crushing it. Instead he saw the massive garden wall of a mansion in front of him. He turned the wheel desperately. His wheels, slithering in the oil, refused to respond. The truck hit the wall with shattering force. Briggs was thrown forward against the wheel, breaking ribs. But it was the least of his worries. The truck, its front crumpled amid the wreckage of the wall, burst into flames.
Butler – who had agreed to help Marler – had already left The Boltons. He was driving at cruising speed towards Cromwell Road with his window now closed.
`Very satisfactory,' Dr Wand thought, relaxed inside the Daimler. 'Perfect timing. I must consider giving Briggs a bonus.'
It never occurred to him to glance back through the rear window. Even had he done so, it is very doubtful whether he would have noticed the Ford Escort tailing him. Behind the wheel, Marler whistled to himself.
Butler, he was thinking, had proved a most successful decoy. While the van was parked in full view of No. 185 Marler, in the Ford Escort, had parked a distance away where he could just see the entrance to Dr Wand's mansion. And he wasn't worried about the explosion which had shaken his car: Butler was very capable of looking after himself.
When he was convinced of the Daimler's destination he picked up the microphone. The car was equipped with a high-powered radio system, tuned to the waveband of the receiving station in the communications centre in another building at Park Crescent.
`Parker Transport calling base. Have collected fare and now on way to London Airport…'
Once his message was acknowledged, Marler closed up on the Daimler. He began whistling again. The tune was `Nothing Can Come Between Us'.
16
Marler parked the Escort in a long-term bay at London Airport. It seemed the logical thing to do: Dr Wand's chauffeur-driven Daimler was parked nine bays away. Marler sat twiddling a king-sized cigarette between his fingers as he watched. The uniformed chauffeur alighted, opened the rear door, and Wand climbed out. Blinking, he adjusted his gold pince-nez.
A perfect opportunity. Marler whipped out a small camera from the glove compartment, raised it to his eyes, pressed the automatic self-focus, and within seconds he'd taken six shots.
The chauffeur, wearing a peaked cap and dark glasses, was opening the boot, taking out two cases. Louis Vuitton. Nothing but the best for Dr Wand. Marler took two shots of the chauffeur. A tall, slim type, well built, aquiline nose, and with an athletic stride. He locked the car and Marler locked his own, following them at a distance.
Looped round Marler's neck was a compact pair of field-glasses as he carried his case. Five minutes later he was watching through the lenses as a motorized passenger trolley carried Wand, chauffeur, and luggage to a waiting Lear executive jet. Marler registered the number, then ran all the way to the office of Jim Corcoran, Chief of Security. He was lucky: Corcoran was sitting at his desk staring glumly at a pile of reports.
`Don't bother about those boring old things, sport,' Marler greeted him. 'I've got something far more interesting for you do do.'
`Oh, yes? And what might that be? Trouble, I'm sure. The last time your boss was here we ended up with a body.'
`And this just might be connected with that,' Marler guessed wildly. 'Lear jet on the tarmac. Registration number-. A Dr Wand has just gone aboard. Apparently Customs and Passport Control go out to OK His Highness.'
`Dr Wand?' Corcoran wrinkled his long nose in disgust. `He carries clout. All because he's running some refugee aid outfit. What do you want – and I know I'm going to wish I hadn't asked.'
`Nothing much. Just find out where he's going. And delay his departure.'
`Is that all?'
`Tweed would want it,' Marler said, 'and you've got a superb memory. So you'll recall you owe him While you're doing that mind if I smoke?'
`With all the "No Smoking" signs glaring at you? Go ahead – you will anyway. I'll check his flight plan. As to delaying his flight, you wouldn't have any ideas how I might go about that?'
`Easy again. You say you've received a bomb threat to an unidentified executive jet. Send men out to the Lear. You can say later it turned out to be a hoax.'