`Do you? It does seem strange.'
`I never believe in coincidences,' Tweed replied grimly. `And your remark about your worst fears?'
`I forgot to tell you I called Benoit, stopped him meeting our plane. It could be dangerous to be seen with him. After dumping our bags at the Hilton we're driving straight to Grand' Place – to police headquarters to meet Benoit there. Newman has phoned ahead for a hire car to be waiting for us.'
`You saw Marler go up to the stewardess yet again? My bet is he's had the pilot radio ahead also for a hire car.' `Probably. He knows what he's doing.'
`And you're not going to tell me about your worst fears?' she persisted.
'I'm certain we're involved in a race against time. The problem is very simple. Who will reach Gaston Delvaux first – while he's still alive?'
17
They were the first off the plane at Zaventem Airport. It was Tweed who led the headlong rush, with Paula and Newman hurrying to keep up with him. Through Passport Control they carried their only bags, the ones they'd taken aboard the aircraft. Newman caught up with Tweed.
`Why the mad scramble?'
`Change of plan. You know where to pick up that car you phoned ahead for in London? Good. Forget the Hilton – drive us straight to police headquarters off Grand' Place. I must check the situation with Benoit, then we race to Liege – to Herstal. To Delvaux's chateau. Not a minute to lose..
His unusual urgency conveyed itself to the other two. A cool, fast-walking Paula checked her watch. It would be dark when they arrived in Liege. Running outside the airport, Newman swore under his breath. The hire car waiting for them was a red Mercedes. Too conspicuous. It couldn't be helped. He hustled through the formalities with the car-hire girl, accepted the keys, told her to wait while he tested the engine.
`Get in,' Tweed said impatiently.
`You might have warned me it was going to be a marathon,' Paula remarked as she dived into the rear.
`I only decided this would save time when the plane was descending. And we lost time droning round in that holding pattern. All right, Bob?'
`Engine seems OK. We're off. Grand' Place and Benoit, here we come…'
Paula groaned inwardly as they drove into Brussels, the most muddled and depressing city in Europe. Like Los Angeles, a series of districts in search of a centre. And the fog which had delayed them was drifting in smoke-like trails in the busy streets.
Tall concrete blocks rose everywhere, interspersed with small, shabby, two-storey buildings – centuries old, paint peeling – cafes, bars, and shops illuminated with tasteless neon. Street skiving off in all directions. Drivers of cars jousting for the only available slot left in the middle of a wide boulevard.
The pavements – ankle-breakers – were crowded with Belgian housewives hurrying for metro entrances. The home of the EC commissioners hadn't changed. A worthy home for those fat, well-fed, and over-paid bureaucrats, she thought. The whole place was like a disturbed anthill.
Newman was driving ruthlessly, at high speed, overtaking. Belgian motorists blared their horns as they had to pull up suddenly to let him through. He's exceeding the speed limit, Paula observed to herself. Tweed's burst of nervous energy had transmitted itself to Newman's wild driving.
They pulled up outside a building off Grand' Place, which was barred to traffic with frontier-like poles. One of the truly ancient sections of Brussels, Grand' Place was surrounded with medieval buildings. Newman parked in a no-parking zone, took out a pad of stickers, wrote 'Police HQ' on one, attached it to the windscreen.
Tweed, already outside on the pavement, glanced at the sticker, called out to Newman.
`It's Politie here. You should have remembered that.'
Newman scribbled a new sticker. Removing the previous one, he attached the new version, jumped out of the car, locked it, and followed the others. Tweed and Paula were already inside the building.
`Chief Inspector Benoit is expecting us. An emergency. Every second counts..
Tweed had addressed the uniformed desk sergeant in French. He dropped his card in front of the man, a card which gave his name and the fake cover company.
Chief Inspector Benoit appeared almost at once, running agilely down the stairs. He greeted Paula first, hugging her. 'Welcome to Brussels.'
She felt glad she was wearing a smart outfit. Under her open trench coat she was clad in a high-necked white blouse, navy blue jacket, and pleated skirt. Tweed was moving restlessly, a reaction which did not escape the Belgian.
Chief Inspector Benoit, the shrewdest policeman in Belgium, was a jovial portly man in his forties. He had a great, beaked nose, light brown hair, and quick-moving eyes. He ushered them upstairs to his office on the first floor.
`We have to reach Liege very urgently. Precisely, Gaston Delvaux's chateau at Herstal. We've come straight here from the airport. The Hilton can wait,' Tweed said.
`I'll phone them, book you accommodation. Executive rooms on the twentieth floor, if I remember. Now, Liege. I rather expected this. You must go by train from Midi…' He checked his watch. 'You just have time to catch the express from Ostend going through to Cologne. Only one stop. At Louvain.'
`Surely by car-' Tweed began.
Benoit shook his head. 'With the traffic at this time of day? No, the train. I will try and get there by car to meet your train at Liege, but cannot guarantee I will make it, even with sirens and flashing lights.'
`You said Delvaux had banned police coming near him,' Tweed objected.
`True. I have unmarked cars waiting. There will be a silent approach as we come close to the chateau. We will wait a short distance away.' He raised a hand. 'I insist. My territory. You could be in great danger. Which reminds me. You just have time…'
He took them into another room. One glance at the weapons laid out on a table, with ammo, confirmed to Newman what a remarkable memory the police chief had. Paula picked up a. 32 Browning automatic, some ammo. She was checking the gun when Benoit spoke.
`Empty. Your favourite gun. Made in Herstal. Although today our armaments industry at Herstal hardly exists any more. The collapse of the Soviet Union and other factors.'
Paula was loading the Browning as Newman picked up a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 Special. Alongside the ammo was a hip holster. Benoit never forgot a thing. Taking off his trench coat and jacket, Newman slipped on the holster, checked the mechanism of the gun, loaded it, put extra ammo in his coat packet. That left a 7.65mm. Walther automatic on the table. Benoit looked at Tweed, who shook his head.
`I hardly ever carry a gun.'
`Now for the perishing paperwork,' Benoit continued as he produced two forms which already had details typed in. 'Paula, Newman, sign these. They are permits for you to carry those weapons. Now it is all legal.'
`Benoit,' Tweed said, after checking his watch, 'we will have to buy tickets for Liege before we board that express.'
Benoit produced his wallet, extracted six slips of paper. He handed two to each of them.
`First-class return tickets to Liege. I will drive you to Midi station. Then with a team I will drive on to Liege, hoping to meet you at the station. It is quite a gamble…'
`I'm leaving now,' Newman broke in. 'I've got a Merc. outside. I think I can make it by road before Paula and Tweed reach Liege. Along the motorway. See you two…'
He was gone before anyone could protest. Benoit threw up his hands in mock horror, then ran to the window. Peering down, he took out a pad, made a note.
`I have his registration number. I'll leave instructions to be radioed along his route. To all patrol cars. That Merc. to be permitted to proceed at all costs. Now, we leave for Midi station…'