Deadlock

'But, your Ladyship, shouldn't we call your husband?'

'No, certainly not. He's in Manchester on business. At this hour he'll be fast asleep.' Thank God, she thought. If Rolly knew he'd be on the phone, making a fuss.

'On no account are you to ring him,' she ordered. 'You've already spoilt my night's sleep. Switch that thing off, I do not wish to see any more. If it goes on it will take the spotlight off Robin's marriage in the papers. I'm going back to bed.'

How perfectly infuriating, she said to herself as she mounted the staircase.

'An American, Cord Dillon, is waiting to see you in a car parked in the side street,' Van Gorp informed Tweed. 'He wanted to come up but the guard stopped him.'

'I'd better go down and talk to him in the car,' Tweed said, standing up. 'Call me instantly if there's a development.' He looked at Paula. 'Like to come with me?'

A crimson Cadillac was standing by the kerb in the dark side street. A uniformed chauffeur opened the rear door and Tweed, followed by Paula, got inside. The Deputy Director of the CIA was a tall, well-built man in his fifties with a craggy face. He had a shock of thick brown hair, was clean shaven had a strong nose, prominent cheekbones and ice-blue eyes.

'Who is she?' he snapped, gesturing to Paula.

'My personal assistant. Totally vetted. Paula Grey. Meet Cord Dillon.'

'This talk with you was to be between the two of us.'

'Paula stays. If you're going to talk about what I think you are she may be able to help.' Tweed waved his hand, indicating the spaciousness of the car. Paula sat turned sideways in one corner, Dillon in the other of the rear seat with Tweed between them. 'Where did you get this wheeled palace?'

'US Embassy at The Hague met me at the airport. What I want to talk about…'

'Just a moment,' Tweed interrupted. 'You'll want what I may tell you off the record – so switch off the tape recorder, if you don't mind.'

Dillon reached down below the seat, turned a switch. 'Off the record. I'm in a hurry. So are you. Let's get to it. We have had strong rumours an ex-CIA man is mixed up in this Rotterdam business. I think Moscow is spreading the poison. My worry is it could be true. Remember Lee Foley?'

'Left you – with all his expertise – to set up CDA, the Continental Detective Agency, in New York. I last encountered him in Switzerland…'

'He's gone missing.'

Despite his normal manner of iron self-control, Tweed sensed anxiety under the surface. There was as much tension inside the Cadillac as in the HQ room.

'How long ago was this?' Tweed asked.

'Six months. Boarded a flight for London, left Heathrow and vanished. Foley was good at that trick. We've used good men to track him. They've come up with zilch. A guy doesn't just walk out on a profitable business and disappear. Foley did.'

'Paula,' Tweed suggested, 'tell him very briefly about your experience at Blakeney and on the road to Cockley Ford.'

He listened, checking his watch several times, while Paula recalled what had happened tersely. Including the bomb on her doorstep. Dillon grunted when she'd finished.

'Tweed,' he began, 'if Foley is involved here, I'm going to ask you a favour. Don't care how you do it. Just make sure any part Foley has played never goes public. The Russians would tear us to pieces. OK? Then I'll owe you one.'

'I'll do my best. Now, fly back to London. Wait for me at your Grosvenor Square Embassy. I'll contact you when I can.'

'I have another problem. Cal Dexter, Schulzberger's security chief aboard the Adenauer, reports Schulzberger won't leave the ship.'

'Good for him. You have no problem. Go back to London as I suggested. Now I must get back.'

'What happened?' Dillon asked as Paula reached for the door handle. To Foley, I mean.'

'He shook hands with the devil.'

'The bullion is on its way to Findel,' Van Gorp told Tweed as he came back with Paula. 'The governments are putting a heavy burden on you. They're assuming somehow you'll get the gold back. Luckily no hint of this surrender has reached the outside world. Yet,' he added.

'Then Klein will know, too. I'm sure he had someone at Frankfurt Airport watching. Gentlemen…' Tweed laid his hand on the Verey pistol. '… we are close to the crunch.' He looked at Van Gorp. 'Don't forget Benoit – and Flashpoint. You have your man on the roof watching?'

'Yes. I don't understand your plan, but he's in constant contact with me through his walkie-talkie.' He picked up his own walkie-talkie off the table. 'And I'll call Benoit myself.'

'He may call you, ask you to keep the line open.'

'What do you plan to do?' asked Bellenger. 'Incidentally, a bit of good news. The bomb disposal lads have arrived at Schiphol outside Amsterdam. Why not fly them here?'

'Not yet. As to my plan, I have very little idea. I will have to react to events as they unfold – waiting for that one unguarded moment of Klein's. He, of course, will have been monitoring all communications through that CRS van, as I said earlier.'

'Don't worry about that,' Van Gorp assured him. 'I worked out a code for the police radio band. You've no idea how many prowlers we seem to have loose on the streets tonight.'

'How is Lara getting on?' Tweed asked quietly.

'Still suspended by that rope. That man is a fiend.'

'But a clever fiend. All along he has held us in a balance of terror. He has done enough to hold us in the deadlock. Sinking the dredger, Ameland. Blowing up Shell-Mex Two. Killing five policemen. The Lara thing. All enough to stop us daring to move. But nothing yet so tremendously appalling – like sinking the Adenauer – which might make us throw caution to the winds. I warned you – a master planner.'

'So what next?'

'At this moment we are in the hands of Newman.'

Benoit rushed into the cafe up to the table where Newman and Butler waited. He was breathing heavily and it was a moment before he could speak.

'Brand has asked permission to be driven to the airport. The transport with the gold is coming. He has warned us the man holding him will shoot him dead if we attempt to interfere.'

'You were able to persuade the local police chief to leave the airport free of his men?' Newman asked, standing up, looping the scabbard with the rifle over his shoulder.

'With difficulty, yes. He agreed.'

Then let's get moving. Pretty damn quickly – to get there before Brand and his so-called captor.'

Five minutes later, with Benoit seated beside him, Newman was driving the Lamborghini across the viaduct, crossing the chasm. No traffic about. He rammed his foot down, exceeding the limit, swerving round corners, then on to the highway direct to the airport. Benoit pressed his tingling feet against the floor, trying to preserve his portly aplomb.

Newman increased speed on the highway. Benoit watched the needle on the speedometer creep steadily higher. Something streaked past them. A motor-cycle. The rider hunched under his crash helmet.

'God! He's moving,' Benoit gasped.

'Butler. Wheels off the ground. Ever seen a motor-bike flying? New experience for you.'

'The whole thing is a new experience…'

No sign of life at the airport. Lights on inside the main reception building. Newman drove round the side and parked out of sight. Brand mustn't see the Lamborghini. Benoit levered his stiff limbs out of the car, carrying a large torch in one hand.

'Why did you want me to bring this?'

'I'll be out somewhere on the airfield when the machine gets here. I want you by a window facing the airfield, with the telephone in your hand. The moment Rotterdam gives the go-ahead – Flashpoint – you signal with that torch. On and off six times. That's vital. I'm hamstrung-so is Butler – until Tweed sends his own signal…'

Butler had perched his motor-cycle on the side of the building closest to the airfield. He was checking his Browning automatic when they found him.