Deadlock

'Don't! Red scarf…!'

Eddie automatically approached the platform while Blade, his eyes slits behind the Balaclava, advanced on Marler, Ingram aimed. Marler gestured towards the British passport he had tossed earlier on the table.

'Don't shoot the pianist,' he said. 'He's doing his best.'

Blade flicked open the passport, compared photo with the man seated at the table. 'You nearly had it that time,' he said.

'Nearly is close enough. Look, I have to get down on to the waterfront. Tweed may need a little help. Satisfied? I've a rifle I'd like to take with me. Use that phone to warn the chaps below I'm coming down. And there's still one up in the Space Tower.'

There was a brief rattle of machine-pistol fire from where Eddie had gone. 'The bazooka must have missed a couple,' Marler commented. 'And the elevator went down, is coming up again.'

'More of my chaps. I'll send one down with you. No time to use phones…'

One of Klein's men appeared from nowhere. Marler nodded but Blade had seen him. He half-turned. The man, ashen-faced, had his hands up. Blade shot him twice.

On the waterfront Tweed waved a hand. The three policemen Marler had 'shot' stood up, raced off the launch ashore.

Tweed and Nicholls stepped on to the barge cautiously. The drizzle was still falling, the deck surface was coated with a greasy sheen. Then the two men froze. The Sikorsky over the Maas had just exploded.

There's the control box,' Tweed said, pointing.

'I see it. You wait here. I know how it works. Those blueprints from Switzerland you handed to Bellenger in London were shown to me by his naval chaps. Their bomb disposal lot is still waiting at Schiphol. I came on ahead in case you needed a spot of help…"

And he had used his loaf, Tweed thought. Nicholls was wearing civvies, dressed in a dark suit under a raincoat, carrying an executive case. He laid it on the deck, squatting on his haunches, opened it, took out a small leather pouch.

'Don't worry,' he assured Tweed.

'A lot of lives are connected to that damned box.'

'I know. Like I said, wait here…'

He walked across the deck which pitched slightly, moving to bump against the wharf, then drifting out to collide heavily with the barge moored alongside. Using a torch, Nicholls checked the neck pulses of both bodies, then walked slowly round the control box, which lay about four feet away from Klein's wrecked hands. Bending down, he used the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to lift the box. He walked back to Tweed, asked him to hold the torch.

'You'll be surprised how simple this is…'

Tweed stared at the rows of numbered buttons, then his eyes locked on the red button. Using his left hand, Nicholls opened the leather pouch, selected a small screwdriver and shoved the pouch back inside his pocket. He unscrewed the screw at each corner of the top of the box, tucking them inside his pocket. The distant rattle of a machine-pistol drifted down to them from the Euromast platform. Nicholls ignored the sound, lifted the top of the box carefully and slid that into his pocket. A maze of wires led from what looked like a battery. Nicholls substituted a small pair of pliers for the screwdriver, snipped ten wires, including one coloured red. Lifting out the battery, he handed the box to Tweed.

'Press any button you like. Nothing will happen. The box is disarmed.'

Thanks, but no thanks,' Tweed replied, handing the box back to Nicholls.

He looked up as footsteps, a swift deliberate tread, came across to the barge. Marler. Rifle held loosely in both hands.

'I'd better get back,' Nicholls said. 'Next job is link up with the team waiting at Schiphol, get out to those ships…'

'I wonder how this happened,' Tweed enquired, pointing a foot to Klein's dead body.

'Slipped on the greasy deck. Made the mistake of wearing leather-soled shoes. Mine are rubber. If the drizzle hadn't come.. .' Marler shrugged. 'We'd have been up the creek. Gave me the few seconds I needed to shoot him – that control box slid out of his hand. Just the chance I was waiting for.'

'We have one more problem. While we're alone. Klein must not be identified.'

'Think I could help there.'

Marler glanced round, then walked to the other side of the barge. The barges were still bumping up against each other, then opening up a stretch of water about three feet wide before they began closing again. Marler strolled back, looked at Euromast. Deserted outside. He used his foot to roll the corpse of Klein across the deck, a task made easier by the slippery surface. When Klein was wedged against the gunwale he looked round again as Tweed walked to where he stood. Marler placed his rifle on the deck, waited until the gap between the heavy barges was widest, then levered the body into the water.

It floated until the barge they stood on moved against it and pushed the body forward. The two barges met. There was an ugly cracking sound, the sound of bones being crushed between the makeshift vice. Marler peered over as the barges slowly parted company again.

'Skull crushed flat as a dinner plate…'

Tweed took his word for it. Marler picked up his rifle. In the distance was the sound of a chopper approaching. They stepped off the barge. It began to move towards the second barge again.

'He'll end up as the original thin man,' Marler remarked. 'I have one more job to do.'

'Which is?'

'Second Sikorsky coming in from the airport. To pick me up. So Klein said. A bullet in the back soon as I went aboard would be my guess. Then the long drop into the Maas. Here she comes…'

Marler aimed for the cockpit as the machine came downriver, began to turn in over the Maas, losing height. Later they hauled up the Sikorsky out of the river and found the pilot with a bullet between the eyes. Again Marler fired three times in quick succession. The helicopter, now hovering at the entrance to Parkhaven, began to gyrate as it dropped out of control. The rotors were still whirling as it hit the water. The Sikorsky settled, the fuselage vanished, the rotors whirling to a stop whipped up a foam and then they were gone.

As they walked back along the waterfront Tweed glanced up at Euromast. At least someone had pulled in out of sight the pathetic body of Lara Seagrave, thank God.

' Flashpoint!…! '

Van Gorp's warning came down the line clearly to Benoit at Findel. He dropped the phone, picked up his torch, went close to the window and flashed the torch on-off-on six times.

Newman had moved to a position midway along the runway between take-off point and where the Hercules transport was still stationary, revving its engines. He stepped off the runway on to the grass and backed a dozen yards.

It was still dark but his eyes had regained their night vision. As he had suspected, the plane was doing the wrong thing: it was revving up to full power. The transport began moving towards him. Slowly at first, then a steady increase in speed. He braced himself, shoved the stock of the rifle hard against his shoulder. He was aiming for the huge tyres on the machine's wheels.

As it came closer a door opened. Framed inside stood a man holding a machine-pistol with a long barrel. Probably a 9 mm Uzi. Forty rounds in the mag. The night was filled with the roar of the oncoming transport. Ignoring the gunman in the doorway, Newman aimed his night sight for the blur of a fast-revolving tyre. The gunman had begun to open up on him. A spray of bullets hit the grass fifty yards from where he stood. In seconds they'd be firing at him point-blank.

The sound of the transport's engines drowned the noise of the motor-cycle Butler was riding, coming up behind the tail of the plane. He held the handlebars with his left hand; in his right he gripped the Browning automatic. He came like a rocket, was suddenly alongside the machine. He raised the automatic, pressed the trigger, firing nonstop at the doorway.