'You understand how the system works?' Blanc asked.
'Perfectly. Now, payment. Here you are.'
Still wearing the chamois gloves, he leaned across Blanc, opened the compartment facing the Swiss, took out a thick envelope and handed it to him. He waited until Blanc had closely examined the bearer bond.
'As you know, a bearer bond is untraceable, the most negotiable form of money.'
'I know that.' Blanc stared at the man beside him. 'This is for only half a million Swiss francs. The agreed fee
'Was one million,' Klein snapped. 'You still have to make the delivery. You get the second bearer bond when you've completed the job. You have made the arrangements, I hope?'
'Of course. My contact with Transportation at the Glasshouse was most cooperative…'
The Glasshouse?'
'It's the Vevey locals' name for the Nestle chocolate headquarters building. As you know, the chocolate usine – where they make the stuff- is at the small town of Broc north-east of Vevey. This evening, precisely at six the case is handed to the Turkish driver of a certain truck. He has a consignment for Belgium – so he can personally deliver the case in Larochette on his way. He will have no trouble crossing the border…'
'We arranged this before. You have a car? Good. What make? 7
'A Renault station-wagon. Why?'
'Because I want you to fetch your car now, taking that case with you. You then come back here and drive to Broc. I'll follow you. Once the case is aboard the truck the second bearer bond is in your hands.'
'You didn't tell me this before…'
'Don't argue. You want the money? And the Turk will know you presumably. We do it my way…'
Gaston Blanc didn't like it, didn't like it one bit as he drove his Renault through Neuchatel and along the lakeside to Yverdon. From there he headed due south for Lausanne and the autoroute near the shore of Lake Geneva.
He kept glancing in his rear-view mirror and always Klein's black Mercedes was one or two vehicles behind him. Blanc disliked any change of plan. And he had no idea why Klein had done this to him.
His feelings about Klein were mixed. He knew nothing about the man except that he'd approached him weeks ago with a letter of introduction from a previous client. It was the money which had tempted Blanc. One million francs! Never before had he earned so much from what he quaintly termed in his own mind a 'freelance' job. Which meant he used his company's facilities to produce equipment paid for privately, money tucked away in his secret bank account in Geneva.
He drove through Lausanne, heading for Vevey. He glanced once more in his mirror. Klein was immediately behind him. Those eyes! They seemed to stare into the very depths of a man's soul. Cold as ice. Yet, on other occasions, Klein had shown an amiable side, encouraging Blanc to talk of his problems with his wife. He had even told him about his mistress in Berne…
Klein, his gloved hands on the wheel, checked his watch. They would arrive in Broc early. That mustn't happen. He had always planned that Blanc would carry the case of timers. That eliminated the outside chance that they would be intercepted by a routine patrol car check. If that happened Klein would simply drive on, leaving Blanc to explain. He glanced in his wing mirror, saw the highway was as empty behind as it was ahead. Pressing down his foot, he overtook Blanc, slowed, gestured with one hand for him to pull in at the lay-by. Alighting from his stationary vehicle, he walked back to the Renault.
'What is it?' Blanc asked irritably, poking his head out of the window.
'We're going to be early at Broc.' Klein opened the door, sat himself in the front passenger seat, shut the door. 'I drove over this route and timed it in sections. We don't want to hang around at Broc. Get there in time for you to hand that case to the Nestle truck driver and leave immediately. Here is the exact address he has to deliver the case to…'
Blanc sat with hands clasped in his lap, made no move to take the card with a typed address. 'I've done what you asked me to,' he went on, not looking at Klein. 'You take the case – and give me my second half-million.'
'It's not going to happen that way.' Klein was relaxed, his hands clasped behind his neck. 'You wouldn't want me to make a phone call – to police headquarters in Berne. They'd be interested to hear about the terrorist groups you've supplied in the past…'
'You wouldn't…'
Then there's the managing director of Montres Ribaud. He'd be intrigued to hear about you. To say nothing of your wife. Then you'd never use your secret funds to buy that villa you covet in Cologny – where you'd live happily ever after with Yvette from Berne. After you'd dumped your wife. How do you propose to dump her?' Klein asked in the same conversational tone.
'I have no idea,' Blanc said, his voice faint.
'Buy a Doberman – one of those fierce guard dogs. Train it to be loyal only to yourself. Teach it a word which means "Attack!" Then use the word when you are alone in the apartment with your wife. It will rip her to pieces. Who could blame you? The dog went mad. I won't even charge you for the idea.'
'It's quite horrible – your idea…'
Klein glanced sideways. He could see Blanc was already thinking about it. Klein sat in silence, watching the clock on the dashboard. He also kept an eye on the highway, but traffic was light. And no patrol cars.
'Time we moved,' he announced. 'You lead the way. As before.'
Blanc drove automatically for the rest of the journey, turning away from the lake at Vevey, heading north for Broc. He was stunned. All idea of forcing Klein to take the case had vanished from his mind.
How the devil did Klein know about his desire to live in Cologny? Cologny was the millionaire district on the southern shore of the lake just outside Geneva. A place where world-famous racing drivers lived, where Arab sheiks owned villas with grounds patrolled by guards and fierce dogs.
Dogs? The Dobermann idea wouldn't leave him alone. It seemed foolproof. Even the Swiss police would never suspect anything. He'd create an alibi for himself – so everyone would think the dog had killed her while he was away…
He slowed down as he approached the rendezvous, a lonely part of the road not too far from the Broc usine. Behind him the Mercedes was a hundred metres away. Blanc crawled to the bend, stopped, peered through the windscreen. The Nestle truck was parked on the grass verge, also about a hundred metres ahead.
Blanc switched off the engine and proceeded in his precise way. First the card with the address for delivery which Klein had dropped on the seat. Hotel de la Montagne, Larochette, Luxembourg. He slipped this inside the envelope containing a one-thousand franc note – the driver's fee. About?350. Then he left the car, carrying the case, and walked to the truck.
Klein had watched all this through a monocular glass he had taken from his pocket. Once Blanc was out of sight he moved. He ran light-footed to the bend, peered round it. Blanc was climbing inside the cab of the Nestle vehicle, a Ford truck with its body painted cream and a large red band above the chassis. At the rear was a heavy door with a large handle. A VD registration plate, showing it was registered in the Canton of the Vaud.
Klein lifted the bonnet of the Renault, reached in with his gloved hand, took out the distributor arm and hurled it over a hedge into the nearest field. Closing the bonnet, he returned to his Mercedes and waited.
Blanc reappeared within minutes, climbed inside and tried to start up the Renault. Klein waited until the Swiss had made six efforts to get the engine going, then drove alongside. He got out, leaned inside the window.
'It's gone dead on you. Leave it here. I'll drive you to Vevey station. Catch a train to Geneva…'