Deadlock

'I once spent a holiday with a boyfriend on a barge -smaller than that,' Paula said wistfully. 'We cruised down the Canal de l'Est from Dinant in Belgium on through France via the Canal de la Marne au Rhin – and emerged on to the Rhine itself just south of here. When are you going to call Beck?'

'I've called him.' Tweed stood beside her, watching the barge slide past without really seeing it. 'He'll be here any moment. And he's bringing Colonel Romer with him – the chap who lost the largest share of gold bullion in the robbery. Boss of the Zurcher.'

'Should I make myself scarce when they…'

The phone rang. Tweed shook his head as he went to pick up the receiver. 'You might as well stay. You could spot a point I miss.' He spoke rapidly in German, put down the receiver. 'As you probably gathered, they're on their way up.'

Beck ushered in a tall, well-built man with a trim moustache and wearing a navy blue business suit. His thick hair and brows were grey and he carried himself with a military stance. Beck made introductions. 'Commander Tweed… His assistant, Miss Paula Grey. ..'

Romer stared hard at both of them, decided they were trustworthy, plunged straight into the topic. 'You've heard we lost twelve million? That is, with the other bank. Chief of Police here is baffled. Are you?'

'What day was the robbery?' Tweed asked.

'Sunday. Middle of the night.' He laid a brief-case on one of the tables.

'How might they have got away with that weight of gold?'

'Put your finger on it,' Romer said crisply, sitting down at Tweed's invitation. 'Local police first thought they used the airport. A Fokker Friendship aircraft took off. They worked out the timing. It seemed right if trucks transported the gold. Seemed right at the time.'

'But not now?'

'Seemed right,' Romer continued, 'because the Fokker had a flight plan to fly to Orly, Paris. Never arrived. The manifests were checked, proved to be forged. Vanished into thin air. Literally. The aircraft.'

'A Fokker could have carried that weight in gold?'

'Put your finger on it again.' Romer's tone expressed confidence in Tweed. Behind his back Beck nodded to Paula: the Colonel was not an easy man to impress. 'I had that point checked myself,' Romer went on. 'No Fokker could have taken the whole load. I think it was a smokescreen – to divert our attention from how they did move the gold.'

'How would a gang like that dispose of the gold? You're a banker. ..'•

'Good question. Asked it myself times without number. A crooked banker – or bullion merchant – is the only answer. Mind you, they wouldn't get anything like the twelve million – the robbers. Eight if they were lucky – and had the right contacts. You'd find the answer in Luxembourg City or Brussels. Better still, in London. I'll give you a name.'

He extracted from his wallet a blank white card, wrote on it rapidly in neat script, handed it to Tweed. 'Mention my name. For obvious reasons it's not on the card. He'll phone me for confirmation, then talk to you.'

'Who would buy the gold – the ultimate customer, I mean.'

'Russia,' Romer said promptly. 'At the head of the list. I probably overdid it when I said the bastards who took the bullion would get eight million. Six more likely. The go-between wants his cut. Then Russia – if it was them -gets four or five million francs for nothing. Hard currency for nothing when they sell it again.'

'I don't know much about bullion,' Tweed persisted, 'but I understood each bar of gold is stamped with its origin?'

'Quite so. So, the go-between has it melted down, destroying the distinguishing mark, then cools it, resolidifies it. No trace of origin left. Of course, he'd need all the facilities. That chap in London will know more.' He opened his brief-case. 'Now, Beck tells me you want to know about the explosive used.'

'It would help?'

'Not much, I'm afraid.' He handed Tweed a sheaf of typed papers. 'It's in English – for your experts. It's a new type of explosive. That's really all we can say. There's a lot of chemical analysis stuff there that doesn't mean a thing to me. All our chaps had to go on was smears taken from flashpoints inside the vault. Oh, the mechanism of the bomb was a bit diabolical. Caused implosion – if you know what that means.'

'Designed so the whole force of the explosion goes in one direction…" Tweed glanced at Paula who had lost colour. Took ninety per cent of the vault door,' Romer went on, 'nine inches of cold steel

…' He took a slim executive case out of the bulky brief-case, handed it to Tweed with a key.

'Inside is a plastic bag containing pieces of debris our boffins scraped off the floor of the vault. Maybe your people can make something of it. God knows they've had enough experience with the IRA crowd. I think that's it.'

Beck produced an envelope, handed it to Tweed. 'Copies of the blueprints found inside Gaston Blanc's safe at Montres Ribaud. Colonel Romer says they are designs for timers – and control boxes. Take them, too. Just about all we can do now.'

There is one more thing,' Tweed said. 'I'd like to look at that barge harbour further down the Rhine where you dragged out a second body…'

'Let's all go,' Romer said. 'In my car.' He glanced at Beck. 'Your friend, Tweed, has that look in his eye.' 'What look?' 'A bloodhound. Never gives up.'

Romer led the way, followed by Tweed and Paula, Beck brought up the rear as they picked their way over a complex of rail tracks. The barge harbour was protected from the Rhine by a peninsula on which stood several large silos. Behind them oil storage tanks reared up like large white cakes.

Barges were moored three abreast alongside the river. There was a stench of oil and tar and resin Tweed associated with waterfronts. Romer paused, called back to Paula to join him. 'You've charmed the Colonel, too,' Tweed whispered.

'Phooey!' She went ahead and Romer took her arm. Using his other hand which held a baton he pointed across the oily, gliding river. 'That's France over there on the far bank.'

'And over there?' She pointed eastward. 'Germany?'

'On the nose, as you say. The dredger is still at work, I see.. .'

Tweed and Beck joined them near the tip of the peninsula. On the other side of the entrance to the harbour a line of cypresses screened a factory complex. Workmen in stained boiler suits trudged steadily about their labours.

'The dredger which hauled up the second body?' Paula asked.

'Yes,' said Romer.

He was watching Tweed who stood, hands in his coat pockets, staring fixedly at the dredger. Its dragline emerged dripping from the water, carrying a load of rocks. Nearby a barge was heeled over, its bow partly submerged. Men were working, attaching fresh cables to the stricken vessel.

'This harbour is drained regularly for silt?' Tweed enquired. The entrance is very narrow – and the Rhine flows past it.'

'Good Lord, no!' Beck explained. 'That barge carrying rocks capsized. Hence the dredger working – to haul up the cargo, clear the depths. Pure chance the first thing the dredger brought up was the body. Not a pretty sight. Bloated to an extraordinary size after long immersion.'

'And normally the harbour is never dredged for silt?' Tweed asked again.

'No. Look at the current. Sweeps straight past. So, no debris to fetch up.'

'Then how did that body drift in here?'

There was a long silence before Beck replied. Paula noticed Romer was watching Tweed closely, tugging at his moustache. A habit of his when he was intrigued, she suspected.

'We assumed it must have done,' Beck said eventually. The local police put that in their report…'

'And where was the other body dragged out of the river?'