Deadlock

'And now you know where?' Newman said.

'Cockley Ford. Those heavy wheel tracks leading from the entrance to the churchyard to Sir John Leinster's mausoleum.'

'Clever bloody Klein,' Newman remarked. 'Hid the stuff where no one would think of looking. So, is the target still Antwerp?'

'No,' Tweed said grimly. 'I've just realized the significance of the strange incident Colonel Ralston told me about aboard his cruiser. Remember he grasped that Klein's English wasn't perfect? Ralston made some remark to Klein about him talking Double Dutch. Klein flew at him. That Sergeant Bradley had to separate them.'

'I'm not following you,' Butler remarked.

'Double-Dutch,' Tweed repeated. 'Klein had never heard the colloquial phrase. He didn't like – was unnerved by – Ralston's reference to Dutch. Because the target is Dutch – not Belgian. It's been staring us in the face. It's Europort, the gateway to Europe.'

'And how is Klein going to transport the explosives across the North Sea?'

'Maybe Nield can tell us that. I'll get Monica on the phone. Which means back to Grand'Place and the scrambler. Nield may have found the key we've been looking for.'

'Nield,' Butler commented, 'is usually in the right place at the right moment.'

40

The Met forecast had held. The sea was calm as the proverbial millpond. Inside the bridge of the coaster, midway across the North Sea, Caleb Fox bent over a chart with Dr Portch beside him. The engines were stopped, the vessel drifted gently with the current, no other ship was in sight on radar.

This is where they meet us,' Fox said. 'We'll wait until we get the signal they're close, then I'll tell the First Mate.'

'Expect any trouble?'

'I'm master of this vessel,' the weasely Fox replied. 'And here they come.'

He had glanced to the port side facing Holland. In the black moonless light a green light was flashing. Three longs, three shorts, two longs. The First Mate came on to the bridge and asked his question.

'Why are we waiting here, Skipper?'

'We're taking on board a group of stevedores. Orders from Head Office. It's a bit secret. Don't tell the crew the real reason, Bates.'

'Which is?'

'After we've unloaded Dr Portch's stuff at Europort we sail up to Hamburg. Some shipyard has a strike. Shipyard owners are taking on this new lot of stevedores, sacking the lot on strike. And we're being well paid for the job.

Bonus in it for you later, Bates. Inform the crew we'll have extra passengers. Handle it in your own way.'

'I'd better go and make preparations. How many stevedores?'

'A dozen I was told. We'll have to see, won't we?'

Half an hour later four lighters hove to on the port side, two ladders had been slung over the coaster's hull, the first man to swarm up and come aboard was Grand-Pierre. He carried a bedroll and a small case. Other men dressed in seamen's gear climbed rapidly up and dropped on deck. Grand-Pierre made straight for the engine room, slamming shut the steel door behind him, gazing down from an iron platform as a stench of oil hit his nostrils.

Two men in the engine room, he'd been told. He saw them gazing up at him. He dumped his case, tucked the bedroll under one powerful arm, descended the ladder. Reaching the bottom, he walked towards the two men who stood by a mass of dials and gauges.

He reached his right hand inside the bedroll, produced the Luger pistol, shot the first man, then the second. The echoes of the reports resounded round the engine room. He moved close to the first slumped body, pressed the Luger muzzle close to the slumped man's skull, pulled the trigger. He performed the same act with the second sprawled body.

Moving with ape-like agility for a man of his size, he scrambled back up the ladder to the platform. He had the Luger out of sight behind his back when Sadler, who was puzzled about something he couldn't yet put his finger on, opened the engine-room door. Grand-Pierre's bulk blocked his view of the engine room.

'What the hell are you doing here?' Sadler demanded.

The Frenchman peered out. The corridor was deserted in both directions. He aimed the Luger and pulled the trigger in one movement. The heavy slug caught Sadler in the chest and slammed his body back against the wall.

' Merde,' muttered Grand-Pierre. Why had he come snooping round at this moment. He hoisted the body over his shoulder, walked back on to the platform, using one hand to shut the door. Perching on the edge of the platform, he dropped his burden. It hit the metal floor thirty feet below with a soft thud. No need for a second bullet there.

Opening the door again, he looked out and saw one of his men carrying another member of the crew towards the engine room. Someone shouted from the other end of the corridor. A crewman was hurrying towards the man stooped under the weight of his dead burden.

'What's the matter with Callaby?' the crewman shouted.

Grand-Pierre waited until he was close, then shot him twice. Gesturing towards the platform to his team member, he picked up the fourth corpse and, as arranged beforehand, dumped that over the edge.

He took a grubby piece of paper out of his pocket as his own man hurried away. Four dealt with out of a crew of nine. An extra name was on the list. A good preliminary exercise for his team, Grand-Pierre thought, a minor trial run for what was to come at Europort and Rotterdam.

'I tried to contact Nield,' Monica told Tweed over the phone as he sat in Benoit's office for the second time that night. 'When he didn't report in I called The Duke's Head. That was at eleven-thirty in the evening. They said his key was still with reception, that he hadn't returned. I'm worried.'

'Don't,' Tweed urged. 'Pete can look after himself. I may be leaving Brussels shortly, but they'll know here where to find me. Better use the code word Ghent to identify yourself. Got it?'

'Yes, Ghent. Are you all right? You're talking fast- the way you do when you're tired.'

'Perfectly OK. Next thing. I want Commander Bellenger from Admiralty to fly over here at once. He'll react when you tell him I asked for him. Tell him to come to Grand' Place. Also call Number Ten. Say I want the SAS team waiting to fly to Schiphol in Holland now. To stand by for further instructions. I'll try and call the PM myself but I may not get her.'

'You will if you call now. She phoned me a few minutes ago – to ask if I had any news from you. I'd better get off the line. And I'll call when I hear from Nield. Not that much seems to be happening up there.'

'You might be surprised,' Tweed said grimly and rang off.

He looked at Newman and Butler, explained he had to call the PM. They went into the anteroom next door and waited. Butler was not his normal phlegmatic self. He asked Newman for a cigarette although he rarely smoked.

'I'm worried about Nield,' he admitted. 'I was the one who shoved him out on a limb, left him in Norfolk by himself.'

'You heard Tweed say he can look after himself.'

That's true. But we normally work as a team…"

'You are doing right now,' Newman assured him. 'But this time long distance.'

A few minutes later Tweed asked them back into Benoit's office. His expression was grim but before he could explain Benoit came into the room, slammed the door and sat down at the table.

'Coffee is coming. It's going to be a long night. How are things, Tweed?'

'This is confidential. I've spoken to the PM. She agrees with my reasoning that Europort is the target. But she has a problem. She needs evidence to convince the Dutch Government. What I have isn't enough…' He recalled for Benoit's benefit his conversation with Newman and Butler in his hotel room. Benoit shook his head.