Deadlock

'He really thought he was coming with us,' Portch said and he giggled.

'Can't afford loose ends,' replied Grand-Pierre, who had picked up the phrase from Klein. 'Let's leave. After you, Doctor. No, on second thoughts, give me a hand to carry him to the engine room.'

'Is that necessary, seeing that…'

'Klein's orders. Leave them all in the engine room, close to the bomb. Very tidy man, Mr Klein. You look thoughtful.'

'Seeing Fox lying there like that I was remembering the night that American, Lee Foley, killed those people at Cockley Ford who wouldn't agree to our plan – no matter how much money they stood to make. Then, of course, Klein had to deal with Mr Foley. I wonder if anyone will ever discover the secret of the seventh grave in the churchyard.'

'Let's move the body,' the Frenchman said impatiently.

They carried it between them, Grand-Pierre lifting the shoulders while Portch carried the legs. The helping hands were welcome to the Frenchman, who was feeling tired after his night's exertions. Standing on the platform above the engine room, they swung the body outwards, let go. It fell on top of the others.

'I'm glad that's over,' Portch remarked. 'Amazing how heavy a corpse can be.'

'I agree,' said Grand-Pierre. To be avoided wherever possible.'

He pulled out his Luger, rammed it into Portch's chest, fired twice. Portch grunted, doubled up, fell backwards.

Grand-Pierre waited until the lighter had sailed at least two nautical miles from the drifting coaster. It was still dark but his eyes had become accustomed to the night as he took out the control box. His thumb paused over the button. Were they far enough away? Of course they were. He was fatigued. He pressed the button.

There was a muffled boom. Nothing dramatic. Like the sound of a train approaching through a tunnel. Then the world blew up. The coaster exploded into a myriad fragments. There was an ear-splitting roar. A red flame shot into the sky like a rocket. The flame was extinguished by a giant fountain which hurtled vertically, a plume of surf rising upwards. The sea boiled where the vessel had floated. A vibration struck the lighter. For a few seconds, hanging to a deck rail, Grand-Pierre thought the lighter was capsizing as a massive wave rolled it.

Silence. The crew was awestruck. They gazed at each other, thankful to have survived. And that, Grand-Pierre reminded himself, was the smallest of the bombs and sea-mines.

41

It was when Lara was sitting alongside Klein in the BMW that she realized she'd lost interest in him. All passion spent – wasn't that the phrase? Strange how suddenly all feeling was gone, leaving a vacuum. But in the case of Klein it was good to be tree of him emotionally.

The trick now was not to let him know she thought as she gazed at the flatlands in the headlight beams. They had crossed into Holland without any problems and were now beyond Roosendaal; well on the way to Rotterdam. As though reading her mind, Klein glanced at her. his complexion drained of colour.

'In Rotterdam you stay at the Hotel Central on Kruis-kade – just down the street from the Hilton. It's as central as its name implies, and not far from police headquarters.'

That's a good idea?'

'Yes. The police never expect to find suspects under their noses. And by the way, you register as Miss Eva Winter.'

Klein smiled to himself as they crossed a reclaimed polder. Miss Winter. It rather suited the grisly role he'd allocated for her to play.

The Alouette was just crossing the frontier into Holland as Benoit returned from the pilot's cabin. Tweed sat by the window with Newman alongside and Butler in front. Tweed was restless, Newman sensed, although he sat like a graven image. He looked up as Benoit stood by Newman, holding a sheaf of papers in his hands.

'Several radio messages. Van Gorp, The Hague police chief, welcomes you to Holland. He's meeting us at the Hilton. He says if you're coming something must be up. And we've had a report of a large explosion in the North Sea between Norfolk and Europort.'

Tweed glanced at Newman. 'What kind of explosion?'

'No one seems to know. A Nimrod aircraft setting off on a patrol saw it from a distance. When it got there it could find nothing to explain it – no sign of a ship's wreckage. Which is strange. They thought at first a vessel's boilers must have blown.'

Benoit handed the messages to Tweed and went back to the pilot's cabin. Tweed read the signals, handed them to Newman.

'Don't like the sound of that,' he said. 'A normal explosion, there should have been plenty of wreckage…'

'Whereas a Triton Three bomb might leave nothing behind?'

'Exactly. I do wish we had news from Nield. Not like him to leave us in the dark. And still no news of that bargee, Haber. We'll just have to wait.'

Nield was nearly at the end of his tether as he drove through the deserted streets of London. Thank God he'd arrived before traffic built up. His head was pounding like a bass drum, his vision blurring. With a sigh of relief he pulled up outside Park Crescent.

George, the all-night doorman, let him in, stared at his bandaged head. 'My, been in the wars, sir?'

'Something like that.'

He hauled himself up the stairs, saw a light under the door to Tweed's office, pushed it open. Monica, now fully dressed, also stared at him. He sagged into Tweed's armchair, began talking quickly while she made coffee. She made him keep quiet until he'd drunk the first cup, then went on listening.

That's it,' he said eventually. 'You know where Tweed is?'

'In Brussels last night. I'll send a message via police HQ in Brussels after I've called a doctor…' 'Send the message first.' 'As soon as I've called the doctor,' she said firmly.

The Alouette had just landed when Benoit hurried from the pilot's cabin with more signals. He handed them to Tweed who scanned them quickly. He pursed his lips and stared outside where several cars were drawn up.

'Van Gorp sent them to meet us,' Benoit explained.

'What's happened?' asked Newman.

'I think we were right about that explosion at sea. Nield drove through the night to Park Cresent. In Blakeney last night he watched that coaster of Caleb Fox's being loaded with so-called furniture belonging to Dr Portch. Portch has left Norfolk to take up a post in, guess where – here in Holland.'

'You think something went wrong? That the coaster carried the whole Triton Three armament and blew up?'

'No. I see the hand of Klein behind that. I'm sure he offloaded all the bombs and sea-mines except one. He couldn't leave the coaster's crew behind to tell the tale. So he liquidated every man jack of them. A massacre. Fiend is the word for Klein. But it follows the same pattern. The one that started in Marseilles and Geneva. Leave no one alive who has any knowledge. Those bombs and sea-mines have been landed somewhere in Holland by some method. I'm really afraid, Bob.'

Newman stared at him. He'd never heard Tweed say anything like that before. That's it?' he enquired.

'No. Van Gorp reports they've found Joseph Haber. Don't too much like the sound of that either. Just that they've found him.'

'So, that's it.'

'Not quite. Monica has transmitted another brief message from Olympus.' He kept his voice low. 'My contact inside Klein's organization. The message is that it's not Antwerp – it's Europort. Probably.'

'Olympus never seems sure…'

'Which is because I'm certain Klein is working on the cell system. Maybe only two or three members of his team actually know each other. And no one except Klein will know the target until the last moment. He's a devil – his security is very professional. But then, considering his background and training, it would be. And that may be the last message I receive from Olympus. I'm very worried about my contact.'