Deadlock

'Why?'

'Because Klein is so clever. Olympus is now in mortal danger.'

Klein dropped Lara at the entrance to Kruiskade opposite the Hilton. She walked the short distance to the Hotel Central, an old five-storey building with a facade which had survived the wartime bombing.

Reception was expecting her, a room had been reserved, she registered and went up to her room on the second floor. As the door closed on the porter she sank on to the bed. Was this the objective at long last?

Lara felt unsure – Klein had led her such a dance. There were other potential targets further north. The German ports of Bremen and Hamburg. On the way Klein had given her the usual instructions.

Check Europort after hiring a car. Check the security. And check the potential for a safe escape route – more than one if possible.

She checked her watch. 7.30 a.m. Better get on with it. She unlocked her suitcase, opened the lid, undid the inner straps to save her clothes from being too compressed. Taking out her camera and binoculars, she went downstairs and had breakfast in the dining room.

She was dressed in her smart gaberdine suit – chosen deliberately before she left the Antwerp hotel. She felt good in it, which helped her keep up a front of still being besotted with Klein.

After breakfast she decided she needed a breath of fresh air to take the ache out of her limbs from travelling in the BMW. She turned left out of the entrance and soon entered a large spacious shopping precinct.

Rotterdam was different from what she'd expected. She'd anticipated a congested mass of concrete blocks. They existed, but the precinct was beautiful. Paved in stone, it was decorated with raised troughs containing evergreen shrubs. Pergolas projected from modern shop fronts. Hanging baskets of flowers were suspended from the overhead beams. She sat on a seat, taking in the beauty of the place. Was it Europort? she kept asking herself. After ten minutes' rest – Lara had enjoyed very little sleep – she walked to the car hire agency whose address she'd obtained from the directory in her bedroom, aided by the street plan obtained from the concierge. Near the agency was a row of phone booths.

'There is the barge, Erika, and there is the late Joseph Haber,' said Van Gorp.

Poker-faced, Tweed stepped aboard the barge, followed by Newman and Benoit. They had been driven from the airport to the Hilton. They had dumped their bags. They had driven straight to the huge docking basin of Waalhaven.

It was almost an exact replica of the horror Tweed had seen in the Dames de Meuse – where the other bargee, Broucker, had been buried up to his chest in mud. The Erika 's hold still carried its load of gravel. Near the bows two shovels lay where men had carefully started removing gravel – until they unearthed what Tweed now stood staring down at.

Haber was buried up to his chest in gravel. His head flopped back, exposing the rim of dried blood which curved from ear to ear. His mouth was open, slack, and he appeared to be grinning. His skin had a deathly pallor.

'Found him in the middle of the night,' Van Gorp explained. 'Benoit called me, extended the search across the border. We checked and it was reported the barge had been seen in Waalhaven.'

'So,' Tweed said slowly, 'Klein now has the last instruments he needs to organize his catastrophe. The timer devices which will explode the bombs and the sea-mines. Have you issued a general alert? Declared an emergency?'

'No.'

Van Gorp was an impressive-looking man. Towering over Tweed, six feet one tall, in his forties, his hair was greying and he sported a trim moustache. There was a natural air of command about the man, softened by a hint of humour in the eyes. Slim in build with a longish face, he stood in a grey overcoat and a grey trilby hat.

'For God's sake why not?' Tweed rapped out. 'Klein has been here. Haber is wearing his trademark. He carried the timers aboard this barge, I'm certain.'

'I've already spoken with the Minister of the Interior at The Hague. Benoit sent me a long radio message giving me the information you've accumulated.'

'With what result?'

'He's not convinced…'

'The same problem I had in Brussels,' Benoit intervened. 'A lack of solid evidence.'

'There's your evidence.' Tweed nodded to Haber, then turned his head away.

'The Minister is attending a cabinet meeting this morning,' Van Gorp continued. 'He promised to bring the matter to their attention. His exact words.'

Tweed glanced at him suspiciously, detecting a touch of irony. Van Gorp stared back, his grey eyes motionless.

'The Dutch Government won't close down Europort without an overwhelming case.'

'Then Klein will close it down for them. You've taken no action at all?'

The Dutchman's eyes twinkled. 'I didn't say that, did I? I believe you. I have cancelled all police leave. I have brought in extra units from The Hague. We are combing the city – looking for any unusual activity. The trouble is you are Secret Service. The Minister made great play with that. Not your scene, man. Tracking bandits.'

'My omission,' Tweed apologized. He produced his warrant card. 'Temporary appointment. I'm a Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad.'

Van Gorp grinned. Thank you. Now I may have the Minister by the balls. Let's get back to the Hilton fast.' He called out to detectives waiting in a group near the stern. 'Do something about this horror in the gravel. And hurry it up.'

They made their way round the tall white cloth screen erected to shield the barge from public gaze. On their way back in the car Tweed thought about Paula searching for Haber's wife and son.

The car pulled up outside the mill in the middle of the Ardennes. Paula jumped out, followed by her police escort, Pierre. She studied the old stone tower, the shuttered windows, then walked all round it.

'I think this is a very likely prison,' she told him. 'You have the spare set of keys the agent gave you?'

'Yes.' Pierre puckered his lips doubtfully. 'Strictly speaking I need a warrant from a magistrate.'

'Why? We checked the other places yesterday.'

'This one has been bought. Paid for outright.'

'Suppose they're starving inside? A woman with her child?'

'You are very persuasive. After all,' he joked, 'I can only lose my pension.'

The heavy door opened with a groaning creak. Paula followed him inside. Creepy. Pierre switched on his torch. It was Paula who mounted the old circular staircase to the door on the first floor landing. She took a deep breath as Pierre studied the labels attached to the keys, selected one, thrust it inside the keyhole and turned it.

Taking hold of the ancient handle, he paused, turned it swiftly and entered, his automatic in his hand. Paula followed. At the far circumference of the circular wall a woman with bedraggled hair stood, her arm round a boy.

'Marline Haber?' asked Paula in French.

'Yes. Thank God. Who are you?'

'Paula Grey. Pierre and I have been looking for you, searching empty houses from lists supplied by estate agents. Are you all right?'

'Yes. Perhaps because we didn't drink that.' She pointed to a thermos standing on a crude wooden table. 'It is coffee supplied by the kidnapper, but it tasted odd. So we did not drink any…'

'I'll take that,' said Pierre, 'for analysis…'

'My husband, Joseph. Is he all right? Do you know where he is? Who are these madmen?'

'We'd better get you both back to Dinant,' Paula said. 'Then I can enquire further.'

Entering the Hilton, Tweed was approached by the concierge who told him there was a gentleman waiting for him in the breakfast room, a Commander Bellenger. Tweed hurried to the room.

'Hello, Tweed. Thought I'd have a spot of breakfast while I waited. Flew over as soon as I'd got the message. Luckily we checked with Brussels before I took off. They told us you were on your way here. Are you on your own?'