Deadlock (14 page)

'Just supposing,' Tweed said casually, 'we were talking about thirty of these sea-mines - plus twenty-five bombs -and they were all armed with this Triton Three. What effect could that lot have?'

Bellenger stiffened, leaned forward. Monica, who was watching him from behind her desk could have sworn the naval commander lost colour. He took his time replying, like a man recovering from shock.

Take out Birmingham,' he responded. The whole city. Three miles radius from impact point. Level every building. No survivors. Inside that three-miles radius . . .'

'Jesus!'

Tweed let slip the blasphemy involuntarily. He stared at his visitor, who stared back. Bellenger straightened up, steepled his hands.

'Is this theoretical? You chose very precise numbers.'

'Oh, completely.' Tweed smiled and drank some coffee. Inside the office the atmosphere was electric. He took his time over drinking the coffee - to defuse the tension. His hand was very steady as he replaced cup and saucer on desk. His tone was offhand when he spoke.

'What is so special about Cossack - the mechanism?'

Bellenger glanced over his shoulder at Monica. Tweed repeated the assurance he'd given when Bellenger arrived - that Monica had top vetting. 'In fact, if anything happened to me, she'd have to carry on.'

'Delayed action detonation for one thing. A saboteur could carry an object no larger than the smallest pocket calculator, stand thirty miles from the mine - or bomb -press a button and
bang!
The most advanced form of the old World War Two magnetic mine we've ever encountered. For one thing . . .'

'And for another?'

'It's size - in ratio to its appalling destructive power. It is quite small. About one foot in diameter. And it's death to any sizeable naval vessel. Take a submarine. They drop it within thirty miles of one of our subs. Our chaps are dead -that means they're so many fathoms under, all engine power switched off. No one even drops a spoon. Cossack homes in on them, even comes up to the hull, attaches itself like the suckers of an octopus with a revolutionary magnetic system. Someone presses the button. Our sub splits in two, is blown out of the water in a million bits.'

'How does it home in if everything is switched off and silent.'

The men inside have to breathe,' Bellenger said grimly.

'So?'

'Cossack has an ultra-sensitive chemical probe which picks up carbon dioxide - even through a hull of sheet steel. How much carbon dioxide do you imagine a sub's crew breathes out?'

'Sounds a bit diabolical.' Tweed sipped more coffee. 'But the men who despatch the mine or bomb - from a plane, another sub, whatever. They
breathe
. . .'

'I see where you're heading,' Bellenger commented. 'Cossack's sensitivity to carbon dioxide is controlled. The pocket calculator device again. Press another button and the carbon dioxide probe comes into action. We've no defence as yet. All that - and the Triton Three. Only the timer device is second rate.'

'I think,' Tweed said, checking his watch under the level of his desk, 'you've put me into the picture.'

'And now you can put me in the picture. How did that bomb in Norfolk get there? Admiralty only let me come in the hope you'd give me a lead on that.'

'I simply have no idea, no lead, no clue. I'm sorry.'

'But you'll let me know if you unearth one?'

Bellenger was standing up. Not a man to waste time. Either Tweed didn't know or wasn't telling. For the moment. Bellenger recognized a man who couldn't be talked into saying anything he didn't want revealed. They shook hands, Tweed saw him to the front entrance, came back to his office.

'Now do you believe Lysenko?' Monica asked vehemently.

'No. I'm still dubious . . .'

'For God's sake. After listening to Bellenger - and Lysenko telling you about the theft from that bloody Sevastopol depot?'

'Lysenko would know someone had obtained a sample as Bellenger so quaintly puts it. They'll keep careful checks on the numbers of Cossacks they have. It would embroider his story - make it sound more convincing when I found out, as he knew I would.'

'So you think it's a wild goose chase?'

'I may know more after Geneva.'

14

La-Chaux-de-Fonds, centre of the Swiss watch-making industry, lies high up in the Jura Mountains near the French frontier. The modern buildings are white, antiseptic-looking blocks, the streets laid out on the American grid system, forming perfect rectangles. Set amid rolling green Alpine pastures, the place had an unreal atmosphere - like some vast laboratory, Klein thought.

Behind the wheel of the Mercedes hired in Geneva, he drove along the rue de la Paix, home of the watch-making factories. 12.55 p.m. The street was deserted. He drove slowly past a three-storey edifice, headquarters of Montres Ribaud, one of the leading watch-makers.

Pulling in at the kerb beyond Ribaud, he checked the time, kept the motor running. It is doubtful whether Louis Chabot, hidden away in Larochette, would have recognized him. Klein wore dark-tinted wrap-round glasses; a soft hat concealed his black hair; a polo-necked sweater made his lean jaw seem longer.

Promptly at 1 p.m. Gaston Blanc emerged from the Ribaud building, carrying a large case. Klein watched him approaching in his rear-view mirror. Then - as arranged -he drove slowly on, turned down an equally deserted side street and stopped.

Gaston Blanc was a small, plump-faced man. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and stooped as he walked. The result of years of bending over a work-bench, Klein guessed. Blanc was Ribaud's Director of Research, reputed to be the most brilliant in Switzerland.

Klein had the front passenger door open when Blanc arrived. The Swiss deposited his case on the back seat, climbed in beside Klein, who drove off immediately without any kind of greeting.

'I will give you route instructions,' Blanc said in French. 'We don't talk until we are outside the town.'

They drove along the ruler-straight main street, reached the end of the small town at a place called Les Eplatures. Following Blanc's directions, Klein swung left over a concrete bridge spanning the railway and climbed up a green Alp. They had the world to themselves as Klein turned off the road, stopping the car behind a copse of dark firs.

'You have the timers, the radio-control systems?' he asked.

'In the case behind us. Sixty timers, five control systems. You will approve the merchandise. The timers are completely waterproof. As requested,' Blanc continued in his soft sibilant voice. 'One delicate matter. Payment . . .'

'I have it in my pocket. It's yours - once I'm satisfied with what you've produced. Have you met the specification?'

'Oh, yes. Of course.' Blanc sounded smug. 'Your specification was clever, very clever. I've never been asked to design anything so sophisticated. It was quite a challenge . . .'

'Let's get on with it.'

Blanc unzipped the case. Neatly packed inside was a collection of white cardboard boxes. Blanc opened one, took out a tissue-wrapped package, handed it to his client. Klein produced a pair of chamois gloves and slipped them on before taking the box.

'Very wise,' Blanc commented. 'No fingerprints. I prefer dealing with professionals . . .'

Half an hour later Klein was satisfied. The instrumentation was an engineering work of art. The plastic control boxes - no larger than small pocket calculators - enabled a man to detonate the timers over distances varying from one to fifty kilometres. The timer devices were equally good, fitted with magnetic clamps. Once attached to a bomb, Blanc explained, they were immovable. The control boxes worked over the long distances through the medium of an ultra-high frequency radio wave.

'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.