Deadlock (45 page)

Lara stared at him, then looked away. He'd been following her. She was livid. The lift ascended, stopped at the first floor, the American again ushered her in front of him. Klein caught up with her as she entered the
Maison de Bæuf,
a large room with an air of luxury, quiet and with only a few tables occupied. An open grille behind a serving counter faced her; behind the counter a young man with a chefs white hat looked up.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' Klein whispered.

He gripped her by the forearm. He needed somewhere quiet without people to sort her out. Discipline. Control . . .

'What does it look like?' she snapped. 'Coming out to have dinner . . .'

'Who with?'

'Let ... go ... of ... my . . . arm,' she demanded, letting her rage show. 'I'm not your serf.'

'We'll go back to the Mayfair.'

'No!' This was like dealing with her bloody step-mother, Lady Windermere. 'I'm eating here. The Mayfair can wait.'

Smoking one of his rare cigarettes, seated in a cosy corner next to the grille, Marler watched the encounter with half-closed eyes. The last man on God's earth he'd expected so soon was Klein. It was only eight o'clock. And who was the girl? It was hardly a friendly meeting.

Lara gave Klein the mockery of a beaming smile. 'If you don't let go of me I'll create one hell of a scene.'

'Later then, at the Mayfair.'

Klein released his grip. The last thing he wanted was a scene drawing attention to himself. He turned abruptly and went back to the elevators.

Marler rose from his table, walked over to Lara before the head waiter could reach her. He smiled, still holding his napkin in his left hand.

'Excuse me,' he said, 'but I'm dining alone. Something I never enjoy. Unless you've someone waiting for you, I'd be delighted if you'd share my table. David Ashley. For dinner, I mean - just dinner.'

She was obviously English and he'd deliberately spoken in that language to reassure her. Being careful not to touch her, he gestured towards his table. 'I'mover there in the corner -you can sit nearest the next table. It's all rather convenient.'

'What is?' she asked, sizing him up, liking what she saw.

'The table. Next to the grille. If you order a steak you can watch, shout "stop!" if you like it rare and he's overdoing things.'

'I like mine well done.'

She had joined him as he followed her to the table, A considerate man. That little touch about letting her sit in the outside seat - enabling her to leave easily if she wanted to. He reached for a bottle cloth-shrouded in a silver bucket.

'All girls like champers, so I've heard. Care for a drop while you study the menu?'

'Thank you. I'd love some. It will calm me down.' 'Then here's to a pleasant evening. I'm rather good at chatter. Even if at nothing else . . .'

Klein walked into the bar leading off the lobby of the Hilton. It was dimly lit, which suited him. He sank into an armchair, ordered mineral water, automatically checking the other drinkers.

Lara's outburst was exactly what he had feared. The long wait was telling on nerves. He'd been so taken up with getting her out of the place he hadn't noticed who was dining in the room, a rare oversight.

He sat sipping his Perrier, his mind racing over every aspect of the operation. He'd have moved them all out of Brussels that very night - but he couldn't up-date the operation. It all hinged on the fleet of ships moving towards Europort.

He decided against visiting the café Manuel to check on Chabot and Hipper. No one could possibly be aware of his presence in Brussels, but this was the moment
not
to move about the city.

Klein had no intention of sleeping anywhere tonight. Without a hotel room he didn't exist. He'd get a quick meal at the café Henry further up the Boulevard, have a drink while Marler dined in the Sky Room, then spend half the hours of darkness in a night club.

An attractive woman sat in a nearby chair facing him, crossed her legs, and gave him a long look. He smiled briefly, looked away. There'd be plenty of time for that later. He was thinking that the Sikorsky helicopters would at this moment be flying from Frankfurt to Schiphol. An essential element in the enterprise.

The woman signalled her availability, moving one crossed leg up and down. Yes, plenty of time later. When he was safely in Brazil.

* *

Marler was puzzled as he ate his steak. What role could Lara Seagrave possibly play in the coming operation? She could be Klein's girl friend, but he didn't think so. He continued to probe gently.

'You have a job? Or is that too personal?'

'Not at all. This steak is perfect. And I love this restaurant. So warm arid comforting.'

The tables were well-spaced, the banquettes at the right height and angle for eating, the coverings a mix of brown and beige. The lighting was indirect, but you could see what you were eating.

'I'm a publisher's scout,' she said, remembering a job a girl friend of hers had.

'What's that?'

'Oh, I represent different publishers - in Denmark, Germany, France and Sweden. My languages got me the job-plus the fact I'm an avid reader. I keep a sharp lookout for books I think might interest one of my employers. It means getting in first - before any of my many rivals.'

'So you travel a lot?' he suggested, watching her over the rim of his glass.

'Yes, I do. It's one of the great attractions of the job. I have just come up from France - Marseilles and Paris.'

'What are you doing, in Brussels?'

'Enjoying myself.' She smiled impishly, flirting openly. 'I fly home soon. I'm waiting for instructions. From London,' she added.

'What firms do you represent?'

She reeled off a list, again bringing back what her friend had told her about the job. Marler nodded, called for the sweet trolley. He didn't believe one damn word she'd told him. So what kind of an operation would call for her services? Klein had better not know they'd met. Fortunate he'd given her a false name. No, prudent. He'd done that after seeing Klein arguing with her. Tension? Was it very close?

* *

Marler timed the ending of his dinner with Lara carefully. He insisted on paying. To her relief he made no attempt to arrange another meeting, to find out where she was staying. She left at 8.50 p.m. exactly and went back to the Mayfair.

Marler told the waiter he had another guest joining him, had all traces of Lara's presence cleared off the table. It was 9.15 p.m. when Klein, tight-lipped, walked into the
Maison de Bæuf,
looked round, spotted Marler, walked across and sat beside him.

'Good evening,' said Marler, one hand nursing his glass of cognac.

'I've been looking for you. I left a note. Dinner at nine in the Sky Room.'

'And I got your note,' Marler smiled amiably. 'I prefer this restaurant. I knew you'd find me sooner or later.'

'When I give an order . . .'

'About the operation,' Marler interjected, 'I listen and carry out your wishes. Which is what I'm paid for. I am not paid to be led around like a dog on a leash, eating where you think I should dine.' His tone had hardened. 'I think we should be clear about that. Now, what is it?'

Klein told the waiter he'd already eaten in the Sky Room, a lie. He ordered coffee and turned to his companion when they were alone.

'Be prepared to leave at a moment's notice. I will phone you. Have you a car?'

'Yes. Hired a fresh one.'

'Parked in the underground garage here?'

'Of course not.' He made no attempt to enlighten Klein further. 'Where shall I be driving to? How close are we?'

'Close. The destination I give you when I call.' He stood up, reached for his coat which he'd brought into the room dumping it on a chair. Leaving it at the garderobe made for delay in case a swift departure was necessary. Tell the waiter when he brings my coffee I had to leave. Later than I thought.'

Marler watched him walk very erect from the room, the coat over his arm. 'Up yours, chum,' he said to himself and drank the rest of the cognac.

37

At Blakeney, the tiny Norfolk port, Pete Nield was proper browned off, as he put it to himself. He'd spent endless days in the pub overlooking the front and the house belonging to Paula Grey where the bomb had been placed on her doorstep.

By now he was a regular, a habitue of the pub, and a close friend of the barman. Wearing a hunting jacket and corduroy trousers, he sat with yet another beer at a table where he could watch the sea front. The barman, cleaning a glass with a cloth, wandered over.

'See Caleb Fox's coaster is taking on board a different load.'

'So I notice. And Dr Portch is hanging round again. Those two seem real buddies.'

Nield was remembering the night he'd followed Dr Portch's car along the coast road in the dark. How Portch had gone inside a cottage which, it turned out, was Caleb Fox's.

'Anything about the sea interests Portch. He's a pal of the harbourmaster here. Knows the Customs people. That cargo they're loading now. It's Portch's bits and pieces -all his furniture from Cockley Ford. Going back to Holland is the good doctor.'

'He's been there before?' Nield asked casually.

He moved restlessly inside the clothes he didn't like because they felt strange. But hanging about Blakeney all this time he'd have been absurdly conspicuous in his normal smart suits. He'd bought the gear in King's Lynn, which was still his base. And he was still staying at The Duke's Head facing Tuesday Market. Again to avoid standing out like a sore thumb in Blakeney.

Before Butler returned on his own to London they'd discussed what Nield should do. 'Stay here,' Butler had decided. 'Keep an eye on the Blakeney sector.'

'What for?' Nield had queried.

That bomb found on Paula Grey's doorstep. It was the first appearance of that new Soviet type of bomb in this country.'

'And what has that to do with the price of tea in China?'

'No idea,' Butler had admitted. 'But stick around.'

Nield had stuck around, driving to Blakeney each day, drinking gallons of good Norfolk beer. Now, for the first time, the barman's chance remark seemed to give some point to his long vigil.

'Oh, yes,' the barman replied to his question. 'When he first came to Cockley Ford the practice wasn't vacant for a few months. Some cock-up. I suppose Portch needed the money. He took on a locum job in Holland - and took his furniture with him. Said it would make him feel more at home. Then he brings it back again when he takes up the practice. Now, I hear, he's found himself a permanent post in Amsterdam. He liked the Dutch. So off goes his furniture again, like I just said.'

Think I could do with a breath of sea air.'

Nield stood up, said he'd be back, and wandered out on to the front which was deserted except for the loading activity by Fox's coaster. Dusk was falling, lights in houses had a weird glow, below in the creek there was the sound of water surging in from the sea. Like a tide race.

Nield turned up the collar of his duffel coat against a chill breeze coming across the desolate marshes, thrust hands into his pockets and strolled along the front.

He was within twenty yards of the coaster when the crane hoisted a loading net containing an oblong crate off the quayside. Inside the net something came loose, a hinged side of the crate slid open. Shouting from the group on the quay. The operator in his little cabin atop the crane stopped the hoist, lowered it back to the quay.

Nield was about twenty yards away when the incident occurred. He lengthened his pace without appearing to walk any faster. Under the spotlight shining down from the crane he saw an old-fashioned wardrobe inside the crate. Both doors had also swung loose, exposing its empty interior. Fit for firewood, Nield thought. The junk people lumbered their lives with.

Three of the removal men from the furniture van standing in the shadows started roping up the wardrobe. Dr Portch came forward, shaking his head as he watched them.

'Sorry about that, lads. I should have locked it more securely. My fault entirely.'

In his high-pitched voice Nield, who had an acute ear for intonation, caught a hint of smugness. Behind the group gathered round the net a Customs official was busy chalking other crates.

'Should know your stuff by now, Dr Portch. Back and forth, back and forth to Holland. A right commuter, you be. You'll be with us again, I'll be bound.'