Deadlock (56 page)

On the bridge of the
Easter Island
Captain Williams took more interest in the lone fishing vessel which seemed stationary. His supertanker was waiting for entry permission from Marine Control, drifting a safe distance from the
Conqueror
.

From his position inside the navigating bridge at the stern and abaft the single squat funnel Williams swept the fishing boat with his night glasses. He could see its name clearly.
Drenthe
.

Williams was notorious for his caution, his curiosity about anything
unusual
. A fishing boat offshore well after dark was unusual. With the night-glasses screwed to his eyes he called out to his First Officer.

'Parker. Flash that vessel a signal . . .'

He asked very much the same questions which Captain Brunner had to the skipper of the
Utrecht
a few minutes earlier. Then he leant his elbows on a ledge and waited.

Inside the cramped wheelhouse of the
Drenthe
Hipper had taken on the role of Grand-Pierre. He held a Luger pistol rammed into the skipper's back. He wore pebble glasses and a handkerchief over the lower half of his face. Curled up on the floor lay the skipper's ten-year-old son, his feet and hands bound with rope, another Luxembourger bent over him with a knife at his throat.

'Signal back that we have a fire on board. That we are getting it under control. No help needed,' Hipper ordered in English. He added the same warning Grand-Pierre had issued.

As the skipper started flashing the reply Hipper took a walkie-talkie from his pocket, raised the antenna, and spoke to one of his men waiting at the stern.

'Mosar, start the fire now. Immediately.'

He spoke in Letzeburgesch, the strange Luxembourg
patois
which is a mixture of French and German - and understood by neither nation. Putting the walkie-talkie away, Hipper pulled the beret he was wearing further down over his forehead, concealing his hair.

The deck under Mosar's feet at the stern hardly moved, so calm was the sea under the moonless sky. A large man with mongrel features, wearing seaman's gear, he carried the bucket to where it would be visible from the supertanker - at least its contents would be shortly.

The large bucket was three-quarters-full of rags soaked in turpentine with a little petrol added. Stepping back behind the wheelhouse, Mosar picked up the rolled newspaper held with elastic bands, used his lighter to set the tip burning, dropped it inside the bucket and ran back.

There was a flare of flame, a dense cloud of black smoke which climbed into the windless night. The reply signal flashed to the tanker had just been received by Williams on his bridge. He saw the burst of flame, the coil of smoke.

'They have a problem,' he remarked to Parker. 'But they are expecting to deal with it. Better keep an eye on them - just in case it spreads.'

His attention fixed on the fire, Williams had no idea this was the moment when five sea-mines were attached to the underside of his huge vessel laden with oil. The unseen scuba divers - instructed by Klein who had studied the structure of this type of tanker - had avoided the coffer dam.

This was the space which separated the engine-room from the cargo tanks. The mines had carefully been attached beneath both tanks and engine-room. The scuba divers made their way underwater to the waiting dinghy lying astern of the
Easter Island
. They were not seen.

Aboard the
Drenthe
, Mosar fetched buckets of water already lined up on deck, doused the flames. He left the bucket which continued to send up clouds of black smoke and informed Hipper over his walkie-talkie his task was completed.

'Now we can move on,' Hipper informed the skipper. 'So start the engine. Next objective, the freighter,
Otranto
. She's not far away. After that, those three container ships. Then we can all go home,' he concluded in his soft, sibilant voice.

The
Drenthe
began moving, trailing a white wake, leaving behind the
Easter Island
, another floating death ship.

45

'We'd better get back to the city,' Van Gorp said as he swung the wheel. 'No sign of anything. No reports of unusual activity. No nothing.'

He sounded subdued. He'd received regular reports over his radio from the patrols scouring the city and the docks along the Maas. Tweed sat hunched up behind Paula, a glazed look in his eyes.

'Something's wrong,' said Paula. 'Very wrong. We've missed some key element. I don't think it is the docks.'

'Can't agree,' Van Gorp responded. 'Haber's body was found in that barge. Tweed said Haber transported the timer devices. This has to be the target.'

'What makes you so sure?' Paula argued.

'One point I forgot to mention. My men found a scuba diver's outfit near Haber's barge. That suggests the river . . .'

Tweed sat up straight. 'Where exactly was that outfit found?'

'On the deck of a barge next but one to Haber's. It had a large rip in it. Useless. So it was abandoned there. Proof scuba divers are interested in the Maas.'

'
On the deck?
' Tweed sounded incredulous. 'So you had no trouble finding it at all?'

'No. What's wrong with that?'

'Everything.' Tweed was vehement. 'Don't you see? Klein is meticulous in his planning. I've just realized that it's odd Haber's body was left exposed in that way. A few shovels of gravel would have covered the corpse. They'd also have hidden that ripped scuba diver outfit. So, it was left there deliberately. Klein is a past master at laying smokescreens.'

'I don't follow that,' Van Gorp objected,

'He wins either way. Case One. We don't get anywhere near Rotterdam. Haber's body discovered. Just another murder. Case Two. By some mischance we get on to him, track him to Rotterdam . . .'

"You did that,' Van Gorp pointed out. 'With very little to go on . . .'

'We trace him this far,' Tweed continued. 'We find Haber's corpse. Nearby a ripped scuba diver's suit is found. Obvious conclusion? Watch the Maas. Too obvious for my liking.'

'Have you checked the hotels?' Paula asked. 'Your men have copies of that Identikit of Klein.'

'A large team has been checking for hours. Showing the picture - especially to the concierges. Those are the chaps who notice things. Result? Complete blank. So what next?'

'Drive back to Euromast,' Tweed suggested. 'How far away are we?'

'Some distance yet.'

On the roof of the high-rise building Prussen, the Luxembourger hand-picked by Klein, stood staring through binoculars. He was alone on the flat rooftop which was rarely visited by tenants of the flats below except in high summer.

Prussen was watching the progress of a large laundry van along a straight street leading to the entrance to the Dutch marine barracks. The driver, delivering laundry to the barracks, was completely under Prussen's control. He was very fond of his mother, now in the hands of Klein's men. When given his instructions by Prussen he had been assured that if he failed to make the expected delivery look normal his mother's head would be severed.

Prussen, a squat, large-headed man, checked his watch. Timing was essential. The driver had synchronized his watch with the Luxembourger's. He had to arrive at the depot at exactly the right moment. Prussen felt in the pocket of his windcheater, took out the control box and waited, still holding the binoculars with one hand. A short time yet before he had to press the button. The extra cargo the driver had no idea he was carrying had been smuggled in among the laundry while Prussen had kept the driver talking at the front of the vehicle.

At Park Crescent Monica's phone rang. She lifted the receiver and immediately recognized the muffled voice. Like talking through a silk handkerchief this time. 'Yes, this is Monica . . .'

'Olympus speaking. It's Rotterdam. No doubt this time. Got it?'

'Quite clearly. I'll pass the message . . .'

There was a click. The caller had been in even more of the devil of a rush this time than during earlier calls. Again she'd no idea whether she'd been talking to a man or a woman. Had she detected a trace of foreign accent? Probably sheer imagination. She picked up the phone again, dialled Grand'Place.

'Police headquarters have a message for you, Tweed,' Van Gorp informed him as he replaced the phone. 'Very urgent.'

Tweed hesitated. He wanted to reach Euromast as quickly as possible. But the message could tell him something vital. Van Gorp watched him in the mirror, waiting for his decision.

'It will only take an extra few minutes,' the Dutchman added.

'Police headquarters then . . .'

The two fishing vessels,
Utrecht
and
Drenthe
, were left drifting a short distance offshore. Under the supervision of Grand-Pierre and Hipper their crews were tied up, roped by their wrists and ankles.

Humanity played no part in Klein's earlier instructions to spare their lives. It would only be a matter of time before a Coastguard ship found them and the crews told their stories of what had happened. Thus providing the authorities with ironclad confirmation that the fleet waiting near the Maas mouth had been mined.

The outboard dinghies brought the assault teams ashore to a quiet part of the coast. Chabot was waiting with three four-wheel drive covered trucks. Within minutes the men were aboard, leaving behind the punctured dinghies to sink.

Chabot led the way, driving the first truck over the rough terrain of scrub and sand. He turned on to a main highway and pressed his foot down, heading for the centre of Rotterdam.

Klein drove past the Hilton and along the Kruisgade while Marler sat beside him. He slowed down and cruised as he stared ahead. A girl walking from the direction of the precinct was hurrying towards the entrance of the Hotel Central. She passed under a street light. Lara Seagrave.

Klein pulled in to the kerb, left the engine running, caught hold of her by the arm seconds before she went inside. She stared at his uniform, his tinted glasses without recognition. She was tugging her arm to free it when he spoke and she knew it was Klein.

'You were supposed to stay in the hotel. Where have you been?'

'For a short walk,' she snapped. 'I'm not staying cooped up inside any hotel hour after hour . . .'

'Your bill was paid in advance. You're coming with me now.'

'I'm going up to the loo first,
If
you don't mind . . .'

'I do. There's a toilet where we're going.'

'I said I was going to the loo. I'll be down in a minute.' She tugged loose from his grip, her eyes flaming. 'My case is packed. Do I bring that?'

'Leave it . . .'

Before he could say another word she'd dashed inside the hotel. Klein was furious. Independent little bitch. He calmed down, began striding slowly up and down past the entrance, a chauffeur waiting for his client. Twice he checked his watch. When she emerged, wearing a camel hair coat, he escorted her to the BMW, opened the rear door and waited while she slid into the rear seat.

Marler stared as he saw her coming, the girl he'd dined with at the
Maison de B
æ
uf
in Brussels. He decided it would be wise to pretend he'd never met her. She had glanced at him as she reached the car and looked away.

Klein closed the door, went round the back of the car, made sure the boot was locked, the boot which contained the two lengths of rope, one tied into a hangman's noose. Climbing behind the wheel he paused before starting the engine.

'This is Martin Shand,' he told her. 'Martin, this is Lara. Just Lara . . .'

He turned the ignition, and drove off through the night. The traffic had slackened to almost nothing as he made for the Euromast.

Inside the garage Klein had hired Legaud, the communications expert, sat behind the wheel of the resprayed CRS truck. He checked his watch for the third time in half an hour. Beside him sat a Luxembourger clad in windcheater and denims with a small rug spread across his lap. Beneath the rug he held a Uzi machine gun. The Uzi fires at the rate of six hundred rounds per minute.

Legaud was slim with a clever face which slanted down to a pointed, fox-like chin. He wore rimless glasses, which gave him a professorial appearance. In the main compartment behind the cab was a complex of dials and switches with metres indicating wavelengths. It was also occupied by four men dressed in the same garb as the guard beside Legaud. They were equipped with machine guns and Browning pistols.