By Stealth

19

Inside the chateau kitchen there was furious, urgent activity. Paula was perched on a pair of steps taken from a cupboard. In her hand she carried a new instrument like a small torch with a grille over the front – what was known in the surveillance trade as a 'flasher'.

It detected the presence of listening devices and she had been taught how to use it by Butler on a refresher training course at a large isolated house in Sussex surrounded with extensive grounds. She had also learned certain physical skills which had tested her powers of endurance.

Newman stood on a working surface close to her, removing the bugs as she detected them. One was hidden in a corner on top of a tall cupboard; another behind the tall refrigerator. She even detected one concealed on top of a fluorescent tube.

Earlier they had witnessed a tragic scene on the terrace outside the front entrance when Delvaux had opened the door in response to Tweed's insistent ringing. The Belgian stared at Andover's body which Newman was holding. He came forward, his face tortured with anguish.

`They have killed my old friend, Gerald…'

Tweed had briefly told him what had happened beyond the entrance gates. Anguish was replaced by fury as Delvaux had stroked the back of his neck, a mannerism Tweed recalled when the Belgian was worked up.

`Now you have to tell me everything,' Tweed had lashed out in a cold voice. 'But first we must find a room inside where we can talk – after the listening devices have been removed.'

`I agree,' Delvaux had responded. 'They will know the devices have been tampered with – but I am now resigned to the fact that my wife Lucie is dead. I am going to hit back…'

They had laid Andover's body on a couch in the hall – after Paula had insisted on fetching a cushion for the head. The back of the skull was crushed in and bloody. She didn't want a blood-stained couch left to remind Delvaux of the murder on his doorstep every time he was crossing the hall.

Thirty minutes later Paula was satisfied they had traced every bug. Tweed said something about making assurance doubly sure. He switched on a radio which was playing a programme of classical music, then he turned on a tap.

`Even if you've missed one,' he told Paula, 'they will never be able to filter our conversation out of both the music and running water..'

Paula found that no one had eaten for hours. While Tweed talked with Delvaux and Newman perched on stools round the island unit she prepared food and drink. In a larder she found crusty rolls in a crock. Butter and ham were in the fridge. The larder had also contained coffee.

She made coffee in a cafetiere while slicing ham, cutting the rolls, buttering them, slapping ham inside. She passed round a large plate of the rolls, poured coffee into large mugs. Her customers began devouring the rolls and drinking large quantities of coffee. Tweed noticed the nourishment was stimulating Delvaux. He began probing.

`Gaston, your wife had been kidnapped. No ransom was demanded. You were forced to go into retirement. The same thing happened with Andover – but it was his daughter who was kidnapped.' He paused. It might help prepare Delvaux for the worst. 'They sent him her severed arm…'

`I know,' Delvaux nodded. 'Andover told me.'

`What he couldn't tell you – and thankfully I delayed telling him – is that his daughter's body was later dragged out of the sea. Who are these murdering swine?'

`I don't know…'

`But you must know what it is about.'

`I think it's about Stealth…'

Dr Wand sat in his luxury suite on the third floor of the Bellevue Palace Hotel on the equivalent of Park Lane in Brussels – the Avenue Louise. The only other occupant in the spacious room was his dark-haired, uniformed chauffeur, who still work dark glasses and sat behind a desk. He had just poured his employer a good measure of Napoleon brandy. Wand was swirling the liquid in the glass when the phone rang.

`Be so good as to answer that,' Wand requested.

The chauffeur picked up the gold receiver. He asked the caller to identify herself and she gave him a code-name.

`It's her,' the chauffeur reported.

`Then perhaps' – Wand checked the time on his Rolex – 'you would pass the phone to me, please.

`Yes,' he said into the mouthpiece, 'you have progress to report?'

`The first consignment has been dispatched to its ultimate destination,' the woman's voice told him. 'I emphasize ultimate.'

`And there were no problems, I trust?'

`Nothing I couldn't handle,' the woman assured him.

`Splendid. I congratulate you. What a pleasure to know someone who is always reliable. I will see you then. At the agreed time, at the agreed place. So, thank you for calling.'

The chauffeur was on hand to take away the phone. Wand swirled the liquid in the glass he had continued to hold in his large, right hand. Cognac needed warming and Wand was a very particular man. He glanced up at the chauffeur through his gold pince-nez, pursed his lips, twisted them into his cold smile.

`Very satisfactory,' he remarked. 'Most satisfactory indeed.' He swallowed some of the brandy. He had been referring to the execution of Sir Gerald Andover.

Not a dozen yards from the entrance to the Bellevue Palace Marler sat parked in his hired Mercedes. He was eating the last of three ham rolls purchased from a nearby cafe. Perched on the small platform beside him behind the gear lever was a cylindrical carton of coffee.

Marler felt pretty sure that would be the extent of his dinner for the night. Earlier he had used the car phone to call a Brussels number. A rough voice had answered in French. Speaking the same language, Marler had indicated in a roundabout way that he required one Armalite rifle and plenty of ammo.

There had been the usual haggle over price after Marler had identified himself as Charlie – the name known from previous transactions to the illegal supplier of guns. Marler had explained where he would wait for five minutes at an agreed time. No point in letting such a character know he expected to be staying there for hours.

He had the engine running when a shabbily dressed hulk of a Belgian appeared carrying a large, equally shabby, briefcase. Marler lowered the window but kept the door – which was locked – closed. The Belgian giant looked round the deserted street, leaned down, and his breath smelt of garlic as he spoke in French.

`The money first, my friend.'

Not until I've checked the merchandise.'

Marler had shown the Belgian a handful of notes rolled up in his left hand.

`Then switch off your engine.'

`I'm in a hurry,' Marler snapped.

But he switched off the motor, held up the key, and dropped it on the seat beside him. The briefcase was passed in through the window. Inside was a dismantled Armalite rifle. With expert and swift movements Marler assembled the weapon. Keeping it below the level of the window he pulled the trigger. It was in excellent shape and there was a generous supply of ammo in the case. He counted out a large number of thousand-franc notes, rolled them into a wad, passed them to the Belgian. The roll disappeared inside a pocket as the giant slouched off, vanishing down an alleyway.

Marler had then started up the engine, had driven to the end of the Avenue Louise where it met the Place Louise. He performed a complicated manoeuvre and drove back the way he had come, glancing down the alley, which was deserted. It was just a precaution in case the giant had taken it into his head to spy on him.

He had then parked in the same place. It took him no time to dismantle the rifle, to put it back inside the briefcase. He was glad he'd taken care to buy a carton of coffee with a tight lid. It was rolling on the floor.

That had taken place some time before. And earlier still he had followed Dr Wand's limousine from Zaventem Airport to this extremely expensive hotel. What had puzzled him then – and still did – was that the chauffeur had handed over the car to a porter to drive it into the underground garage.

The chauffeur had accompanied Dr Wand into the hotel and had not reappeared since. Which made Marler wonder whether the chauffeur was far more important than he had thought him to be.

`Can you explain in layman's language how this Stealth technique works?' Tweed asked in the kitchen of the Chateau Orange. 'An American scientist was going to tell us but she became unavailable.'

`I had one of the top American scientists working on the project here to visit me about three years ago,' Delvaux recalled. 'A brilliant man – Professor Crown from the Northrop plant at Palmdale, California. He was not only applying the technique to aircraft but also to ships. I found we were working on exactly the same lines.'

`How did you know about each other's work?' asked Paula.

`Oh, there's a confidential international grapevine. We co-operate with each other. But I'll come back to that later.'

`How does Stealth work?' Tweed prodded.

Absorbed in his own subject, Delvaux became positively voluble. Words tumbled out and his eyes were glazed in concentration.

`Have you got some English coins? I need one to demonstrate my point.' Paula opened a section of her purse, handed him a collection. 'That's the one I was after,' Delvaux continued. He held up a gleaming five-penny coin. 'I hear it's not liked – so easy to lose. Now take the American B2 Stealth bomber. It's quite enormous – a wingspan of one hundred and eighty-nine feet, seventeen feet high. Normally a plane with such a huge wingspan would show up on radar about the size of this five-penny piece. Which is a very big image. Flying towards hostile territory it would be picked up immediately. Now guess the size of the radar image of the Stealth bomber. I'll tell you. About the size of a pin-head, if that The B2 could slip through any radar defence, under any satellite system on earth. We are talking about a bomber which is totally invisible.'

`Sounds deadly,' Newman commented.

`It is. No defence against it. No antidote. Imagine the payload of bombs a machine that size can carry.'

`But why can't it be spotted?' Tweed insisted.

`Partly a question of shape. It looks like a gigantic manta ray – so thin. But that is backed up by applying special coatings to the machine of a certain material. The coatings create fake reflections back to any radar, breaking up those reflections into tiny waves which are meaningless to the radar. Its own radar uses a laser device to make it undetectable by other planes. On top of that the jet engines are concealed inside the slim structure. And on top of that a diffuser mingles cool air with the exhaust gases – so the plane can't even be detected by satellite heat sensors. There's just nothing in the design any defence system can lock on to. I repeat, this enormous machine is invisible.'

`Sounds frightening to me,' Paula commented. 'But why does Stealth affect what happened to Andover, what is happening to you?'

`Let us take Andover first,' Delvaux went on precisely. He seemed to have forgotten temporarily the terror of his own situation. 'We must be logical, take the factors in their correct sequence. Andover is the great world authority on geopolitics – a global outlook on politics and warfare. His mentor was Professor Haushofer…'

`Who?' Paula queried.

`Professor Haushofer was the expert on geopolitics in his time. The close confidant of Adolf Hitler. And Hitler absorbed his views. By mentor, I mean Andover studied the views of Haushofer, long since dead. He then developed his own theory adapted to present world conditions today. He predicted the new great menace to the West would come from the East – and not Russia.'

`But how does this link up with Stealth?' Tweed asked.

`The new enemy – potentially the most powerful Europe and America have faced yet – has, Andover suspected, acquired through devious means the know- how to build a fleet of Stealth bombers…'

`Three American scientists working on the project – including Professor Crown – have been kidnapped,' Tweed told him. 'About three years ago. It is believed they were taken to Hong Kong.'

`Which confirms Andover's theory… Delvaux was in full flood. 'I have little doubt that those three American scientists, forced to direct a team of reasonably competent technicians, could supervise the building of a Stealth bomber fleet. Three years ago, you said? They probably have Stealth bombers now…'

`You mentioned Professor Crown was adapting the Stealth technique to ships,' Tweed intervened.

He was anxious to obtain every item of information as swiftly as possible. It was only a matter of time before Delvaux's sudden burst of energy ran out of steam.

`Yes,' the Belgian agreed, 'Crown was a marine specialist. Oddly enough he was working on the same research aspect as me. How to adapt Stealth to ships.'

`And how is that done?' asked Newman.

Perched on a stool, he had a notebook in his lap below the level of the counter. He was surreptitiously recording what Delvaux was saying.

`Again there are basically two problems to overcome. The shape of the average ship – easily registered by radar. And the exhaust from the vessel's engines – exhaust easily detected by satellite heat sensors. So we have designed a ship with a very low profile – almost like that of a semi- submerged submarine, but without the prominent conning tower. You want the details – in simplified language?'

`Yes, we do,' urged Tweed.

`The propellers at the stern have an exceptionally low noise level. The funnel is constructed so it hardly projects above the low deck level. In addition, it is equipped with a cooled exhaust system – like the bomber. It has a retractable mast – like the automatic radio aerial on a car which retracts completely inside the chassis of the vehicle. Its radar system is also constructed so it hardly projects above the surface of the deck. The hull has a rounded profile to reduce to nothing the normal radar and infrared signatures it would emit. And missile launchers can be built inside the bow.'

`An ordinary ship needs a bridge,' Tweed pointed out.

`That also has been dealt with. A Stealth ship has both command and weapons control centres below decks. So, we have an invisible ship. A fleet of invisible ships – if the enemy establishes a conveyor-belt system of production like that American shipbuilder did on the West Coast of the States during the Second World War. What was his name? I have it. Kaiser. The Liberty ships.'

`You're scaring the daylights out of me,' Tweed commented. 'And I think you said there was no antidote earlier. No way of detecting Stealth bombers and ships. While I remember it, why is your plant working non-stop, apparently at all hours?'

`You are quick, Tweed. Very quick. I said there was no antidote. Past tense. So why do you think I take the risk of working my factories on three shifts twenty-four hours a day?'

The phone was ringing again in Dr Wand's suite at the Bellevue Palace. The chauffeur answered it, handed the phone to his boss.

`It's the lady again, sir. Anne-Marie…'

'It always gives me pleasure to hear from you,' Wand began. 'Such an enchanting voice. You have a problem?'

`I am sorry to disturb you. Could you take down this phone number?'

`Of course. One moment.'

Wand extracted a thin morocco-bound notebook from his pocket. He held a slim gold pencil poised. am ready.'

`The number is-. A public phone box, Place Louise. May I call you there in fifteen minutes?'

`I will most certainly be there waiting…'

Wand understood exactly what that meant. Some information his caller did not wish to pass through a hotel switchboard. Night operators were notorious for passing the boring hours by listening in.

Five minutes later he emerged from the Bellevue Palace, making a remark to the doorman that he needed a breath of night air. Proceeding on foot down the Avenue Louise in his dark overcoat he walked with the chauffeur on his right towards the Place Louise.

Inside his parked Mercedes Marler reacted swiftly. He rammed on his fair hair a beret he'd purchased from a shop next door to the bar after buying sandwiches and coffee. He was now wearing a shabby windcheater earlier taken from his travelling case. Stubbing out his half- smoked king-size, he tucked the remaining half at the corner of his mouth. He hadn't shaved for hours and his chin was covered with a prominent stubble. It was a very disreputable-looking Marler who followed the two men, slouching along on the opposite pavement.

Reaching the Place Louise, very quiet at that hour, Dr Wand checked the time by his Rolex, an action noted by Marler. He also noticed that the chauffeur had tucked his right hand inside his uniformed jacket. Marler had little doubt he was clutching a gun.

The two men walked across the Place Louise to the Boulevard de Waterloo. Arriving at the entrance to the metro, they disappeared down inside it. Marler followed, stepped on the moving escalator. At the bottom he was just in time to see the two men moving down a second escalator.

He waited a few seconds before he stepped on it himself. As he was carried down deeper he passed a series of crude and bizarre wall murals. He wrinkled his nose. Belgian art! At the bottom of the second escalator he entered the main Metro complex. Against a wall a slovenly man was seated on the floor, his back to the wall, his legs sprawled out.

Close by was a row of phone booths. Dr Wand entered one, paused a moment, came out, entered the next one. Marler realized he was checking the numbers. Wand stayed inside the third one, made no attempt to use the phone. The chauffeur stood outside, staring in the opposite direction.

Marler sagged against the wall, spread out his own legs, the fag protruding from his mouth, still unlit. The slovenly man called out to him in French in a stage whisper.

`Got a joint, mate?'

`Shut up or I'll stick a knife in your gullet,' Marler hissed back.

The phone rang inside the booth. Dr Wand picked up the instrument. He spoke immediately in his slow, deliberate manner.

`Who is this speaking, may I ask?'

`Anne-Marie,' a woman's voice answered, using the code-name. 'I am sorry to trouble you in this way. Later I remembered something I thought you'd wish to know. In the headlights of my car I saw a competitor.'

`Then you were most wise to call me, most wise. Price is a major consideration with the contract we are bidding for. So it is important we know who are our competitors.'

`Tweed is the competitor.'

Dr Wand was silent. He had received a shock, a surprise. One thing Wand did not like were surprises. They were dangerous.

`Are you still there?' the woman's voice asked.

`I really am very sorry. I was thinking how we should go about countering this competition. We may have to employ robust measures. Yes… robust. Let me think on it. And I look forward to seeing you soon. Thank you so much for calling…'

Through half-closed eyes Marler watched Wand walk towards him with the chauffeur. They glanced at the sprawled junkie to Marler's left but never spared even a glance in his direction. Marler had the impression Dr Wand was disturbed: his thin lips were pressed tightly together.

Waiting until they had disappeared up the lower escalator, Marler scrambled to his feet, followed them at a distance. They had crossed the place and had just reached the Avenue Louise when Wand reached under his coat into his back pocket, and taking out a silk handkerchief mopped his forehead.

At that moment a macho motorcyclist raced down the boulevard with a deafening burst of speed. In taking out the handkerchief Wand had dropped his wallet. They walked on and Marler realized that the motorcyclist had muffled the sound of the wallet hitting the pavement. He picked it up.

Leaning against a wall, he waited until he had seen the two men go back inside the Bellevue Palace. He then slipped inside a doorway alcove, put on surgical gloves, checked the contents of the wallet.

It contained a fat wad of 10,000-franc notes. And one note was worth over f150. What interested him most were the business cards. All embossed with Dr Wand, Director, Moonglow Refugee Aid Trust International. No address.

Marler was careful to replace everything as he had found it. Taking off the gloves, he shoved them into his pocket, bent down to the grubby floor, rubbed one hand in the dirt and smeared it all over his stubble. He had changed its colour and made himself look even more like a no-good.

Five minutes later he walked inside the Bellevue Palace, followed by a protesting doorman. He went straight up to the reception counter and addressed the night clerk in French.

`One of your guests just dropped this wallet. I want the Assistant Manager.'

`I can take charge of that…'

`You deaf or something? Get me the bloody Assistant Manager…'

A small portly man in a formal black suit came over to the counter. His fat face expressed extreme distaste. `What is going on, Jacques?'

`This is the Assistant Manager,' Jacques informed Marler. He turned to his superior. 'This man has..

`All right! All right! I'll tell him,' Marler snapped. 'Sir, one of your guests dropped this wallet in the street. He's just come in with a chauffeur.'

The manager examined the wallet. His eyebrows rose when he saw the wad of money. He looked at Marler. `There could be a reward…'

`No reward. Don't want no reward.' Marler was backing to the door. 'I'm just out on probation. I'm not taking a franc…'

He was gone before the manager could recover from his surprise. He walked past his parked car and then looked back. No one in sight: not even the doorman. He unlocked his car, slipped behind the wheel, closed and locked the door.

He spent the next few minutes using wet-wipes from a container in the glove compartment to clean his face. Then he finished the job, using a handkerchief to brush away any remnant of wet-wipe that might be clinging to his stubble.

Marler felt it had been a very successful outing. He now knew positively he was tracking Dr Wand. And he had the photos of him taken at the long-term garage back at London Airport. What Marler didn't realize was he possessed the only photographs of Dr Wand ever taken.