Deadlock

12

Gare de Lyon. Lasalle of the DSI checked his watch. The express from Marseilles was due in Paris. 10.50 p.m. He stood close to the exit barrier. A tall, heavily-built man in his forties, his eyes were half-closed under thick brows, behind horn-rimmed spectacles.

He wore a camel-hair coat against the night chill and a narrow-brimmed trilby, a motionless figure, hands thrust inside his pockets. By his side The Parrot looked even smaller, despite his crash helmet, goggles and motor-cycle gear.

'I'm surprised you came yourself, Chief…' 'Something about the way you described Lara Seagrave.

What she did down there south. A check has come through from London. Step-daughter of Lady Windermere. High society stuff.'

'Sounds an unlikely terrorist,' The Parrot ventured.

'The rumours report an entirely new organization being built up. Don't like that. Our normal sources have no inside track. She could just be a new type. Better get back. Here it comes…'

The express came slowly inside the vast concourse, stopped, doors were thrown open as impatient passengers alighted. Lasalle had two more men standing further back. His eyes blinked. This girl, carrying one case, smartly dressed, fitted Valmy's description. He glanced towards The Parrot who nodded once and then vanished outside where his motor-cycle was parked.

Lasalle took a newspaper out of his pocket, opened it, crossed to where his other two men stood, engaged them in conversation, pointing to the paper. Attractive, Miss Lara Seagrave; walked erect even though she must be tired. She passed out of the concourse, heading for the taxi rank.

'Rue des Saussaies,' Lasalle snapped. 'Then we wait. For The Parrot's report…'

Gare Centrale. Luxembourg City. The express from Basle, Switzerland, which had travelled via Mulhouse, came to a stop at just about the same time. 11 p.m. Among the passengers who alighted was Louis Chabot, carrying a case which bore a Cook's label. On the label in large printed letters were the words Brussels Midi, circled twice.

Chabot walked slowly along the platform, trailing behind the few other passengers. Without appearing to do so, he glanced everywhere, looking for his contact. Klein was so bloody careful – he didn't even know the contact's name or sex. Still, security like that protected him as well.

'Mr Louis Chabot?'

The odd-shaped figure had appeared from nowhere.

Chabot studied him, kept walking as the hatless man trotted by his side. Small, running to fat, a clean-shaven face the colour of lard. His eyes were blank of expression, his clothes nondescript. A grey two-piece suit, the trousers crumpled, the wide shoulders slumped.

'Yes, I'm Chabot.'

'Our mutual friend, Mr Klein, arranged for me to meet you. Outside I have a car waiting. We go into the country. A peaceful village.. .'

'Strangers are noticed in villages. You have a name?'

They were talking in French, but his escort spoke it with an odd accent. Chabot had already taken a strong dislike to the placid little man. More like a servant. Not what he had expected. A nobody.

'I am Hipper,' the little man said. 'We will be working closely together. We go up in this lift. And no one will know you are at Larochette.'

'Where?'

'The village. Twenty-five kilometres north of Luxembourg City. I am in charge,' Hipper continued in the privacy of the ascending lift. 'You will stay underground until the operation begins…'

'What operation?'

'Only Mr Klein knows that. You are explosives expert?'

'Yes. You're not French.' It was a statement.

'I am Luxembourger.'

God, Chabot thought, how long am I going to be hanging round with this creep? Hipper had a habit of sneaking sidelong glances at the Frenchman and never looked him straight in the eye. Luxembourgers. A hybrid race. A mix of French and German – with all their vices and none of their virtues.

'You are explosives expert,' Hipper repeated as the elevator stopped and just before the doors opened. 'When the timer devices arrive you will have a chance to practise your expertise.'

'Valmy here…'

'Yes?' said Lasalle, leaning back in the swivel chair inside his office at the rue des Saussaies. He frowned at the two officers to stop them chattering.

The subject is occupying a room at The Ritz. Room 614. She registered, went straight to bed. The registration form gives an address of Eaton Square, London…'

'I know all about that. Did she make a phone call after she'd arrived?'

'No,' The Parrot reported. 'I checked. What next?'

'Stay there. If she leaves in the night, follow…'

'The reservation was made for six days. In advance.'

Lasalle leaned forward. 'By her? Do you know?'

'The reservations manager who took the call – it was late in the evening – thinks it was a man. But can't swear to that. He has taken so many calls since.' The Parrot paused. 'I need back-up. There are two exits from the Ritz.'

'I'll send someone. And you'll be relieved by a fresh team before morning…'

Lasalle put down the phone, pursed his thick lips and thought. He looked at the two officers, obviously waiting to go off duty. It was almost midnight.

The Lara girl is at The Ritz,' he said eventually. 'For six days. Reservation booked earlier by a man. Perhaps. The significant thing is she phoned no one before retiring for the night. That suggests she's waiting to meet someone. And at Notre Dame de la Garde in Marseilles a man stood alongside her for several minutes on the terrace. The Parrot couldn't get a picture of him – as he did of her. Had the feeling the man would have spotted him. Interesting, that last bit. Maybe we'll find out who he is when he arrives at The Ritz.'

One of the officers chuckled. 'Sounds like a liaison. A married man having it off with this Lara Seagrave.'

'Since you find it so amusing,' Lasalle informed him, 'you can get your backside over to The Ritz now. Liaise, so to speak, with The Parrot…'

Chabot gritted his teeth, refused to show any fear. Hipper was driving the Volvo station wagon like a madman. Leaving Luxembourg City behind, they turned up a side road into a dense forest. The damned road curved viciously, Hipper was driving at a hundred kilometres an hour, skidding round the bends.

On his side great rock outcrops protruded into the road. Chabot estimated they missed the rocks by millimetres, almost scraping past. It was black as pitch, the undipped headlight beams swung round another hairpin bend, flashing over great limestone crags. They had not, thank God, met another vehicle since leaving the main highway. Chabot was constantly waiting for the sight of headlights coming the other way.

Hipper crouched over the wheel, enfolding it with his shoulders, his pudgy hands clutching the rim near the top. They began to descend, they passed an old stone cottage, falling to pieces. Hipper grunted.

'Larochette…'

Silhouetted against a moon which had appeared, the relics of an ancient castle perched on a hilltop. In the gaunt walls were window spaces, like skeletal eyes. Buildings appeared on either side. No lights. No sign of a human soul. Like a village abandoned by villagers who had fled from a plague.

'We are here. The Hotel de la Montagne.'

An ancient stone structure standing back from the road with a wide drive leading up to the entrance. Chabot frowned. The shutters were closed. Some windows were boarded up and the headlights showed a layer of moss on the drive.

'What is this bloody place?' Chabot demanded.

The Montagne. Closed for renovation. No staff. We look after ourselves. You stay inside during daylight hours. If you must walk you go out after ten at night. Klein's instructions…'

'For how long?'

'Who knows? You will have plenty to occupy you when the timer devices arrive. The most sophisticated in the world.' Hipper drove the Volvo round the side, straight inside a vast shed. When he switched off the engine the only sound Chabot could hear was the oppressive silence of a dead village.

Klein was driving through the night, the autoroute far behind, heading for Grenoble which he planned to pass through before dawn. He would hand back his hired Renault in Annecy. Driving into Switzerland was not a good idea.

At Annecy he would catch a train. Eventually he would cross the Swiss frontier and alight at the small Swiss station of Eaux-Vives in southern Geneva. Security took very little interest in travellers arriving by train. And Eaux-Vives was a backwoods station.

Seeing a lay-by ahead, he checked his rear view mirror again. No traffic in sight. He slowed, swung into the lay-by, stopped. Taking out a notebook, he inserted a piece of cardboard under a sheet and began to write, leaving no impression on the sheet below.

Timers. Scuba divers. Marksman. Lara. Explosives. Banker.

Like other lone wolf characters, Klein had a habit of talking aloud to himself, but was always aware of what he was doing. It helped to concentrate his thinking. He began now.

Timers. Let's hope Gaston Blanc has them ready. A genius with miniature instrumentation. The only problem is after he hands them over. No loose ends… Scuba divers. Luxembourg swarms with them. Marksman? Paris. The Englishman would be ideal. Lara…'

The problem with Lara was to keep her occupied until the time came for her to piay a role she had no idea -fortunately – she was destined for. A member of one of Britain's most distinguished aristocratic lines. Again, ideal. He'd send her on more wild-goose chases, Klein decided.

The last two items were all organized. It took money to persuade people to cooperate in an unknown operation -a lot of money. Well, he'd already obtained that.

Klein reckoned he'd calculated the amounts just right. Four thousand for Lara. With the promise of a quarter of a million pounds. Four thousand was not enough to tempt her into walking away. Not with a fortune dangled in front of her.

Louis Chabot had been a different proposition. A professional. Ten thousand francs for starters. The promise of two hundred thousand, the equivalent of?20,000. More money than Chabot had ever earned before. Not too much, not too little – that was the delicate balance.

Greed. That was the motive force. Estimate the level of greed with a man – or a woman – and you had them in the palm of your hand. A compulsive checker, Klein looked at his list again. Explosives. In place. Banker. Everything arranged.

Whichever way he looked at it, Klein felt sure he had overlooked nothing. Already rumours about the hijacking of an unknown vessel were spreading. The essential smokescreen. You couldn't recruit people on the scale he was operating at without whispers reaching the authorities. So, give them something to chew on, the wrong thing.

Of course there would be casualties. Hundreds of them. But you couldn't mount the biggest operation since World War Two – against the biggest target in Western Europe -without casualties. You couldn't make an omelette without breaking eggs – a two hundred million pound gold bullion omelette.

And, Klein, a careful man, thought, as he used a lighter to set fire to the sheet from his notepad, then dropped the blackened remnant into the ash-tray, he hadn't left a single clue behind. Who in the world was there to stop him?