Deadlock

**

Hipper noted the deserted country lane ahead, looked in his rear view mirror to make sure nothing was in sight behind, then swung off along the tarred track. The old windmill – which had long ago lost its sails when converted into a private house – reared up behind the trees like a mis-shapen Martello tower.

He parked the car inside the trees, collected the package of tinned foods, bread and thermos of coffee from the back seat, and walked to the solid wooden door at the base of the tower. In his right hand he carried a bunch of keys on a ring. Selecting a large old-fashioned key, he unlocked the door, went inside, relocked it.

A musty smell of a building unoccupied for a long time met him as he climbed the circular staircase to the next floor. On the landing he again selected another key as he stood in front of a heavy wooden door.

He took a minute or so arranging himself. The package of food was tucked under his left arm, his left hand held the key while the right gripped the Walther automatic, safety catch off. He unlocked the door and pushed it wide open.

Martine Haber sat on a chair in front of a crude wooden table, one hand behind her back. No sign of the boy, Lucien. The Luxembourger pursed his lips. His soft voice was slow and menacing as he aimed the gun.

Tell the kid to come out from behind the door. Tell him to stand behind that table or I will shoot you within the next ten seconds.'

Crestfallen, a sullen look of frustration on his face, the lad emerged from behind the door, dropped the leg of the chair he had wrenched from it, and walked to the other side of the table.

'Don't try that again,' Hipper warned. 'And you, woman, put your other hand on your lap.'

With a sigh Martine brought her hand into sight, dropping the container of pepper. She would have risked it when Hipper came closer, but she couldn't risk Lucien's life.

The Luxembourger came closer, the gun now aimed at Lucien. Martine sat very still as Hipper dropped the package on the table. Still pointing the gun at Lucien, he examined the strong padlock which locked the closed shutters over the window.

The Elsan bucket needs emptying,' Martine protested.

'Next time…'

'How much longer…' she began, then stopped.

Hipper had backed to the door, slammed it shut, re-locked it. At the foot of the staircase he checked the telephone cord he had detached from the wall socket. There was an extension phone in Marline's room.

Klein had foreseen at some stage Haber would insist on proof that his family was alive, that they were well. He had called La Montagne, arranged with Hipper to be at the mill at a certain time, then permitted Haber to have a brief conversation with his wife from a public call box.

It was Hipper who had kidnapped Martine and Lucien. He drove back at speed to Larochette. Chabot, the explosives expert from Marseilles, was becoming a pain in the arse. Too restless for Hipper's liking. At least he had accomplished the kidnap well, leaving behind nothing to give the police a clue.

Arriving back at La Montagne, Hipper entered the derelict hotel beneath the cliff face and was immediately grabbed from behind. A vicious knife touched his throat. He froze as he heard Chabot's voice. An almost empty bottle of red wine stood on the sideboard. Chabot's voice was slurred. Oh, God! Chabot was drunk.

'No more screwing around,' Chabot snarled. 'I want to know the target. Now! Or I'll slit your gizzard… '

Hipper's mind blurred. 'Antwerp,' he gasped. 'Have you gone mad?'

'No, just lost patience with hanging around.'

Chabot released the Luxembourger and his voice was normal. No trace of being the worse for drink. The bastard had tricked him. Hipper stared in fury at the Frenchman who tossed the knife with a twirling gesture. It landed beside the bottle, the point stuck in the wood, the blade quivering.

'And I'm going out for a walk. This bleedin' place is like being in prison. Worse – with only you as company…'

'It's not quite dark,' Hipper protested.

'It's not quite dark,' Chabot mimicked and rubbed his swarthy chin. 'I'm still going for a walk. See you, little one.'

Hipper waited until he had gone, realizing it was an excellent opportunity to make the urgent call Klein had told him to deal with late in the day. He took a grubby notebook from his pocket, checked the number of the Hotel Panorama in Bouillon, made the call. He asked for M. Lambert, the name Marler was using.

'And who is calling?' Marler's terse voice enquired after a moment.

'Your friend. You can recognize my voice…'

'Yes. Get on with it.'

'Leave tomorrow for the meeting in Brussels. We hope to complete the business deal. Three o'clock in the afternoon would do nicely.'

'Goodbye.'

Marler slammed down the phone and stood in his bedroom, musing on the message. Tomorrow he'd take up residence in the executive suite at the Hilton Klein had told him about. He took out a map, spread it on the bed and studied it for a few minutes, whistling to himself. Then he folded up the map, shoved it in his pocket and left the hotel.

'No news. No developments.'

Back at Park Crescent in Tweed's office Monica gave the same reply to Howard's question she'd given nine times previously. The SIS chief strolled round the room, brushed a hand over the sleeve of his spotless suit, removing an imaginary speck of dust.

Go away! Monica almost screamed to herself inwardly. He stood by the window, gazing towards Regent's Park. Like a lost soul, Monica thought. Lost because he hasn't Tweed to badger.

'The PM also enquired,' Howard remarked. 'Phoned herself.'

Ten times?'

'Well, actually no. Once.'

'And how did she react?'

'Said that was all right, that Tweed would report back in his own good time,' Howard admitted reluctantly. 'Better get back to my own office. The "in" tray is practically piled up to the ceiling. Keep busy, Monica…'

Condescending so-and-so, she thought. The phone rang within thirty seconds of Howard leaving her in peace. She grabbed for it, expecting Tweed on the line. A muffled voice asked for Tweed.

'He's not here. This is Monica. Can I help?'

'Olympus here. The target is Antwerp. I think.'

'Could you repeat that? The line is bad.' Sounded as if the caller were speaking through a silk handkerchief. 'I did catch the Olympus bit…'

'The target is Antwerp. I think.'

'Thank you. I got it that time…'

The line went dead before she finished speaking. Monica replaced the receiver slowly. Tweed had told her any message from Olympus was top priority, and for his ears only. Now she had to work out how to try and track down Tweed.

Had it been a man or a woman she was talking to? She had no idea – no inkling of sex or age or nationality. Only that the caller had spoken in English. She decided to try Chief Inspector Benoit in Brussels first.