Deadlock

**

Before boarding the Alouette at Dinant, Paula had asked Tweed for a private word. They strolled along the waterfront while the others went to where the machine was waiting on a section of open land on the opposite bank.

'I'm worried about Marline and Lucien,' she said. 'Could I stay here and see if I can locate them? If I can we'll have broken the hold Klein has over Haber.'

'Good idea in theory,' Tweed agreed. 'How are you going to set about it in practice?'

'Visit all the local estate agents. Have a look at all the properties on their books – especially any bought recently but where the deal hasn't been completed. Some place not too far away from here, but with a remote situation and which has been on the market a good while.' She frowned. 'I'mnot putting this very well, but I've a feeling I'll spot the sort of property Klein would choose when I see it.'

'You could give it a try. After I've made certain enquiries at Findel Airport we'll be flying back here. It's a bit vague though – your specification.'

'Oh, it has to have a telephone which is still in use.'

'I don't follow you.'

'What is the usual sequence of events when a kidnapping takes place? The victim still free – in this case Haber – demands proof from the kidnapper that his family is safe and well. The kidnapper gets over that one by letting him have a brief conversation with whoever has been kidnapped. That means telephone communication must be available. See what I'm driving at?'

'I should have thought of that myself.'

'You have got rather a lot on your mind,' she pointed out.

'Come with me. Before we board the Alouette I'll ask Benoit to liaise with the local police. You'll need one of them with you to have the authority to question estate agents…'

And so Tweed had left Paula in Dinant. While the helicopter was flying them to Findel Airport Paula, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, made a tour of the estate agents. She discovered several properties which were promising and was driven to each of them in turn.

It was dusk when they walked away from a property way out in the Ardennes, a large empty house which had once been a clinic for mental patients – and thus had bars on the windows. Paula was disappointed.

'I had high hopes of that place,' she said to Pierre, the handsome young policeman who was enjoying himself hugely in her company.

'Never mind, Miss, we can try again tomorrow. You still have several left for us to explore. I think we should get back to Dinant before dark.'

'I'm tired out,' she admitted. She studied one brochure before getting into the car. 'I'mwondering about this old mill. It looks pretty remote, was on the market for months before being bought by a Mr Hipper. And the phone is still working. How far away is it?'

Pierre checked the address. 'About fifteen miles from Celle. On a lonely country road which doesn't really lead anywhere. We could try that first tomorrow.'

'Let's do that. Now, back to Dinant.'

At the Cargolux counter at Findel the assistant manager was reluctant to provide any information. Benoit took over the conversation from Tweed, showing his warrant card.

'This is an emergency. Get me the chief of police in Luxembourg City on the phone, a man called Fernand Gansen. Then let me speak to him.'

Tweed glanced round the empty reception hall, its floor gleaming like glass. It was very quiet. He liked small airports. Beyond a window he could see a Luxair machine, its tail painted blue with a large white 'L' symbol. The grassy plain spread out into the distance; no sense of being within miles of a city.

Benoit, after conversing with his colleague, whom he obviously knew well, handed the phone to the airport official. 'Talk to him,' he snapped without a hint of his normal joviality. The conversation was brief, the official replaced the receiver.

'I'm authorized to answer any questions,' he said without enthusiasm.

'I want to know if a large cargo-carrying plane is due here – probably from Frankfurt – within the next few days. And its destination may be Rio do Janeiro,' Tweed suggested.

'Let me check.'

The official examined a large folder filled with large forms already filled in. 'Nothing for Rio,' he said. Tweed sensed he was being cagey and Benoit had the same reaction.

'Look here.' He leaned across the counter. 'Gansen gave you instructions. Don't play with me. Answer my colleague. Any large transport machines?'

'Several…'

'One from Frankfurt?'

'Actually, yes. A Hercules. During the next three days. A detailed flight plan is awaited…'

Extracting the information was like trying to get a loan from a miser. Tweed sensed Benoit was going to explode. He nudged him and stared at the official, his tone pleasant.

'Yes, a Hercules is a big job. Do you handle many shipments of that magnitude?'

'No.'

'But they'd have to give you some rough idea of destination. What is it?'

'South America. Details to follow…'

'Name of the consignee?'

Tweed's eyes held the official's. There was a pause. Tweed waited, standing motionless. 'It is police business,' he reminded him.

'The Zurcher Kredit Bank of Basle.'

Keeping an eye open for traffic patrol cars, Butler pressed his foot down, exceeding the speed limit along the deserted highway. Soon he was inside the city, crossing a bridge which spanned the gorge, turning left up a hill. Fortress walls began to appear.

He drove just inside the speed limit through the old city and green lights were with him all the way. He recrossed the canyon over the Pont Adolphe, at a much greater height than the previous bridge. The gorge was far wider, a great depth and the walls had become immense.

He was now driving slowly down the Avenue da le Liberte, the home of so many Luxembourg banks. He saw the Banque Sambre on his side of the broad avenue, cruised past and stopped by a parking meter. Using coins he obtained when he changed money at Findel Airport, he dealt with the meter, then settled down behind the wheel, leaving the engine running.

He adjusted the rear view mirror to give him a perfect view of the entrance to the bank. Checking the Identikit photocopy of Klein, he folded it and put it in his pocket. Brand he would recognize from Newman's description, newspaper reporters were good at that sort of observation.

Butler was now in position to watch anyone who entered – or left – the Banque Sambre. Further down the street was the Place de la Gare where several streets met in front of the old station. He pretended to read the newspaper he'd bought at Findel, giving a convincing impression of waiting to pick up someone.

Klein stood outside the station in the Place de la Gare, in a rare state of indecision. To avoid the sun glare he stood with his back to the taxi rank. He had just come out of a cafe on the far side of the street where he'd consumed a sandwich au jambon and drunk some excellent coffee.

His mood was edgy. He sensed danger and was trying to identify what had alerted him. That Belgian police helicopter? No – he had experienced this phase just before he was mounting an operation.

He couldn't imagine that he'd left behind him anywhere a clue. Not in that weird watchmaking town up in the Jura; not in Geneva; not in Marseilles or Paris, And not on the Meuse.

It was the imminent launch of the vast operation, he decided. He always became even more cautious at this stage. He had planned to walk straight up the Avenue de la Liberte, to catch Brand oil guard at the Banque Sambre. Change of plan.

He went inside a telephone booth and called the bank, dialling the number from memory. Data written in notebooks was dangerous. The operator took a minute or two to put him through to Brand, The banker had been caught off balance. Klein would continue to keep him in that frame of mind. There was surprise in Brand's voice when he came on the line.

'Klein? Where are you?

'Luxembourg City.'

'You might have warned me…'

'No reason to. I hope? Meet me half an hour from now. At the Hotel Cravat. Ask for my friend, Max Volpe. Arrange for one of your secretaries ~ someone you can trust – to come to the same place a quarter of an hour after you've left. She also is to ask for Max Volpe. My friend's room. See you…'

'Wait a minute!' A hint of annoyance in Brand's upper crust voice. 'I have a full engagement book I can probably squeeze you in…'

'Check your watch. Thirty minutes from now.'

Klein replaced the receiver Discipline. Instant obedience. The only way to keep the upper hand. And Brand was about to make another fortune Or so he thought…

He walked out of the booth, climbed inside a cab.

'Hotel Cravat, if you please.'

Klein asked for a double room, registered in the name Max Volpe – another advantage of operating inside the Common Market. The Swiss were meticulous (pedantic was the word Klein used) about hotel registration and often asked to see your passport.

He was given a room on the first floor overlooking the Place de la Constitution and a panoramic view of the curving chasm beyond. Locking the door, he dumped his case on the bed, took out his make-up box and went to the bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror over the wash-basin he applied foundation cream and then the light-coloured face powder. The face which stared back at him was now chalk-white. Returning to the bedroom, he took a black beret from his case, pulled it well down so it concealed all trace of his black hair.

He next took a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from the case and perched them on the bridge of his nose. The final item which completed the transformation was a curved pipe, the bowl already filled with tobacco which he'd tamped into the pipe aboard the express.

Stripping off his jacket and trousers, he substituted an old and worn sports jacket and a pair of grey slacks. He repacked the suit and closed and locked the case. Taking a label from his wallet, he penned in capitals the name Max Volpe and attached the label to the case. The make-up box he slipped inside his raincoat pocket.

He stood for a moment, checking over in his mind the sequence of events he had planned. Yes, everything was ready. He walked back into the bathroom and double-checked his appearance. The smartly-dressed businessman who had walked into the Cravat was now replaced by a professorial type.

And there would be no trouble at reception when he left. While registering he had insisted on paying two days in advance for the room, explaining he might have to leave urgently to attend a conference.

He was standing by the circular corner window, looking down into the rue Chimay, when the phone rang. Reception calling. A Mr Brand had arrived, asking for Mr Volpe.