Deadlock

39

'No news of Nield then?' Butler had asked.

Three men were talking in Tweed's room at a small hotel near Grand'Place Benoit had suggested. Tweed, Newman and Butler. Earlier they'd found a small restaurant, dining off omelettes. None of them had felt he could face a large meal.

Tweed had drunk a lot of coffee which had made him more alert. It was two in the morning. He shook his head at Butler.

'Monica said Nield normally reported in daily by phone. He's bought up a load of books, dumped them in a prominent place at the back of his car. Posing as a publisher's representative. He's watching Blakeney – as you suggested, Harry.'

'You said "normally". Has there been a break in communication?'

'Yes. Nothing for the past twenty-four hours. I expect he has his reasons. Now, Bob, I want you to help me -recall everything that's happened since we started this pursuit of Klein. I have the weird idea we've overlooked something. One missing key is the explosives Klein brought out across the Turkish border – before murdering the Armenian truck driver, Dikoyan, and kindly throwing his corpse into the Bosphorus.'

'But what about Klein?' Butler interjected. 'I should be out looking for him. I lost him…'

'Don't worry about that. Benoit has thrown out a huge dragnet, recalled men off duty, had copies made of the Identikit picture and distributed them. His men are combing every hotel in Brussels – including some sleazy places down in the Marolles district. Benoit will be up all night.

Including seeing his Minister to persuade him to alert Antwerp – which I still think is the wrong target. Now, you go ahead, Bob. I listen.'

For quarter of an hour he sat silent, watching Newman who, in his terse, reporter-like manner, recalled previous events. At times Tweed leant his head back against the chair, closed his eyes as he saw visually what he'd experienced. Going right back to his visit to the weird village of Cockley Ford. Newman had just finished retailing details of his visit to Brand's luxurious mansion with Colonel Ralston when Tweed sat up straight.

'Just a minute. Those wheel tracks of some heavy vehicle you saw pressed into Brand's lawn – reminds me of something else. The wheel tracks I saw at the church at Cockley Ford – leading to the mausoleum of Sir John Leinster.'

'And now,' Newman said grimly, 'I remember what it was I wanted to recall and tell you. Go back to where all this started. That cargo of explosives – sea-mines and bombs – stolen from the Soviet depot at Sevastopol. OK, Dikoyan was found with his throat cut in the Bosphorus. But there was a bit after that you told me. Something about a Greek vessel sailing from the Golden Horn in Istanbul about the same time.'

'That's right. It was thought that vessel could have transported the explosives…'

The name! The name!' Newman was unusually excited. The name of that vessel which disappeared, which has never been seen since. Can you remember it?'

The Lesbos…'

Newman turned to Butler. That afternoon we drove to Brancaster looking for Caleb Fox's address. Pouring with rain. We met a chap with a walking stick. Military type. He warned us not to walk out to either of the two hulks lying among the sandbanks offshore.'

That's right,' Butler agreed, wondering where Newman was heading for.

'He said one of the hulks had had its name changed, he took a photo of the thing. He said it was wrecked about six months earlier. My God! I think I've still got the card he gave me with his name and address and phone number. Timms! That was the name. And here is the card…'

'What are you up to?' Tweed asked.

'Ronald Timms.' Newman jumped up from his chair, went over to the bed, perched on it and picked up the phone. 'Calling Mr Timms,' he replied as he dialled for an outside line.

'At this hour?' Tweed commented. 'You will get a lot of cooperation. Middle of the night.'

'He lives alone, I think. And the type who doesn't need much sleep.' He was dialling. He waited as he heard the ringing tone in Norfolk. The phone was answered quickly.

'Mr Ronald Timms?' Newman began. 'Very sorry to call at this hour. Hope I haven't got you out of bed. Robert Newman here. I doubt whether you'll remember me but…'

'Of course I do. The reporter chappie I warned not to wander out across those creeks. And I'm up, making myself a pot of tea. What can I do for you?'

The conversation was brief. Timms was anything but a waffler. Newman thanked him very much, said yes, he'd certainly call on him when he was next in the area, put down the phone, looked at Tweed.

'That wreck off the Norfolk coast, the hulk whose name had been changed. Timms' photograph brought up the real name under a magnifying glass. The Lesbos.'

Nield opened his eyes, stared at a blank white ceiling illuminated indirectly from a light somewhere. He was in bed. Lifting his head he saw the light came through a glass window in the top of a closed door. Where the hell was he?

He pushed back the sheets with an effort, then lifted a hand to his head. It was swathed in bandages. It came back to him. The coaster at Blakeney being loaded. Dr Portch leaning over him, staring down from behind his beak-like nose through pince-nez, A cold, calculating expression. Have to get back to Park Crescent, report what I've found out…

He perched on the edge of the bed, realized he was wearing pyjamas. His head swam, there was a pounding at the back of his skull. He saw his watch on the bedside table, picked it up. Two o'clock. He gazed out of the window. Black as pitch. He fastened the watch on his wrist.

Standing up, he nearly fell down, grabbed for the edge of the bed, saved himself. Unsteadily, he walked to the window. Outside a parking area. He saw his own car. He took several deep breaths. A bit better. Where the devil were his clothes?

He stumbled towards a cupboard, opened it, found the clothes hanging inside. Leaning against the wall, he stripped off the pyjama trousers, hauled on his underpants, his own trousers. He wrestled himself inside his shirt, stuffed his tie inside a pocket, sat down on a chair and eased his feet into socks and shoes. He was fully dressed when the nurse flew into the room.

'Mr Nield! What are you doing? Get back into bed at once…'

'I'm leaving…'

A man in a white coat who had glanced through the window came in. He heard Nield's reply. Walking over, he took hold of him by the arm.

'I'm Dr Nicholson. You're suffering a case of mild… that is, severe… concussion. You must…'

'Where is this hospital?'

The Queen Elizabeth, King's Lynn…'

'And… what day is it? Wednesday?'

'Thursday. Early morning…"

'That's what… I meant. How long have I…'

'You were brought in only four hours ago. I really insist you must get back into bed. This is a reaction from the concussion. You don't know what you're doing.'

'Want to bet?'

Nield forced himself to grin. God knows how he managed it. He was using up all his willpower to stay on his feet. Couldn't call Park Crescent from here. Too public. He got his jacket on. Fully dressed, his morale rose. He could sort these people out.

'My personal effects. My wallet. Keys…'

'At the reception desk, locked away safely.'

'Lay on, MacDuff.'

'I beg your pardon.'

A bit stiff-necked. Stuffy type, Dr Nicholson. Still, trying to do his job. Nield had a terrible thirst. He looked round, saw a jug covered with a cloth, a glass beside it.

'I could do with a drink of water.'

He moved slowly towards the table. The nurse ran past him – as he had hoped. He'd have spilt more on the floor than in the glass. She filled it, gave it to him with tight lips. He drank the lot in four separate gulps, thanked the nurse and looked at Nicholson.

'Which way to reception desk?'

Til show you.' Nicholson continued his efforts as they went down a long silent corridor. 'I can't recommend this course of action at all. You're not a fit man.'

'But you can't keep me here. I'm discharging myself.'

'I'd rather gathered that,' Nicholson said drily. 'Here is the desk. Nurse, Mr Nield requires his personal effects. See he signs a receipt.' He looked at Nield. 'I refuse to call a cab. If you must be so foolish you do that yourself. And keep those bandages on. Go straight to your local doctor when you get home. We got your details from your driving licence.'

'Thank you. And Good Night,' said Nield, turning to the nurse.

He told her he wanted a breath of fresh air just outside first and left the building. He had a little trouble finding the car park. No one was about as he climbed behind the wheel, fastened his belt and started the engine.

He soon found himself in a familiar part of King's Lynn and took the turning for London. Nield still felt peculiar. There were moments when his vision blurred. At that time of night the road was deserted but he slowed when he saw an isolated pair of headlights approaching. He wasn't worried about himself, but he had to think of other people. He had driven through Woburn when the strain began to tell. He found it harder to concentrate. No point in trying to find a public phone box. He gritted his teeth and drove on, knowing he could reach Park Crescent by dawn on the traffic-free roads. That was, if he could keep control of himself – and the car.

' Lesbos,' Tweed repeated. The ship carrying all those explosives was wrecked off the Norfolk coast. I've been a complete idiot. When Bellenger from the Admiralty told me that bomb on Paula's doorstep was the latest Soviet type I should have guessed. Somehow they transported that hellish armoury ashore, then stored it under our noses.'

'And now you know where?' Newman said.

'Cockley Ford. Those heavy wheel tracks leading from the entrance to the churchyard to Sir John Leinster's mausoleum.'

'Clever bloody Klein,' Newman remarked. 'Hid the stuff where no one would think of looking. So, is the target still Antwerp?'

'No,' Tweed said grimly. 'I've just realized the significance of the strange incident Colonel Ralston told me about aboard his cruiser. Remember he grasped that Klein's English wasn't perfect? Ralston made some remark to Klein about him talking Double Dutch. Klein flew at him. That Sergeant Bradley had to separate them.'

'I'm not following you,' Butler remarked.

'Double-Dutch,' Tweed repeated. 'Klein had never heard the colloquial phrase. He didn't like – was unnerved by – Ralston's reference to Dutch. Because the target is Dutch – not Belgian. It's been staring us in the face. It's Europort, the gateway to Europe.'

'And how is Klein going to transport the explosives across the North Sea?'

'Maybe Nield can tell us that. I'll get Monica on the phone. Which means back to Grand'Place and the scrambler. Nield may have found the key we've been looking for.'

'Nield,' Butler commented, 'is usually in the right place at the right moment.'