By Stealth (22 page)

`So we are off,' said Paula, collecting her own case from the cupboard Tweed had left open. 'With what aim?'

`To visit Gaston Delvaux in Liège as quickly as I can get to him. I didn't like the sound of what Benoit told me. I just hope to God we're in time.'

Dr Wand stood behind a net-curtained window on the first floor of the mansion in The Boltons. Beside him stood the gaunt, grim-faced Mrs Kramer.

`We are being spied on,' Wand told her. 'That white van parked up the road. Supposedly Straker's the Florist. A large window in the side. One-way glass, I'm certain. For unseen cameras to photograph who calls or leaves. A job for our Mr Briggs. Rather urgent. The Daimler will be arriving soon to take me to London Airport. Briggs must remove the intruder. Tell him from me, please — any method he chooses.'

Mrs Kramer left the window immediately. She picked up a phone, gave the instruction to Briggs in careful phrases. Describing the van exactly, she put down the phone.

`Briggs says fifteen minutes. He has a vehicle standing by for emergencies.'

Dr Wand turned away from the window, lips pursed, gave his ice-cold smile. Briggs was reliable. He didn't think the van driver — and any other occupants — were due to survive much longer.

Harry Butler sat behind the wheel of the white van parked in The Boltons wearing a white coat — the type worn by florist delivery men sometimes. He was also clad in a peaked cap pulled well down and a dead fag hung from the corner of his lips.

The van was equipped with a large rear-view mirror and several wing mirrors. The rear was always the dangerous area. Despite the raw cold of a sunny November day, he had his window down. On the seat beside him was a large plastic bag containing a dark liquid.

He had seen the net curtain in the first-floor window twitch and guessed he had been observed. Fifteen minutes later by his watch he heard the sound of a large vehicle approaching. Trundling round a distant corner of the curved crescent a huge dustcart was approaching. Butler switched on his engine.

Twenty feet away he saw a man in a dark overcoat with an astrakhan collar, a dark hat, and gold pince-nez

walking down the steps of No. 185. He carried a suitcase as a gleaming Daimler overtook Butler, pulled up outside the mansion.

Butler saw all this with a brief glance. His attention was concentrated on the huge dustcart which had paused at the bend. Suddenly the driver accelerated as the Daimler glided away from the curve with its passenger in the rear seat.

The dustcart roared round the curving crescent, moving at such speed that Butler guessed the engine was souped up. He changed gear. The truck was thundering alongside him when the driver swung his wheel right over. Butler reversed at high speed, one hand on the wheel. His other hand threw out the plastic bag, which burst, spilling a lake of oil on the road surface. Tweed had told him of their experience with the helicopter next to Hatchet Pond down in the New Forest. Always learn from the enemy.

Behind the wheel of the dustcart Briggs had expected to smash into the side of the van at speed, crushing it. Instead he saw the massive garden wall of a mansion in front of him. He turned the wheel desperately. His wheels, slithering in the oil, refused to respond. The truck hit the wall with shattering force. Briggs was thrown forward against the wheel, breaking ribs. But it was the least of his worries. The truck, its front crumpled amid the wreckage of the wall, burst into flames.

Butler — who had agreed to help Marler — had already left The Boltons. He was driving at cruising speed towards Cromwell Road with his window now closed.

`Very satisfactory,' Dr Wand thought, relaxed inside the Daimler. 'Perfect timing. I must consider giving Briggs a bonus.'

It never occurred to him to glance back through the rear window. Even had he done so, it is very doubtful whether he would have noticed the Ford Escort tailing him. Behind the wheel, Marler whistled to himself.

Butler, he was thinking, had proved a most successful decoy. While the van was parked in full view of No. 185 Marler, in the Ford Escort, had parked a distance away where he could just see the entrance to Dr Wand's mansion. And he wasn't worried about the explosion which had shaken his car: Butler was very capable of looking after himself.

When he was convinced of the Daimler's destination he picked up the microphone. The car was equipped with a high-powered radio system, tuned to the waveband of the receiving station in the communications centre in another building at Park Crescent.

`Parker Transport calling base. Have collected fare and now on way to London Airport...'

Once his message was acknowledged, Marler closed up on the Daimler. He began whistling again. The tune was `Nothing Can Come Between Us'.

16

Marler parked the Escort in a long-term bay at London Airport. It seemed the logical thing to do: Dr Wand's chauffeur-driven Daimler was parked nine bays away. Marler sat twiddling a king-sized cigarette between his fingers as he watched. The uniformed chauffeur alighted, opened the rear door, and Wand climbed out. Blinking, he adjusted his gold pince-nez.

A perfect opportunity. Marler whipped out a small camera from the glove compartment, raised it to his eyes, pressed the automatic self-focus, and within seconds he'd taken six shots.

The chauffeur, wearing a peaked cap and dark glasses, was opening the boot, taking out two cases. Louis Vuitton. Nothing but the best for Dr Wand. Marler took two shots of the chauffeur. A tall, slim type, well built, aquiline nose, and with an athletic stride. He locked the car and Marler locked his own, following them at a distance.

Looped round Marler's neck was a compact pair of field-glasses as he carried his case. Five minutes later he was watching through the lenses as a motorized passenger trolley carried Wand, chauffeur, and luggage to a waiting Lear executive jet. Marler registered the number, then ran all the way to the office of Jim Corcoran, Chief of Security. He was lucky: Corcoran was sitting at his desk staring glumly at a pile of reports.

`Don't bother about those boring old things, sport,' Marler greeted him. 'I've got something far more interesting for you do do.'

`Oh, yes? And what might that be? Trouble, I'm sure. The last time your boss was here we ended up with a body.'

`And this just might be connected with that,' Marler guessed wildly. 'Lear jet on the tarmac. Registration number—. A Dr Wand has just gone aboard. Apparently Customs and Passport Control go out to OK His Highness.'

`Dr Wand?' Corcoran wrinkled his long nose in disgust. `He carries clout. All because he's running some refugee aid outfit. What do you want – and I know I'm going to wish I hadn't asked.'

`Nothing much. Just find out where he's going. And delay his departure.'

`Is that all?'

`Tweed would want it,' Marler said, 'and you've got a superb memory. So you'll recall you owe him While you're doing that mind if I smoke?'

`With all the "No Smoking" signs glaring at you? Go ahead — you will anyway. I'll check his flight plan. As to delaying his flight, you wouldn't have any ideas how I might go about that?'

`Easy again. You say you've received a bomb threat to an unidentified executive jet. Send men out to the Lear. You can say later it turned out to be a hoax.'

It amused Marler to use the same tactic Tweed had told him on the phone the enemy had used in Washington — to give time for an assassin to be waiting for Hilary Vane.

`This is really important, I suppose?' Corcoran demanded.

`Case of national security,' Marler said jauntily, using the magic phrase.

He wandered round, puffing his cigarette, using a tin lid as an ash-tray, while Corcoran busied himself on the phone. Eventually the tall, red-faced, alert-eyed Corcoran put down the phone, started rattling off information.

`Dr Wand's pilot put in a flight plan for Zaventem Airport, Brussels. A bomb squad has gone out to the jet to do their stuff, God help 'em. Maximum time they can keep the jet on the tarmac three-quarters of an hour. Anything else?'

`Now that you ask, just one more favour. Book me a seat on the first flight to Brussels. Business Class. When is the first flight?'

`They're calling it now, first call, that is.' Corcoran sighed, picked up the phone again. A brief call this time. `One Business Class ticket waiting for you at the counter. Sabena flight. Now could I make a request? Good. Nice to have had you around. And get to hell out of here.'

`One final question,' Marler called out as he reached the door. 'Will my Sabena flight beat that Lear to Brussels?'

`It will do just that. Close the door quietly, won't you?'

Inside the Sabena jet Paula sat in a window seat with Tweed alongside her. Across the corridor Newman occupied the aisle seat. Passengers were still boarding. From the few waiting in the final departure lounge the flight was half empty. Paula nudged Tweed, whispered.

`Look who has arrived.'

Marler, carrying his small case — which meant he wouldn't be delayed waiting at the carousel, could walk straight off the plane — was heading up the aisle. He didn't even glance at the trio.

Reaching the front of the aircraft, he appeared to change his mind, walked back past them. Paula waited a moment, then glanced back. Marler was sitting three rows behind them, occupying a window seat on her side with an empty seat next to him.

`He's taken up a position to watch over us,' Tweed said in a low tone. 'Odd he should be on the same flight.'

Paula glanced back as though to see how many more passengers were coming into Business Class. Marler was staring through the window, his compact pair of binoculars pressed against his eyes. Round the Lear jet in the distance a team of men were swarming. The retractable steps were still down.

As he watched, a heavily built man wearing a dark overcoat with an astrakhan collar padded down the steps. He began to pace slowly up and down. He stopped, stared towards the Sabena aircraft. He had a large head, fair hair, and gold pince-nez were perched on his strong nose.

Marler left his seat, peered back into Economy. More passengers still boarding. He walked up to the front of the aircraft and asked the stewardess a question.

`Can you give me some idea of the flight time to Brussels?'

`Fifty minutes, sir.' She looked at Marler, liked what she saw. The passenger seemed restless. 'There are plenty of other seats if you wish to change,' she suggested.

`I'm the athletic type.' He grinned at her. 'Like to get a bit of exercise — find I get cramped sitting down. And you look very chic in that uniform.'

`Thank you, sir...'

Marler was on his way back to his seat, walking slowly. The stewardess watched him with interest. He hadn't made the usual coarse pass she was used to — he'd just paid her a genuine compliment. Marler was timing it carefully, field-glasses clenched in his hand. A woman passenger was coming towards him. They met alongside Tweed.

Marler appeared to stumble as he stood aside to let the new arrival pass. He fell across Tweed, dropped the binoculars in his lap.

`I'm so sorry, sir.' He lowered his voice. 'Lear jet over there. Could be Dr Wand pacing up and down. Destination Brussels.'

Apologizing again, he returned to his seat. Paula picked up her glasses, raised them to her eyes. They were already focused on the Lear. As she studied the large man he stopped and again stared towards the Sabena plane. In the lenses his face came up close. Remote eyes behind the pince-nez. She shivered.

`What's the matter?' Tweed asked in a normal voice.

He'd already checked. No one in the two rows ahead or behind them. Paula swallowed.

`If that is Dr Wand there's a streak of pure cruelty in the man.'

`Well, from what's happened so far the mastermind behind it all is certainly cruel — almost to the point of sadism.'

`You mean the severed arm of Irene, then her body floating in the Solent?'

`That — and many other things. A sadist capable of the most appalling mental cruelty — as well as physical. Unless I'm wrong in the theory taking shape.'

`No point in asking you what theory, I suppose?' `Not until I'm sure.'

The aircraft was in midair, crossing the North Sea, when Paula decided to go to the toilet. Some instinct made her put on tinted glasses. In the aisle she glanced into Economy section and nearly froze.

Sheer will power — plus SIS training — kept her moving. When she returned she waited until Tweed had settled himself in his seat. Then she leaned close to him.