By Stealth (27 page)

Five minutes later he emerged from the Bellevue Palace, making a remark to the doorman that he needed a breath of night air. Proceeding on foot down the Avenue Louise in his dark overcoat he walked with the chauffeur on his right towards the Place Louise.

Inside his parked Mercedes Marler reacted swiftly. He rammed on his fair hair a beret he'd purchased from a shop next door to the bar after buying sandwiches and coffee. He was now wearing a shabby windcheater earlier taken from his travelling case. Stubbing out his half- smoked king-size, he tucked the remaining half at the corner of his mouth. He hadn't shaved for hours and his chin was covered with a prominent stubble. It was a very disreputable-looking Marler who followed the two men, slouching along on the opposite pavement.

Reaching the Place Louise, very quiet at that hour, Dr Wand checked the time by his Rolex, an action noted by Marler. He also noticed that the chauffeur had tucked his right hand inside his uniformed jacket. Marler had little doubt he was clutching a gun.

The two men walked across the Place Louise to the Boulevard de Waterloo. Arriving at the entrance to the metro, they disappeared down inside it. Marler followed, stepped on the moving escalator. At the bottom he was just in time to see the two men moving down a second escalator.

He waited a few seconds before he stepped on it himself. As he was carried down deeper he passed a series of crude and bizarre wall murals. He wrinkled his nose. Belgian art! At the bottom of the second escalator he entered the main Metro complex. Against a wall a slovenly man was seated on the floor, his back to the wall, his legs sprawled out.

Close by was a row of phone booths. Dr Wand entered one, paused a moment, came out, entered the next one. Marler realized he was checking the numbers. Wand stayed inside the third one, made no attempt to use the phone. The chauffeur stood outside, staring in the opposite direction.

Marler sagged against the wall, spread out his own legs, the fag protruding from his mouth, still unlit. The slovenly man called out to him in French in a stage whisper.

`Got a joint, mate?'

`Shut up or I'll stick a knife in your gullet,' Marler hissed back.

The phone rang inside the booth. Dr Wand picked up the instrument. He spoke immediately in his slow, deliberate manner.

`Who is this speaking, may I ask?'

`Anne-Marie,' a woman's voice answered, using the code-name. 'I am sorry to trouble you in this way. Later I remembered something I thought you'd wish to know. In the headlights of my car I saw a competitor.'

`Then you were most wise to call me, most wise. Price is a major consideration with the contract we are bidding for. So it is important we know who are our competitors.'

`Tweed is the competitor.'

Dr Wand was silent. He had received a shock, a surprise. One thing Wand did not like were surprises. They were dangerous.

`Are you still there?' the woman's voice asked.

`I really am very sorry. I was thinking how we should go about countering this competition. We may have to employ robust measures. Yes... robust. Let me think on it. And I look forward to seeing you soon. Thank you so much for calling...'

Through half-closed eyes Marler watched Wand walk towards him with the chauffeur. They glanced at the sprawled junkie to Marler's left but never spared even a glance in his direction. Marler had the impression Dr Wand was disturbed: his thin lips were pressed tightly together.

Waiting until they had disappeared up the lower escalator, Marler scrambled to his feet, followed them at a distance. They had crossed the place and had just reached the Avenue Louise when Wand reached under his coat into his back pocket, and taking out a silk handkerchief mopped his forehead.

At that moment a macho motorcyclist raced down the boulevard with a deafening burst of speed. In taking out the handkerchief Wand had dropped his wallet. They walked on and Marler realized that the motorcyclist had muffled the sound of the wallet hitting the pavement. He picked it up.

Leaning against a wall, he waited until he had seen the two men go back inside the Bellevue Palace. He then slipped inside a doorway alcove, put on surgical gloves, checked the contents of the wallet.

It contained a fat wad of 10,000-franc notes. And one note was worth over f150. What interested him most were the business cards. All embossed with
Dr Wand, Director, Moonglow Refugee Aid Trust International
. No address.

Marler was careful to replace everything as he had found it. Taking off the gloves, he shoved them into his pocket, bent down to the grubby floor, rubbed one hand in the dirt and smeared it all over his stubble. He had changed its colour and made himself look even more like a no-good.

Five minutes later he walked inside the Bellevue Palace, followed by a protesting doorman. He went straight up to the reception counter and addressed the night clerk in French.

`One of your guests just dropped this wallet. I want the Assistant Manager.'

`I can take charge of that...'

`You deaf or something? Get me the bloody Assistant Manager...'

A small portly man in a formal black suit came over to the counter. His fat face expressed extreme distaste. `What is going on, Jacques?'

`This is the Assistant Manager,' Jacques informed Marler. He turned to his superior. 'This man has..

`All right! All right! I'll tell him,' Marler snapped. 'Sir, one of your guests dropped this wallet in the street. He's just come in with a chauffeur.'

The manager examined the wallet. His eyebrows rose when he saw the wad of money. He looked at Marler. `There could be a reward...'

`No reward. Don't want no reward.' Marler was backing to the door. 'I'm just out on probation. I'm not taking a franc...'

He was gone before the manager could recover from his surprise. He walked past his parked car and then looked back. No one in sight: not even the doorman. He unlocked his car, slipped behind the wheel, closed and locked the door.

He spent the next few minutes using wet-wipes from a container in the glove compartment to clean his face. Then he finished the job, using a handkerchief to brush away any remnant of wet-wipe that might be clinging to his stubble.

Marler felt it had been a very successful outing. He now knew positively he was tracking Dr Wand. And he had the photos of him taken at the long-term garage back at London Airport. What Marler didn't realize was he possessed the only photographs of Dr Wand ever taken.

20

Beyond the entrance to the Hilton on the Boulevard de Waterloo the reception counter stretches away to the right. It faces a huge sitting area furnished with comfortable chairs and small tables.

After dinner Brigadier Burgoyne was sitting upright in an armchair. Opposite him sat Willie Fanshawe and Helen Claybourne. Lee Holmes was stroking her long blonde hair as she settled herself in her own chair.

`You've been away a damned long time,' Burgoyne observed.

`Just to the powder room,' Lee replied. She smiled wickedly at the Brigadier. 'Women to tend to linger in a powder room. They're making themselves presentable for their men.'

Burgoyne grunted. He looked very smart in a blue pin-striped suit. Willie, as always, looked crumpled although also wearing a suit: his plump bulk made it impossible for him to keep any suit decent for more than a few days.

Both men had a glass of Grand Marnier which Burgoyne had paid for. Willie's income was a fraction of the Brigadier's. Helen, wearing a pleated white blouse with a mandarin collar and a navy blue skirt, studied Lee. The blonde was clad in an off-the-shoulder purple dress slit to her thigh. You do like to display your assets, she thought. Instead she said: 'Is your business trip proving successful, Brigadier?'

`Of course it is,' Willie broke in cheerfully, leaning forward. 'He's arming the world..

`Do keep your voice down,' Burgoyne snapped. 'You came at your own urging.'

`We did? My recollection is you suggested we join the party. And don't think we're not having the time of our lives, because we are. That's so, isn't it, Helen?'

`The time of our lives,' Helen repeated in a neutral tone.

`I think,' Lee intervened, 'we ought to amuse ourselves. What about a game of poker?' She looked at Burgoyne. `I'm going to take the pants off you.'

`I wouldn't mind taking the pants off you,' Willie told her and chuckled.

`Don't be coarse,' Helen scolded him. Willie had had a lot to drink. Lee was producing a pack of cards out of her large Gucci handbag. 'I think we ought to set a limit if we're playing for money,' Helen went on firmly.

`Of course we're playing for money,' Willie chattered on. 'What else is there to play for? I remember in Hong Kong we often stayed up all hours and...'

`Willie,' Helen interrupted, 'Lee has dealt the cards.' 'Of course. Sorry, my dear...'

Four heads bent over, studying their hands. Lee glanced up. Silence had descended. She had achieved her objective. Unusually for her, Lee didn't feel like talking.

`I have been working on an antidote to Stealth for months,' Delvaux explained in the kitchen of the Château Orange. `The work was speeded up since my wife was kidnapped. It kept me from going crazy with anxiety.'

'I admire your concentration,' Tweed remarked. 'How far have you got?'

`I have solved the problem. The whole history of warfare is based on the invention of counter-measures. The tank was followed by the creation of the anti-tank gun. The fighter plane compelled us to invent the ground-to-air missile...' Paula watched, fascinated, as Delvaux spilt out the words non-stop. 'So Stealth has driven me to invent a radar system — the most advanced in the world — which can actually
see
, register on the screen, the presence of a Stealth bomber or ship. And that is why my plant is working night and day. Come, let me show you something.'

Delvaux trotted over to the large fridge, the first time Tweed had seen him move normally. Opening it, he pointed to a modest-sized tin.

`What is that?'

`A tin of biscuits,' Paula answered, mystified.

`That is what it is
intended
to look like. In fact, it is a specially designed container impervious to extremes of heat or cold and which can be dropped without damaging at all the delicate instrument inside.'

Taking out the tin, he placed it on a table, prised off the lid, stood back and gestured. Tweed, Newman, and Paula peered inside. The walls were lined with some kind of protective material. Delvaux reached into the tin, carefully lifted out an intricate mechanism. The only part Paula recognized was what appeared to be a large circular TV-like screen. Delvaux then extracted a thick bound file.

`None of you will understand the file,' Delvaux warned. `But hand it to one of your radar boffins and he will at once understand how the system works. Tweed, please take this with you back to London. Arrange for a fleet of trucks with armed men to travel to my works. We will load them with a large number of these devices. Have you a card?'

Tweed produced one of his cards printed with only his name and General & Cumbria Assurance. Delvaux took it, extracted a pen from his pocket, underlined the 'T' of Tweed, showed it to him, then slipped it into his own wallet.

`All the drivers of those trucks must carry such a card. It will identify them to my General Manager, Alain Flamand. I will write that down for you. Another card. So the drivers deal only with Main Flamand. He practically lives at the plant. Now, I have designed an executive-style case which just takes the biscuit tin.'

Packing the mechanism inside the biscuit tin, he opened a drawer under the table, laid an executive case on top, slipped the tin inside the case, closed it, handed it to Tweed.

Tweed had secreted the card with Alain Flamand's name written in Delvaux's neat hand inside his wallet. He lifted the executive case and was surprised at its lightness. His expression was grim as he put it on the table.

`Thank you, Gaston. A feeble way of congratulating you on what you have achieved — and under the nerve- breaking conditions you are suffering. But we now have to think of Andover's body. The police — Benoit — must be told.'

`I suppose they must,' Delvaux said slowly.

Paula watched him crumble. The brisk vigour with which he had been speaking dissolved. The terror had returned. He held out his hands in a helpless gesture.

'Then the kidnappers will know...'