By Stealth (65 page)

`My humble apologies ...'

`Just keep quiet and your question will be answered. The lead vessel, the
Mao III
, has as its main task the protection of the
Yenan
. There are also operatives aboard
Mao III
, but they are far less important. I am happy to say that as soon as the Yenan team has landed and occupied the bungalows waiting for them, my whole European apparatus will be established in place.'

`Most satisfactory. You have planned this so well,' Starmberg replied with grovelling enthusiasm. Wand preferred top subordinates who looked up to him. 'Everything is now ready in Jutland for their reception.'

`Kindly assure me that the escorts are in position.'

`Twenty armed men will now have hidden themselves behind the dunes.'

`And the dinghies, I trust, have been placed in a strategic situation? The
Mao
and the
Yenan
will have to stand offshore while the operatives are landed on the beach.'

`The dinghies are also concealed behind the dunes. Trucks delivered them an hour ago.'

There was silence for some time as Starmberg drove steadily south. Wand appeared to have sunk into one of his trances. They had reached the wilderness in South Jutland now. Wind blew a veritable storm of powdered sand over the windscreen. Starmberg had turned on the wipers at top speed but still a film of sand coated the screen.

`You have checked the met forecast, I trust?' Wand asked suddenly.

`Wind due to die at dusk. Then dense fog along this coast.'

`It is dusk now ...'

Wand had just made the remark when the wind dropped, went away. A few minutes later, glancing to the west, Wand saw in the fading light a turgid grey mist creeping in from the sea. His mouth twisted into a smile of pleasure.

`You haven't asked me about our good friend, Tweed.' `You don't like me to ask questions,' Starmberg reminded him respectfully.

`Good. Very good indeed. You might like to know Tweed is due to receive a memento of his cherished Miss Grey. Namely her severed arm. That will break him finally.'

`A pleasure for him, I'm sure,' Starmberg replied with relish. 'We have nearly reached the bungalows. Inside the one which will be your headquarters a powerful transmitter has been installed.'

`I would hope so. That is my means of communication with the
Mao
...'

Both men were so absorbed in what lay ahead of them they had never even glanced behind them. Even if they had, it was doubtful if they'd have seen the scruffy Ford Sierra which had followed them all the way from the airport. Behind the wheel Philip Cardon slowed down, driving with great skill with only his sidelights on.

While the Piper Archer was in mid-air, and soon after its take off from Kastrup, Tweed had — at Cardon's suggestion — asked the pilot to transmit a message to Nielsen over his radio.

The pilot had immediately picked up his microphone and had spoken to Nielsen on the prearranged frequency. He had asked for an anonymous car — equipped with a powerful transmitter — to be obtained in Esbjerg and kept waiting for their arrival. As usual, Inspector Nielsen had delivered.

On landing at Esbjerg the security chief had led the three passengers to two vehicles parked in a secluded area. One was a much-used Ford Sierra disfigured with smears of mud.

`This is the one with the transmitter,' the security chief had informed them. 'Tuned to the correct waveband — and this bit of paper gives you the call sign to reach someone called Anton Norlin.'

`That's mine,' Cardon had said.

He had waited at the airport until Wand's Lear jet had landed. Nielsen had radioed the Piper Archer en route, telling Tweed about the strategem he'd used to delay the Lear jet. Cardon had been behind the wheel of the worn- looking Ford Sierra when Wand had appeared, had climbed into the front passenger seat while the uniformed chauffeur held the door open for him. He had watched cynically as the heavily built man with the ponderous walk had disappeared inside the limousine.

Know you're the big cheese, you do, Cardon had thought.

Later, driving after them into South Jutland, he had found his souped-up engine was taking him too close. He had slowed down as the gritty sandstorm raged all round him.

He only stopped when he saw the limousine swing west off the road towards the sea and a range of rolling sand dunes. Approaching the dunes on foot, he had seen they concealed a large colony of bungalows. The limousine was parked outside one bungalow where a tall aerial was automatically elevating.

He had immediately returned to the Sierra, settled again behind the wheel, reached for the radio telephone.

Earlier, walking outside Esbjerg Airport, escorted by the security officer, Tweed and Newman had been led to an Opel Omega. A plain-clothes driver had ushered them inside the rear of the vehicle.

`I understand I have to drive you to Anton Norlin at the military encampment,' he said over his shoulder.

`Not yet,' Tweed replied. 'First, can you drop my friend at the Avis car-hire outfit in Ebsjerg? He has to drive somewhere very urgently. Then I must go to the harbour — I have to visit a vessel waiting there.'

`Avis first, then the harbour, then Anton Norlin,' confirmed the driver tersely.

He dropped off Newman outside Avis and drove on with Tweed.

The town was pleasant, busy, but without a strong character. As they reached the harbour in the Byparken the driver pointed out a red-brick crenellated water tower. The harbour was crammed with fishing boats. Stepping out, Tweed spotted a large launch with an ample deck-house from which the Red Ensign flew. Leaning against the wind, he hurried along the waterfront as waves splashed against the wall and a forest of masts swayed drunkenly.

At the gangway leading to the launch — thank God it had rails on either side — Tweed was met by a tall, clean- shaven man in his thirties. Clad in a white roll-neck sweater and immaculate navy blue trousers, he wore a peaked seaman's cap at a jaunty angle.

`I'm Tweed.'

`Dave Lane. Welcome aboard.'

With a tight mouth Tweed descended the gangplank, which was rising and falling, gripping the handrail Lane escorted him inside a comfortable saloon, closed the door, turned to his visitor.

`Identification, please, sir. Regulations ...'

Tweed produced his passport, carefully avoiding gazing out of the windows. Lane examined it with care, returned it.

`You want to contact Commander Wilson?'

`Where is the
Minotaur
now?' Tweed asked quickly.

`Out there.' Lane waved a hand towards the open sea. `He is patrolling off the South Jutland coast.' He sat down in front of a transmitter hidden from the outside world by heavy net curtains drawn over the windows. 'Radio contact may be a bit crackly. Let's see, shall we?'

A minute later he handed the phone to Tweed who sat in the chair Lane had vacated.

`Tweed here. Repeat, Tweed here ...'

`Heard you the first time. Tug Wilson at this end. We met at a bash at the Admiralty two years ago. Remember you well. How many targets are expected?'

By 'targets' he meant Stealth vessels. Tweed now recalled the cheerful weather-beaten face of Tug Wilson. And he was being careful — talking on an open line.

`I have no idea,' Tweed confessed.

`Are they armed?'

`Again. Haven't a clue.'

`You're a mine of information!' Wilson chuckled. There was no crackle and the communication was crystal- clear. 'But I understand you're the one who sent me my Christmas present. Most acceptable. My thanks.'

`I shall need to communicate with you from now on from a land base,' Tweed warned. 'That should be possible — they have excellent equipment, I'm sure.'

`Ask Lane for the data. Put him on again, please. Glad to have you aboard ...'

Tweed handed the phone back to Dave Lane, walked swiftly to another chair, sat down. The large launch was rocking merrily and he hadn't had the foresight to take a Dramamine. But despite a growing queasiness Tweed felt relieved: Tug Wilson was a good man to have on your side. That last reference to being glad to have you aboard was a great compliment, coming from the tough Navy commander.

He happened to look up at a moment when the launch was heeling towards the sea. He hastily averted his eyes as a fleet of large waves rolled into the harbour. Tweed thanked Heaven he was not aboard the
Minotaur
. The relief vanished when the thought of Paula flashed into his mind. A deep depression enveloped him. Lane had finished talking to Wilson. He wrote swiftly on a pad, tore off the sheet, folded it, and handed it to Tweed.

`That is top secret. It gives the waveband you can contact the
Minotaur
on, and the code-word. As you'll see, both are changed every three hours on the hour.'

`I appreciate the excellent security. It's only right you should know the transmitter I'll be using will be operated from a military base. A rather special one. And now, if I may ask, I expect you're returning to the
Minotaur
?'

`No fear!' Lane grinned boyishly. 'The Commander agreed that I should leave harbour immediately — if that suited you. I'm heading down the coast for South Jutland. You think there'll be a rough house?' he asked eagerly.

`I think that today there will be the deadliest and strangest duel ever fought.'

49

`We'll drive north fast and investigate that weird colony of bungalows you found,' Newman decided.

`Suits me,' Marler drawled. 'I did locate them.'

`Paula,' Newman urged, putting his arm round her shoulders, 'I think you ought to go back to Tønder and get a real rest after what you've been through ...'

They had driven away from the house of death, leaving behind Ilena and the infamous Dr Hyde. Only when they reached the road and the house had vanished in the fog had Newman stopped his BMW with Paula beside him.

Marler had followed in his Volvo while Butler brought up the rear in his own Volvo. Now they were all standing outside the BMW. For ten minutes Paula had been striding up and down the road, exercising her limbs, bringing herself both physically and mentally back to normal. She gently removed Newman's arm.

`You think you're going to pack me off to bed when the real climax could be near? I appreciate your sympathy, but I am staying with you.'

`Newman could be right,' Marler suggested.

Paula flared up. 'You can both stick it!' She stood, hands on her hips, glaring at them. 'Stick it, I said!'

Butler, who normally used words as though they were money to be spent frugally, stepped forward.

`The lady is fit again. Didn't you hear what she told you to do with your idea of treating her as an invalid?'

And I wish to God,' Paula continued, 'there was some way we could let Tweed know I'm OK.'

`Facilities for communication are a bit scarce on the ground in this part of the world,' Marler warned.

`Then let's bloody well get moving! We're all armed. Drive north. Stop hanging about,' she stormed. 'Bob, I'll travel with you. We'll lead the attack column …'

Fog. Dense fog was rolling in like a poison-gas cloud from the sea. Paula hid from Newman the emotions which welled up inside her. Fog spelt the horror at Lymington marina on the south coast of Britain — when Harvey Boyd had failed to come back alive.

Fog spelt the nightmare on the Elbe at Blankense harbour — the terror of the
Holsten
being split in two and sinking barely seconds after they'd rushed ashore.

Fog spelt the unknown, fear, menace. She slipped her hand inside her shoulder-bag, gripped the butt of her Browning for comfort. At that moment Marler drew alongside them, waved his hand for them to stop.

As Newman and Paula climbed out Marler leant in, switched off the BMW's lights. Paula glanced back. No lights any more on Marler's car, on Butler's. She spoke first.

`What's happening? Where are we?'

`Very close to those dunes over to the left,' Marler said sombrely. `And I saw lights — beams from flashlights. A lot of them. If each is held by one man there must be up to twenty of them.'

`So, we're outnumbered — if they're armed,' Paula commented.