Алистер Маклин - Floodgate

‘In my pocket,’ van Effen said. ‘I thought it might be safer there.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’

They left, taking the metal cases with them. Agnelli stopped at a door close to the entrance, opened it, went inside. He reappeared, leading a Dobermann pinscher which had about it the homicidal appearance shared by many members of its breed: it was, reassuringly, muzzled.

‘Is that animal as fierce as it looks?’ van Effen asked.

‘I’ve had the good fortune never to find out. However, he’s not here for the purposes of either defence or attack. Dobermann pinschers can be trained to smell out explosives. Use them at airports. Fact.’

‘I know it’s a fact. Has this dog been so trained?’

‘Quite frankly, I have no idea. For all I know, his olfactory nerves may be completely paralysed.’

‘I’m beginning to believe that you might even get off with this,’ van Effen said.

They made the best time they could through the drenching rain and were back at the spot where they had parked the Volvo in the Voorburgwal. Van Effen had his hand on the door when he realized that it was not, in fact, the car in which they had arrived: it was, unmistakably, a police car. Van Effen got into the back seat beside Agnelli and said: ‘You leave your own car here and come back and find a police car in its place. You know, I now do believe that you are going to get off with it after all. You do have your organization.’

‘Organization is all,’ said Agnelli.

Everything went off as Agnelli had confidently expected. They were expected at the palace and their credentials received only the most cursory inspection: they and the car were so obviously official that a more detailed examination could only have seemed superfluous: besides, it was raining very heavily indeed and the guards were very anxious indeed to get back to the shelter just as soon as they could.

Agnelli led them to a doorway which was so completely shrouded in darkness that he had to use a pencil torch to locate the keyhole of a door, a keyhole for which, as he had promised, he had the key. He also had a succession of keys which he used two flights of stairs down to open a succession of cellars. He knew the location of every door, every light switch.

‘You lived here?’ van Effen asked.

‘I’ve been here a couple of times. One has to be fairly meticulous about these things.’ He led the way through a completely empty cellar into another equally bare cellar and said: ‘This is the place. Not too difficult, was it?’

‘I find it hard to believe,’ van Effen said. ‘They do have security systems here?’

‘Excellent ones, I’m told. But security is a relative term. There is no security net that can’t be breached. Look at Buckingham Palace for instance. One of the tightest security shields in the world but as has been proved several times in the past year or so any semi-intelligent person – and, indeed, as has also been proved, those of a considerably lower IQ – can go in and out whenever they feel so inclined. Well, Mr Danilov, it’s yours.’

‘Minutes, only. Open this far door for me – if you have the key.’

Agnelli had the key. Van Effen produced a tape and proceeded to measure the thickness of the walls. He said: ‘How come all those cellars are so empty?’

‘They weren’t a few days ago. They were pretty well filled with old furniture, archives, things that you expect to collect in a royal palace over the years. Not that we were concerned with the wellbeing of those antiquities, most of which were just ancient rubbish anyway. It was no part of our plan to burn the palace down.’

Van Effen nodded, said nothing, went out – accompanied by Agnelli – and climbed a flight of steps to work out the thickness of the ceiling. He returned to the cellar, made a few calculations on a piece of paper then said: ‘We’ll use the lot. Those walls are stouter than I would have expected. But the resulting bang should still be quite satisfactory.’

‘Always a pleasure to watch an expert at work,’ Agnelli said.

‘No more than it is to watch a journeyman brick-layer at work. He does his five years’ apprenticeship. I’ve done mine.’

‘There’s a difference, I suggest, between dropping a brick and dropping a detonator.’

‘A skilled tradesman never drops anything.’ Van Effen busied himself for not more than two minutes, then said: ‘I think I recall you saying that you did have the duplicate keys for the cellars we’ve just passed through?’

‘I did and I have.’

‘So no one else can get near this place?’ Agnelli shook his head. ‘So. Finished.’

Their departure was no more eventful than their arrival had been. Less than ten minutes after van Effen had inserted the detonator into the primer they parked their car just behind a dimly lit mini-bus.

As they stepped out a figure emerged from the shadows. He came up to Agnelli. ‘All well, sir?’

‘No problem, John.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’ The man got into the police car and drove off.

‘More organization,’ van Effen said. ‘Formidable.’

The five people they had left in the room close by the Voorburgwal were all seated in the mini-bus which, being a fourteen-seater, was considerably larger than its name suggested. Van Effen and Agnelli sat in the wide seat in the back.

Van Effen said: ‘May one ask how long you expect to wait here?’

‘Of course.’ Agnelli had become more than his usual smiling self in the past few minutes: He was now positively jovial. He had shown no signs of strain inside the palace but strain there must inevitably have been. ‘Not quite sure myself, to be honest. A few minutes, perhaps. Certainly no more than twenty. But first, one must beware lurking and suspicious policemen. Leonardo? Catch.’

He threw something to his brother then stood up himself and shrugged his way into a long grey raincoat. Then he sat, reached below the seat, pulled out a machine which looked like and was a radio transceiver, flicked a switch which made a red light glow, then brought up a headband with one earphone, which he draped over his knee: he reached down again and brought up a microphone the lead of which was, presumably, attached to the transceiver.

‘Sorry I have to keep you waiting,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘But I, in turn, have to wait a call.’

‘More organization,’ van Effen said. ‘Quite admirable. But there is one area in which your organization falls down.’

‘Inevitably.’ Agnelli smiled. ‘In what respect?’

‘No heating in this vehicle.’

‘An oversight. Maria?’

‘It’s by the radio.’

Agnelli reached under the seat and, not without some effort, brought up a large wicker basket which he placed on the seat between van Effen and himself. He opened the lid to reveal a rather splendidly appointed picnic basket.

‘What you would have expected, Mr Danilov. A picnic basket for the Sunday-school picnickers. If we cannot have external warmth at least we can provide some of the internal variety.’ The contents of the basket tended to bear out his claim. Apart from two rows of gleaming glasses and packets of sandwiches neatly wrapped in cellophane, it held a very promising variety of bottles. ‘We thought we might have something to celebrate this evening,’ he said, again almost apologetically, ‘and I do think we have. A schnapps, perhaps, Mr Danilov?’

Van Effen said: ‘I unreservedly withdraw my remarks about your organization.’

Agnelli hadn’t even had time to begin to pour the schnapps when the transceiver buzzer rang. He clamped on the headpiece and acknowledged the call then listened in silence for almost a minute. Then he said: ‘Yes, they are foolish. They have no place to go. So a little persuasion to tip the balance? Call me back in one minute.’ He took off the headpiece. ‘Well, who’s the volunteer to press the button?’ There were no volunteers. ‘Well, then, I suggest you, Mr Danilov. You’re the man who prepared the charges so, of course, we’ll all blame you if the explosion turns out to be a damp squib or, alternatively, the palace falls down, so perhaps it’s only fitting that you press the button also. That way the rest of us will all feel blameless while you –’