Алистер Маклин - Floodgate

Vasco shrugged. ‘Very faint. But nothing else for me to do.’

‘Thank you.’ Samuelson brought him another jonge jenever. ‘Another trifle like this is not going to hurt a mind as clear as yours.’

‘That is kind. I think I’ll have it on the verandah, if I may. It is a bit overheated in here.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Samuelson hurried from the room.

The car was a tan-coloured BMW with Antwerp number plates. Vasco watched the car and its two occupants disappear round a corner, finished his drink in a thoughtful manner, then returned inside. He went to the radio, switched wave-band and wave-length and said softly in Flemish: ‘Record.’ He spoke for no more than twelve seconds, then switched back to the previous waveband and length. He tried again for Ylvisaker and was answered by the same silence. He refreshed his drink at the bar, resumed his radio chair, glanced through a magazine and again called the missing truck with the same lack of response. He tried twice more in the next twenty minutes with the same lack of response. He was still trying to make contact when Samuelson returned. He looked at Vasco, went behind the bar and returned with two more drinks.

‘Breaking my own rules, I know, but you’ve earned it and I feel the need for it. Nothing?’

‘Dead. I know Mr Danilov makes a point of being incurious about everything but I’m a serving army officer. Just how important are those nuclear devices to you?’

‘Almost entirely psychological. If necessary, I would have used them to blow off both the northern and southern approaches to the Haringvliet dam.’

‘Whatever for? No senior military commander in the Netherlands would dream of attacking the Haringvliet dam. Bombers? Never. Fighter planes? Never. Not only is your gunship more than a match for any fighter, not only do you have ground-to-air missiles, you will have a large number of hostages whose lives they would never imperil. Destroyer? Torpedo boats? Ground-to-ground missiles are heat-seeking. They’re lethal.’

‘Not bombers?’

‘What would happen if they breached the Haringvliet dam?’

‘Of course. Well, no point in trying any longer. Perhaps we should both have a brief rest before lunch.’

Vasco gave van Effen and George a brief resumé of what had happened.

Van Effen said: ‘So you’ve convinced Samuelson of his total invulnerability and ensured that we will have two fewer hard men to cope with abroad the dam. Whom did you notify?’

‘Rotterdam police.’

‘I think, George, that we may make a policeman of him yet. Well, another hour or so before lunch.’

‘Snooze for me,’ Vasco said. ‘Four jonge jenevers in succession are too much for my delicate constitution.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Dutch hospitality. You know what it’s like.’

Lunch was more than adequate but less than convivial. Samuelson tried to maintain a cheerful façade but he was deeply worried about the fate of his nuclear devices and his worry was almost palpable with the result that the last half hour of the meal was consumed in almost total silence.

Over coffee, Samuelson said to van Effen: ‘Do you think it possible that Ylvisaker and his men could have been seized by the authorities, army or police?’

‘Highly unlikely. I don’t see how they could have been. Your security is total. Even if they had been, the question is, would Ylvisaker or his men have talked?’

‘About the Haringvliet dam? No. Until we got here today only Riordan, Agnelli, Daniken and O’Brien were privy to the plans.’ Samuelson smiled faintly. ‘Your famous need-to-know maxim, Mr Danilov.’

‘One does not want to sound cynical or callous, but what the hell are you worrying about, then?’

‘As you can see,’ the TV announcer said, ‘the weather is as atrocious as ever with correspondingly poor visibility, such as one would expect as dusk approaches. The rain is extremely heavy and the wind, between Force eight and nine, has backed to the north-west. We have four cameras in position – one near Hoorn and one near Volendam, on the west side of the Markerwaard and one on the opposite shore near Helystad. This one, I’m afraid, is virtually useless: in spite of its lens hood the rain is driving straight into the lens. We have a fourth camera in a helicopter and we understand they are having a very rough time indeed. The time is 1.58. Our first shots will be taken from the helicopter.’

A white-capped, storm-tossed sea appeared on the screen. Detail was blurred and shifting, because the helicopter was being, it was clear, severely buffeted about, hence making it impossible to maintain a steady camera direction. Another voice took over from the studio announcer.

‘Helicopter camera here. I can assure you that my friend in the studio was not exaggerating. The conditions are abominable and I have to confess that the only person who is not sick is, most fortunately, the pilot. We are flying at seven hundred metres, give or take fifty metres every time this damn machine is going up or down, which we hope is a safe height if the nuclear explosion and its accompanying water spout should occur, which God forbid, directly beneath us. It is now precisely 2 p.m. and’ – his voice rose almost by an octave – ‘there it goes! There it goes! Me and my big mouth. It is directly beneath us!’

The camera lens had been extended to maximum zoom. The surface of the Markerwaard boiled whitely and then erupted a great column of water climbing vertically skywards towards the helicopter’s camera.

‘Would you look at that?’ the excited voice went on. ‘Would you just look at that?’ It seemed rather a superfluous question, as, unquestionably, almost every eye in the Netherlands was looking at nothing else. ‘And the air is full of spray. Our pilot is moving as quickly as possible to the north-west – we want to get out of this area as quickly as possible. We are making poor time against this north-west gale, but he is clearly hoping that that same gale will blow the spout and spray away from us. So do I.’

Van Effen looked at Samuelson. He appeared to have gone into some kind of trance. The only sign of movement came from his hands. His fingers were interlocked but his thumbs were revolving slowly around each other.

The studio announcer appeared. ‘I am afraid the helicopter’s lenses are clouded by that spray. We regret that none of the other three cameras are in visual contact. The detonation appears to have occurred almost exactly in the centre of the Markerwaard.’

The helicopter commentator’s voice came again. ‘Sorry about that. What with the spray and rain we are at the moment quite blind. We are still moving steadily north-west. Wait a minute, wait a minute. We have eyes again.’

The spout was collapsing on itself. The camera, zoom half retracted, was only momentarily on the spout, then began panning the surrounding area. A circle of water could be seen moving steadily outwards from the centre.

‘That,’ the commentator said ‘must be the expected tidal wave. Doesn’t look much like a wave to me, but, then, from this altitude it is impossible to gauge the height of the water.’

The picture faded to be replaced by the studio announcer. ‘We are trying to – wait, wait, we have Volkendam.’

A camera, at full zoom, showed a swell of water, little more than a ripple, it seemed, rapidly approaching the shore-line. A commentator said: ‘I agree with my colleague in the helicopter. This is hardly my idea of a tidal wave. However, I understand those tsunami tend to increase in height as the water shallows. We shall see.’

There wasn’t, in fact, much to see. With the wave less than a hundred metres from land, the commentator estimated its height as just under a metre, which was pretty much in accordance with the scientists’ predictions. Samuelson gestured for the set to be switched off.