Colin Forbes - By Stealth

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.

`Oh, they'll be armed,' Newman said. 'I think I caught a glimpse of a range of dunes when the fog drifted a moment ago.'

`You did,' Marler confirmed grimly. 'The road from here on is pretty straight. I suggest we drive further north half a mile or so, get away from this place while we think what to do next.'

`Agreed,' replied Newman.

Getting back inside their cars, still led by Newman, they crawled without lights. Soon Newman's night vision showed faint pinpoints of light moving about among the dunes. He continued moving north and then saw a small ridge towards the sea. Checking his rear-view mirror to make sure that Marler was close behind, he turned off the road.

`Where are you going now?' Paula asked.

`That ridge should be a good vantage point to spy on what's going on.' He descended into a small dip, parked the BMW and got out as the other two cars pulled up behind him. His right hand flashed inside his windcheater, withdrew the Smith amp; Wesson. A small figure was coming towards them.

`Mr Robert Newman, I presume?' Philip Cardon called out.

`What the devil are you doing here?'

`Surveying the enemy-' He broke off. 'Paula! Thank God! Are you OK?'

`Very OK. Now,' she added. Briefly she told him of her ordeal without making a big thing of it. Cardon took her by the arm, followed by Newman. 'Tweed will be desperate to hear you're alive. I've got a radio transmitter in the car behind that hummock. Come and talk to him

…'

Several hours earlier, Tweed had left the harbour and was driven to the military encampment south of Esbjerg. He was again impressed by the security. Dropped by the driver at the entrance, he was escorted by a uniformed Danish officer inside the guardhouse.

The wide-spread complex, behind a twelve-foot wire fence he suspected was electrified, comprised single- storey huts like giant portacabins. He had to show the officer not only his passport but also his SIS card.

`Anton Norlin is expecting me.'

`He is expecting you, sir. Please follow me…'

The officer led the way between two rows of huts to the largest edifice. Perched on its roof was an array of aerials and a large satellite dish which revolved slowly. Tweed had a slight shock as the officer opened the door, ushered him inside, closed it without entering. Back in the guardhouse he had briefly used a phone, speaking in Danish, not a word of which Tweed had understood.

The shock came when a tall, sturdily built figure stood up from behind a desk and turned round. His face was hidden by a Balaclava helmet. Penetrating eyes stared at him as he came forward and shook hands.

`We are most glad to see you, Mr Tweed. I am Anton Norlin, although that is not my real name.'

It was exactly like meeting a commander of the British SAS. As they were shaking hands Tweed observed the large but was divided into two sections. Half-way down the long room a glass wall with a closed door cut them off from the far end. Norlin must have noted his quick glance.

`Behind the glass wall is the sophisticated communications section. That will be at your service if needed.'

`It will he needed…'

Sitting down, as Norlin poured coffee from a percolator, he saw all the men beyond the glass wall also wore Balaclavas. Norlin brought his chair round from the other side of the desk to sit close to Tweed.

`Is there anything I should know?' he enquired. `A great deal…'

Norlin listened attentively without saying a word while Tweed told him about his conviction that secret hostile vessels would be approaching the South Jutland coast, about the weird colony of bungalows – he showed Norlin the map marked with a cross – about the Minotaur patrolling off the coast. He put the Dane completely in the picture. Norlin nodded when he had finished, thought for a moment.

`Inspector Nielsen has been in touch with me. I have ready a large team of heavily armed men. They can be transported swiftly to this objective marked on the map. Either by a fleet of helicopters or by trucks.'

`I suggest the main body is moved south by truck,' Tweed urged. 'The arrival of choppers would alert the men who I am certain will be ashore waiting to receive the human cargo from those ships.'

`Trucks, then. These men waiting there – we expect them to be armed?'

`I'd assume they will be. It's rather a complex operation. Subject to the safety of your own troops, I don't give a damn how many already ashore are wiped out. But if possible I'd like to take alive for questioning all those men who are being brought ashore from the ship – or ships.'

Norlin picked up the phone, spoke rapidly in Danish.

Tweed had the impression he was issuing orders at machine-gun speed. Without having seen his face, he was already very impressed by Norlin. The Dane exuded competence, resolution. He put down the phone.

`I have just arranged for large dinghies with outboard motors to be transported aboard the trucks. Also grappling equipment – in case we have to board the ships while at sea.'

`A very sound idea,' Tweed agreed. 'The trouble is I don't know what we shall be facing.'

`So, we prepare for all contingencies…'

He picked up the phone, which had started ringing. A brief stream of Danish. Norlin replaced the receiver, stood up.

`Please come with me into the communications room. There is a message for you from a man called Philip Cardon…'

`Tweed here. Any news of Paula? Found anything, Philip?'

`Answering your first question, I'm entirely on my own at present. Newman and the others could be on their way to me now. We have a tough team searching for Paula,' he reassured Tweed. 'I can answer your second query positively. At the spot marked X there are twenty-eight bungalows well hidden behind sand dunes. Close to the coast. Only a rough estimate, but I'd say there are between fifteen and twenty thugs gathered for the party. Your favourite person is also present, ready to wave his magic wand. You can hear me clearly?'

Perfectly. All understood. Anything more?'

Cardon had been speaking at rapid-fire rate. He never had trusted radio communication.

`Yes. They have been practising with dinghies with outboards. Launching them into the sea, going out a few hundred yards, returning to the beach. That's it so far.' `Good. Very good. Keep in touch…'

Tweed swivelled round in the chair in front of the transmitter. He told Norlin what Cardon had said.

`Good job I arranged for us to take our own dinghies…'

Norlin had made his remark and they were leaving the communications room when the soldier who had slipped back into the chair took another message. He called out to Norlin in Danish.

`Tweed, you're wanted again on the phone,' Norlin told him. 'Inspector Nielsen from Copenhagen.'