Colin Forbes - By Stealth

The pavement was crowded with people away from the kerb. Marler had one hand in his trouser pocket as he approached the Audi. Taking his hand out of his pocket, he let a handful of small change fall.

Crouching down, he began to pick up the coins. No one was taking any notice of him as he unscrewed the dustcap from the front wheel. He had noticed three trams were trundling towards Koornmarkt. Perfect! Taking a biro from his pocket, he jammed the pointed end hard down on the spring-loaded valve. The hiss of the air escaping from the tyre was muffled by the screech of the trams. Inside two minutes the tyre was flat as a pancake.

He stood up, walked swiftly to his Mercedes, throwing the dustcap into the gutter. Paula leaned over, opened the door for him. He slid behind the wheel, slammed the door shut, switched on the engine.

`That was a damn near-run thing, as Wellington said about Waterloo,' he remarked. 'Appropriate, as Waterloo is not so far away.'

In his rear-view mirror he saw Fatman appear at the end of the alley. He looked towards the Mercedes, fumbled with his key, dived inside, switched on his own engine.

`Now for some fun,' Marler said.

He drove out of Koornmarkt, heading for the highway to Brussels. Fatman was in such a panic that he was going to lose them that he threw caution to the winds. Ramming his foot down, he pursued the Mercedes.

`What fun?' Paula asked.

'Fatman has a flat front tyre. Watch in your wing mirror. These cobbles will play havoc with him. Any second and one wheel will be riding on the metal rim.'

He increased speed. A cab driver coming in the opposite direction had to be moving at 100 k.p.h. – a little over 60 m.p.h. Marler increased speed. Behind him Fat- man was desperately trying to keep his target in view. Then it happened. Marler checked his rear-view mirror as Paula watched in the wing mirror.

At far too great a speed the Audi was racing with a wheel grinding over the cobbles on its metal rim. For a second the vehicle rocked madly, then Fatman lost all control. The Audi skidded, swerved into the back of a stationary garbage-collection truck, ramming into it like a sledgehammer. The front telescoped. An avalanche of garbage flooded down over the bonnet, piled up over the windscreen. Fatman had not taken the precaution of fastening his seat belt. He was hurled forward, his head shooting through the glass like a shell from a gun.

Marler turned a corner and the grisly sight vanished from view. Paula let out her breath, thought of something inconsequential to say.

`You mentioned Waterloo. I've never been there. Maybe I can see it sometime.'

`Don't bother,' Marler replied. 'Nothing to see. And nothing ever happens at Waterloo these days.'

`He referred to "my modest villa" – it's a palace,' Tweed commented.

Newman had driven Tweed in the Mercedes and they had arrived at Waterloo. He had been driving slowly and now he stopped close to a pair of tall ornamental gates between two large stone pillars. Beyond the pillars stretched an endless ten-foot-high wall. On top of the wall extended a wire which, Tweed felt sure, was electrified. And the gates were closed. On one pillar a large metal plate carried the legend, in English: MOONGLOW REFUGEE AID TRUST INTERNATIONAL.

`He seems to feel himself in need of a lot of security,' Tweed observed.

Newman got out of the car, went to the speak-phone below the name-plate, pressed the bell, spoke into the grille when a voice asked in French who was calling.

`Mr Tweed. By appointment. To see Dr Wand…'

He didn't wait for a reply. As he sat behind the wheel and closed his door the electronically controlled gates began to move slowly inward. Fifty yards or so beyond the gates, perched on top of a terrace, was a wide three- storey mansion with a mansard roof and the walls painted dove grey. On either side of the straight drive the gardens were laid out with a series of sunken paved areas surrounding a fountain. On a larger scale, it reminded Tweed of Delvaux's estate, but without the taste.

Newman drove inside, stopped just beyond the gates and jumped out. Grabbing one of the white-painted stones lining the drive, he carried it behind the car and laid it against one of the open gates, returned to the car. `What are you up to?' Tweed enquired.

`When the gates close automatically – which they are beginning to do now – the right-hand gate will be stopped by that small boulder and won't close. Just in case we find we have to make rather a swift departure…'

Arriving at the foot of the terrace, Newman turned his car so it pointed back down the straight drive. Side by side they mounted ten steps to the terrace, walked up to two large wooden double doors. Before Tweed could press the bell the door opened. A heavily built man with dark hair slicked back and dressed like a butler stood to one side.

`Dr Wand is waiting to see you now, gentlemen.'

Tweed walked in first, followed by Newman. There was a loud pinging noise. Which was when Newman realized the door was framed with a metal detector. The butler closed the door. He addressed Newman.

`One moment, sir. Are you carrying any weapons?' `Yes,' Newman said promptly. 'A Smith amp; Wesson.' `If you don't mind,' the butler went on in French, 'I'll take care of that while you see Dr Wand.'

`No you won't.'

`It is the custom of the villa. No one carrying a gun is permitted into Dr Wand's presence.'

`Then open the bloody door again, flunkey, and we'll go back to Brussels.'

Newman saw his right hand twitch in an upward movement, then relax. During this verbal duel Tweed had remained silent. This could be a dangerous outing and he felt quite prepared to let Newman handle it in his own way. The butler gave Tweed a little bow.

`If you don't mind waiting a few moments, I have to consult my employer.'

`Go ahead,' Tweed urged him.

While waiting in the enormous entrance hall with a polished wood-block floor decorated with Persian rugs casually laid here and there, Tweed, hands clasped behind his back, strolled over to examine a small framed painting of a woman wearing medieval clothes.

`That's a Holbein,' he remarked to Newman. 'An original if I'm not mistaken. It must have cost a mint.'

`Dr Wand doesn't seem to be short of a bob or two,' Newman commented. 'Aiding refugees.'

The butler had walked to the rear of the hall where a large Regency desk stood. Presumably his station to which he summoned servants to give them orders. He was speaking into an old-fashioned phone with a gold handle. Replacing it on the cradle, he walked back.

`Dr Wand is prepared to make an exception in your case. Please follow me. I will be waiting outside his study door.'

`Eavesdropping?' Newman enquired genially.

Marching ahead of them, the butler missed a step, then resumed his military-style walk. Pausing before a heavy door inlaid with panels, he knocked twice, opened the door and stood aside, closing it as soon as they had entered.

Tweed blinked. The study was a very large room but all the heavy velvet curtains were drawn over the windows. The only illumination came from a shaded desk lamp, tilted so it shone on two low arm chairs in front of the Louis Quinze desk. Behind the desk, seated high up in a tall-backed chair, was a shadowy figure. Still in the shadows, the figure stood up slowly, remaining behind his desk.

`Mr Tweed, it is my great pleasure to be honoured with your company. So please come forward both of you and sit down. I am sure that with men of your intelligence we shall find much of interest to discuss.'

Conscious of the deep pile carpet under his feet, Tweed walked forward more slowly than usual, glancing round as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light. Then he moved sideways, lifted a carver chair, pushed the low armchair out of the way, sat down.