Colin Forbes - By Stealth

First he had been glimpsed by Butler in London inside his mansion in The Boltons. Then he turned up in Brussels at a deluxe hotel, followed from the airport to the Bellevue Palace by Marler. A very mobile man, the mysterious Dr Wand.

And also the director of Moonglow Refugee Aid Trust International. Refugees? Hugo Westendorf, the Iron Man of German politics – before his sudden retirement – had had a tough programme worked out to stop Europe being swamped by refugees. According to Gaston Delvaux.

Andover. Delvaux. Westendorf. All outstanding among the brains of Western Europe. All now men broken by a hideous conspiracy of kidnapping – involving the maximum of psychological pressure to break them. A pattern was forming in Tweed's mind. But he still needed more data.

Prior to his visit to the MOD, Tweed had met Cord Dillon, American Deputy Director of the CIA – more important, he had been sent over as special emissary of the American President. During his brief meeting with Dillon he had reassured the American.

`I've been sitting on my ass waiting for you, Tweed,' Dillon had begun in typically abrasive fashion.

`So you had a chance to get over jet lag and the after-effects of your flu bout,' Tweed had responded genially. `No, wait until I've finished. I am tracking this vital Stealth problem…'

He had told Dillon frankly about the visit to Belgium, the bizarre murder of Andover in Liege, his conversation with Gaston Delvaux. Mollified, Dillon had nodded and stood up, grabbing hold of his suitcase.

`Then I can catch my flight back to Washington. I now have enough to tell the President you're on the job..'

What a responsibility, Tweed thought. He shrugged. It was part of his vocation. His mind flashed back to the interview with Fieldway. When he got the chance he must take Willie Fanshawe aside, question him about Burgoyne's view of life.

FAR EAST AIR CRASH. ALL DEAD.

He saw the poster next to an Evening Standard newspaper seller. Why did he immediately think of Paula and wonder how she was getting on?

Paula came out of the Brussels shop, the carrier containing her purchase looped over her left arm. She had just bought an expensive pair of knee-length leather boots. The weather had turned even colder.

Walking along near the kerb, she glanced into other shop windows. The green Lincoln Continental cruised slowly behind her. She saw its reflection in a shop window. Why did the Americans have to go in for cars as big as battleships? Gas-guzzlers, they called them – and they were.

The car parked a few feet in front of her. The rear door was thrown wide open. Pursing her lips, she moved to her right to avoid it. As she drew level two powerful hands grasped her by the shoulder. A rough voice growled in heavily accented English.

`Get into the car, lady. Take you back to the Hilton…'

Paula resisted the impulse to struggle. She remembered Harry Butler's instruction during the tough training course. 'The moment to stop being kidnapped is when an attempt is first made. Later is too late…' Relaxing her body briefly, she allowed herself to be thrust towards the interior. The driver, cap pulled well down over his head, was watching in the wing mirror, keeping his engine running.

Paula rammed her left hand on the roof of the car to gain leverage. Her relaxed body suddenly stiffened. With all her strength she rammed her backside away from her. It hit a flabby paunch. She heard her attacker let out a grunt. What happened next was so swift she didn't see it.

A scooter whizzed up out of nowhere. The rider jumped off and let it fall over. Nield, a knuckle-duster on his right hand, slammed his fist into the side of the roughneck's jaw. Blood smeared the assailant's face. A second later Newman came up behind him, slammed into his side with a vicious kidney punch.

The large fat man gave a horrible groan, started to sag to the pavement as Paula slipped out of the way on to the sidewalk. Newman grasped the thug by his greasy hair and the back of his pants. He threw him bodily into the back of the car, where he collapsed.

Nield had already darted round to the open window, where the driver had a dazed look. Nield hit him with less force, then hissed at him in French.

`Bugger off or I'll break your neck…'

Newman had slammed shut the rear door with the groaning body inside. The driver fumbled for the brake. His trembling hands grasped the wheel. The huge car moved away from the kerb as Newman noted down its registration number.

`No need,' Nield called out.

The Lincoln was zigzagging into the main stream of traffic. A juggernaut coming up behind applied its brakes. Not enough time. It hammered into the back of the car. Another car with 'Politie' in large letters along its side pulled up. Two uniformed policemen dived out and opened the doors of the Lincoln.

`Just stroll,' Newman said, taking Paula by the arm. `We're not interested in getting involved…'

Paula glanced back as she forced herself to walk normally. Pete Nield was astride his scooter, crawling along behind them. She hugged Newman's arm.

`Thank you, Bob,' she said. 'But I left you in the shop.' `And I followed you out at a discreet distance.'

`So I've become a target.'

`Tweed has become the ultimate target. Through you.

And you did well. But from now on you'd better be more on the alert than you've ever been in your life." `Understood.'

`And now, if Messrs Fanshawe and Burgoyne are still sitting in the Hilton with their aperitifs, let's see how they react. When they spot you.'

The four of them were still sitting in the lounge area with full glasses in front of them: Burgoyne, who sat next to Lee, Willie, who sat next to Helen. Newman reckoned they must be on their third aperitif. Paula watched them closely as they approached their table.

It was Willie, of course, who jumped up with a beaming smile and started fetching chairs. As he arranged them he chatted away.

`Looking in the pink. Both of you. Can't beat a walk in the sun. Used to stroll about a lot myself back in Hong Kong. Get brown as a berry in no time at all out there. In the season. Ah, for the old days of sunlight and swarming humanity. Really felt alive. Paula, you come and sit between me and Helen. This do you, Newman? There's a good chap.'

`I suppose you'd like a drink,' Burgoyne said in his usual offhand manner.

`If there's one on offer,' Newman replied, staring directly at him. 'What about you, Paula?'

`Mineral water, no ice, no lemon, please.'

`I'll have a double Scotch. Neat,' Newman decided.

Burgoyne summoned a waiter in his usual lordly manner – beckoning with an index finger. Undoubtedly, Newman was thinking, servants had come rushing forward in Hong Kong when signalled with the same gesture. Burgoyne ordered the drinks.

`Don't go away,' he snapped. 'I'm not finished. I'd like a cigar.'

The humidor was brought instantly. Burgoyne, taking his time, performed the ritual. After examining the array on offer, he lifted out a cigar, put it close to his ear, rolled it round in his fingers, sniffed it briefly.

`That'll do.'

`A cigar cutter, sir?'

`Got my own. And hurry up those drinks. My guests will die of thirst.'

`Maurice,' Willie protested mildly, 'you do rather trample on these waiters.'

Burgoyne glared at him. 'They deserve it. If they had any guts they wouldn't be waiters – spending their lives fawning on people.'

`I've met some very good waiters,' Paula contradicted him. 'Trained at the best hotels.'

`You wouldn't damn well think it – the time they take to bring a couple of drinks.'

`They haven't been long,' Paula responded, refusing to back down.

Burgoyne stared at her, his ice-cold eyes seeming to gaze right through her, to read her mind. She stared back. How many poor subalterns had dropped their eyes before that stare, she wondered. The man had the soul of an iceberg. Helen intervened to lower the tension.