Colin Forbes - By Stealth

`So?' Monica said less confidently.

`The Chinese do not have a reverence for human life. With a population like that they could afford to lose fifty million to establish control of Europe. They'd overwhelm us.'

`They have to get here first,' Monica objected.

`If the Americans could transport such huge numbers in 1942 by sea,' Cardon reminded her, 'how many do you think the Chinese could move by sea and air in giant ships and planes?'

`You two are frightening me,' Monica told them.

`That's nothing,' Cardon said. 'Now I'm going to scare the living daylights out of you. China, as I said, is the one successful Communist state. With the collapse of the Soviet Union it regards itself as the keeper of the Holy Grail. And it feels itself to be one gigantic fortress under siege from a capitalist world. So. what is the answer? Stalin's. Unlike him they have this colossal population, this vast land mass. The answer? To strike first before liberal ideas take hold inside China. To occupy Europe. Then they are safe. More than safe – they'll be in a position to dictate to the rest of the world with that much power. And generals like military action – that's what they live for.'

`China is a long way from London,' Monica said, without much conviction.

`Liegnitz in Silesia – about two hundred and fifty miles from Hamburg – was a long way from East Asia,' Tweed reminded her. 'And yet the Mongols reached it – and they travelled on horseback. Think of the speed at which a Stealth plane could move. We're talking hours instead of years.'

`You have scared the daylights out of me,' Monica admitted.

`And now just to reassure you,' Cardon said ironically, `I'll show you those photographs I took inside General Li Yun's War Room West. Developed and printed in the Engine Room before you arrived, Tweed.'

He took out a plastic wallet from his pocket, extracted some prints, spread them out on the desk. Tweed stared at them with rising apprehension.

They were photos of British Ordnance Survey maps – and the first one showed a section of the south coast from Bournemouth to Beaulieu River with Lymington in the centre. A cross marked a location he was certain was Moor's Landing.

Five more photos – also of Ordnance Survey maps – linked up with the Lymington map and were marked with the most rapid routes to London.

He examined the next prints, which were of Belgium. A second cross just west of Ghent marked another location. He must show this one to Benoit when he returned to the Belgian capital.

Tweed used a magnifying glass to study another print. He read the words Ost Friesische Inseln. The Frisian Islands looping in a semicircle off the west coast of Germany – including Borkum and Norderney. Tweed recalled his first conversation with Commander Noble. Vessels had disappeared in this area – the area where a crewman lowered from a helicopter had been sick when he found Vogel's decapitated head jammed in the floating bow of his craft.

And this was also the area written about before the First World War by Erskine Childers in his classic novel, The Riddle of the Sands. A wonderful story about how the Kaiser's Germans planned to assemble a fleet of barges to invade Britain. Had the diabolical General Li Yun also got a copy of this volume on his bookshelf?

No longer dealing with Ordnance Survey maps, he peered through his glass at the final print, of the coast extending north off Germany and including the west coast of Denmark.

The map included the northern tip of the German island of Sylt – also marked with a cross. But Tweed's attention was drawn to the stretch of Danish coast south of the port of Esbjerg – a bleak and lonely area out of season as he knew from a visit. It was off this coast that most vessels had disappeared. And there was another cross midway between Esbjerg and the German frontier – close to the sea.

He double-checked the print of the Frisian Islands. It extended inland up the River Elbe to include the great port of Hamburg. Another cross, downriver and outside the city. He looked at Cardon.

`I suspect this is the most ingenious and brilliant military planning I've ever encountered.'

`Takes the biscuit,' Cardon agreed. He was still bursting with energy as he stirred restlessly in his chair. 'Now, anyone like to know about Dr Wand?'

In the lounge area of the Brussels Hilton Paula idly turned over the pages of a fashion magazine. She was feeling rather like a prisoner – not able to go out unless she had escorts guarding her. You just want some action, she said to herself.

`Miss Paula Grey, I believe?'

She looked up. A tall, handsome man with jet-black hair and an engaging smile was looking down at her. Where had she seen him before? In his early thirties, she guessed, he was smartly dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, a snow-white shirt, and a blue polka-dot tie. The shirt was a change from the striped effort most Englishmen were affecting at the moment. She put down her magazine, saw the brief glance of admiration at her crossed legs. Not a trace of lechery in that glance.

`You've got to remember where you last saw me,' he teased her as he sat down.

`I'm sorry. I do know I know you…'

How feeble can you get, she thought as she heard herself utter the words. And really she was ready for a change of company: just for a few hours. He suggested a drink and she said she wouldn't mind a glass of champagne.

'Or is it a bit early?' she wondered, checking her watch.

`Some people have started lunch already,' he assured her. He ordered two glasses from a waiter, then again gave her his full attention. 'I was dressed differently – in rather casual clothes…'

`Buckler's Hard! You took us by boat to Moor's Landing. Mr Mordaunt!'

'Mr Mordaunt it is,' he agreed. 'I knew you had a good memory. Not that I'm the sort of person people do remember.'

She liked that. It suggested a degree of modesty many men she'd met seemed totally devoid of.

`You're a friend of Bob Newman's…'

`Who is using my name in vain?'

It was Newman who had materialized from nowhere. She wondered why she felt slightly annoyed. Newman sat down and stared at Mordaunt.

`Where did you spring from? Last time you were ambling round Hampshire. What brings you to Brussels?'

`A hot tip. Could be a right royal scandal brewing up. Involving one of those fat-cat EC Commissioners. Could also be the big one I've been hoping for.' He looked at Paula. 'If it's not too brash an approach, would you join me for lunch at the Tete d'Or? It's a very good restaurant off Grand' Place.'

`That's very nice of you.'

She thought it over quickly. Tweed had once taken her to the Tete d'Or. It was a very plush restaurant and the food was excellent. Also police HQ and Benoit were just off Grand' Place.

`I'd like that very much,' she decided.

Mordaunt stood up. 'We're having a glass of champers, Newman. You'll join us, of course?'

`No, thank you.'

`When the waiter comes I'm picking up the tab. Please excuse me for a moment while I visit the bathroom…'

`Did you have to be so rude to him?' Paula snapped. 'I need a bit of variety.'

`Some variety,' Newman commented. `Mordaunt is a snout, a so-called freelance journalist scrabbling in the gutter for snippets of information he can fob off on professional journalists. For money, of course. A hand-to- mouth character.'

`Have you finished?' Paula enquired in a dangerously soft tone. 'A snout? I think that's a disgusting term. And have you, by any chance, used his services yourself in the past?'

`I have,' Newman told her cheerfully. I've asked him for info I didn't want – to send the opposition off in the wrong direction. Knowing he'd go and sell what I'd said to him to a rival.'