Colin Forbes - By Stealth

`You said you wished me to contact Vulcan,' Jules reminded his chief.

`I was just about to ask you to call him. The Parc d'Egmont will be famous by nightfall.'

The sky was a sea of grey storm clouds as Mordaunt walked up to the narrow entrance to the Parc d'Egmont. He checked his watch by the illuminated hands – it was so damned dark it might have been night. He wore a trench coat, collar turned up against the cold, and a trilby hat. No one else about and he was on time.

He felt relieved about the outcome of his phone call to Dr Wand. Before lifting the receiver and dialling the number he'd had to assert all his will power. He had never disobeyed an order before. Looking back, he wondered how he'd had the nerve to do it. His mind had been half on Paula. She had given him the impetus to refuse the order.

Mordaunt's brain was still reeling with the impact the girl had made on him. For the first time he had become infatuated with a woman whose personality had – over one lunch – captured him body and soul. He smiled at himself for thinking in such terms.

He was walking now quietly along the the soggy path into the area of grass and trees. As he'd expected, no one else was in the park. It had rained heavily for a short time in the afternoon. He stopped and listened. The only sound was the steady dripping of water off the trees, a noise which for some reason got on his nerves. Like the Chinese water torture.

Get a hold on yourself. You're only a few yards from the back of the Hilton. At times he could see the lights inside the Cafe d'Egmont, the matrons of Brussels in their expensive clothes taking tea. He was in the middle of civilization.

He wandered deeper into the park – away from the Hilton and towards the distant walls of villas at the bottom of the sloping grass. Who was he supposed to meet? And where the devil were they?

He stopped again in the small neglected wilderness. The drip-drip-drip of water dropping off the trees was getting on his nerves. Apart from that unsettling sound it was so silent. He could be miles from any city…'

`Joseph! Over here…'

A woman's muffled voice. A vague shadow slipped out from behind the trunk of a tree, waited for him to approach. She was muffled too – in a long raincoat, the hood pulled well down over her head. He walked towards her. She held something in her hand.

`Joseph, put on these dark glasses. You must not risk being recognized when we meet someone to give them the package.'

He guessed now what his role was: to act as bodyguard during some transaction. He reached out his right hand, took the dark glasses, raised his arm to put them on. The woman's right arm jerked up, plunged down. He felt something sharp rip the cloth of his raincoat, penetrate his suit and shirt, stab painfully into his upraised arm.

There was a brief flash of pain, then a ferocious attack of white-hot burning inside his body. He gurgled horribly, waved his hands futilely for a millisecond, sagged to the soaked grass, lay very still.

In London it was afternoon as Tweed slowly paced round his office while Monica watched him. Philip Cardon had completed his report, then had been overwhelmed by fatigue.

He had phoned his girl friend's flat to tell her he was coming home. She'd told him her flat was no longer home for him: in his long absence she had acquired a substitute boy friend. Tweed had immediately called in Butler, who had agreed to take Cardon by car to his own pad. When he came back he said Cardon was sleeping like a babe

…'

Tweed had told him to stay in the office he shared with Pete Nield.

`I may need you at a moment's notice. Be ready to travel abroad. Monica will supply you with Belgian and German currency…'

`You're getting geared up for a big push,' Monica had suggested late in the morning.

`We may have to move very fast. I'm trying to out-think Dr Wand – as I'm sure he's trying to out-think me. It all depends on which of us successfully deceives his opponent…'

There had then been a flurry of phone calls – some of which had surprised Monica. First, Tweed had phoned the PM, asking permission to take a certain course of action. He had then waited to give the PM time to make his own phone call. Later Tweed had called SAS HQ at Hereford, speaking to the officer in charge of the stand-by team.

`I may need you to fly your men urgently to somewhere in Europe.'

`North or south?' the officer had queried. 'It makes a difference.'

`Definitely northern Europe. I may phone you from quite a distance to give you the objective. I'll use the code-word Hurricane.'

`I favour transporting my men by a fleet of choppers,' the officer had suggested.

`So do I. It may be a small airfield where you land. And it could be vital to be equipped with powerful limpet mines. To sink ships.'

`No problem there.'

`I'll be in touch, Conway…'

Tweed doubted whether that was his real name. When he called Noble the Commander of Naval Intelligence insisted on dashing over to see him – as opposed to talking even on a scrambler phone.

When the ruddy-faced Noble arrived he seemed very cheerful. He accepted coffee from Monica and then began talking at top speed.

`I speeded up the operation to bring back the consignment from Liege. We flew there last night. Benoit was very co-operative, had the airport closed down by the time we arrived. Plus unmarked cars to transport us to Delvaux's plant. Delvaux was there himself. Looked strained, but he's got all his marbles.'

`You can't mean you've brought everything back here already?' Tweed asked, not bothering to conceal his surprise.

`It's all at the Admiralty Research Establishment now. Has been for many hours. That Stealth light aircraft we dismantled is amazing. We assembled it – worked all night non-stop – and none of our most advanced radar could detect it. But Delvaux's device does – from the first reports our boffins phoned me just before I came over here.'

`How long before you're sure?' Tweed asked anxiously. `Time may not be on our side.'

`A matter of hours. That light aircraft Delvaux had constructed actually flies. A pilot is taking it up – then we'll be certain. And we brought back fifty of Delvaux's unique radar systems. I'll stick my neck out – I think you've brought us the answer to Stealth ships. Between you and me, we've been worried sick about the prospect that a hostile power might build them.'

`Could you tell me whether you have a naval vessel operating in the North Sea? Specifically, within reach of the coasts of Germany and Denmark?'

`Strictly between us – but I owe you a lot – the missile- armed frigate Minotaur is cruising in that area. Will be for some time. Why?'

`If,' Tweed emphasized, 'you find Delvaux's device is fool-proof, could you fly one out to the Minotaur?'

`Very quickly in an emergency. The Minotaur's captain is a young chap, Tug Wilson. Hates the nickname Tug, but he's resigned to it now. He's one of the old school. His motto? "If necessary, ram the bastards."' He turned to Monica. 'I hope you'll excuse my language.'

`I've heard worse round here,' she assured him.

`So could I contact this Tug Wilson by getting in touch with you by phone?' Tweed enquired.

`Easily. And I'm sleeping aboard while this action is on.' Tweed realized that by 'aboard' he was referring to sleeping on a camp bed in his Admiralty office. 'You are taking all this very seriously,' Noble observed as he stood up. 'Is this an emergency? If I can tell my people it is, then I'm going to get full co-operation from the Admiral which would put everyone on their toes.'

`I don't want to be melodramatic, but it could involve the survival of the West,' Tweed said slowly. 'And if I call you from abroad I'll use the codeword Hurricane so you're sure it's me speaking.'