Colin Forbes - Deadlock

Klein's voice began speaking. His tone was detached, as though describing some everyday occurrence.

'This is Lara Seagrave, daughter of Lady Windermere, a well-known London hostess. You heard the name clearly? Lady Windermere. She is supported safely by the rope round her waist which we have attached to the leg of a very heavy table. The noose round her neck is also attached to another leg of the same table. We only have to cut the first rope and she will hang from the neck until she is dead. Any attempt to storm Euromast and a man standing by cuts the first rope. She is our hostage – our guarantee of good behaviour on your part, Tweed. Now, do you understand the position clearly?'

Tweed lowered his glasses, unable to look at Lara's face for a moment longer. She looked terrified – fear beyond belief. He swallowed, unable to speak, automatically gripping the microphone, struggling for self-control. Lara…

'I said,' Klein's voice repeated, 'do you understand?'

Tweed glanced up again, saw the suspended figure, lowered his head. Oh, Jesus Christ! This was awful. He was aware suddenly of the heavy silence. The medics had gone with their grisly burdens. Couldn't hear a thing. Except for the gentle lap of water against those barges. He took a firmer grip on the mike, on himself.

'Klein we also want medics to remove the bodies from that police launch…'

'No! They moved without my permission. They stay where they are. I will ask you again…'

'Klein! Haul her back inside or you're finished. I will be replaced by a senior Dutch official…'

'Then I will talk to him. Go away. We are waiting for the gold to reach Findel. Next move then.'

Tweed looked up quickly. Klein had disappeared. Only Marler stood there, rifle still aimed. He walked slowly away. Handing back the mike to the driver, he trudged on in a daze. Reaching the entry to the side street his feet slipped on the greasy surface. A hand grabbed his arm, steadied him. A voice spoke. Blade's. 'We'll enjoy sending that bugger to kingdom come.'

'We must still wait…'

Tweed used his hand to haul himself up the back staircase. Paula met him at the top. She looped an arm through his. 'Come and sit down. That was terrible. I saw it from the roof…'

Arriving inside the room, he sagged into his chair, then he straightened his back. Round the table they watched him without speaking. Beilenger, Jansen, Van Gorp. No one seemed to know the right thing to say. Tweed broke the silence.

'I know the girl. Lara Seagrave. Met her in Paris. She had been spotted photographing ports. I liked her. I'd have liked her as a friend. She's Lady Windermere's stepdaughter. Not daughter. That slip was deliberate on Klein's part. Makes her sound more important. Only reason she's up there is the bloody step-mother. Drove her out of the house.' He paused. 'Now, we must put our thinking-caps on. The next stage is Klein's secret escape route. He has to have one. I think I know what it is.'

'Well?' said Van Gorp.

'Let's see what develops. It will be soon now.'

'In the meantime,' commented Bellenger, 'we can do nothing at all. That girl will just have to stick it out…'

'How can you be so cold-blooded, so Goddamn callous?' Paula burst out.

'Just getting the thing in perspective. I have a daughter of my own. Not callous at all, I assure you.'

'He's right,' Tweed told her. 'We can only wait.'

'He's got a stranglehold on us…' Bellenger paused. 'Not phrased well, that. Sorry.'

'You have a plan, Tweed?' Van Gorp asked.

'I'm playing it off the cuff. Klein ran out of luck long ago. He's going to make a mistake. I've pandered to his ego. I'm banking on that. He'll make just one mistake.'

'I want you to bring that Seagrave girl back in here now.' Chabot faced Klein, a Walther P. 38 automatic pistol in his right hand, muzzle pointing at the floor. The Frenchman's face was pallid with fatigue. Behind them on the platform Marler watched, holding his rifle.

'She stays out there, you fool,' Klein rapped back. He extended the control box in front of his waist, thumb poised over the red button. 'Put that gun back into your holster now. This very minute.'

'It's too much…'

'Shut up! Listen!' Klein's voice became matter-of-fact as he explained. 'Your knowledge of mass psychology is zero. They now have TV cameras recording the scene out there and soon pictures will appear all over the world.'

'What's that got to do with my request?'

The tense expression on Klein's face, the poised thumb, the steel in his voice frightened him. He slid the gun back inside his hip holster as Klein continued.

'People are stupid, very sentimental. This is something the tiny minds of those watching can take in. One girl on the verge of eternity. One slash of a knife and she hangs from her neck, choking her life out until she is dead. They can take in the fate of a single individual. The idea that two thousand people aboard those ships are at risk is too much for their feeble minds. Using Lara Seagrave as our hostage is my masterstroke. You will see.'

'I still don't like it,' Chabot repeated obstinately.

Then go down to ground floor level and stay there. Someone else can go up to the Space Tower. You are now in charge of the defences at the entrance. And remember, Chabot, if they should attack they will shoot down everyone in their way – if you let them get inside. So, if that happens, you kill them first. Go to the elevator. Don't come back.'

'The French can be so sentimental,' Klein remarked as Chabot disappeared inside the elevator.

'I don't like it too much myself,' said Marler who had walked in from the platform. 'You could have pushed them a shade too far.'

'Ah, that is a point of tactics you raise. You British can be very ruthless in your gentlemanly way. My judgement of psychology is better in this case. Now we are alone for a moment I will tell you your role in the escape plan.'

'Which is?'

'A Sikorsky will take off from Rotterdam Airport where it is now waiting for my signal. It will land on one of those large barges moored below. I shall board it with a team of men – still holding this control box. Your job will be to stay on the platform to cover me. From this height – with your talent with that rifle – you will be able to shoot down anyone foolish enough to try and prevent my escape.'

'Won't work. The moment your chopper is out of range of the ships offshore they'll be after you.'

'My dear Marler, I have thought of that. The Sikorsky will fly downriver above the Maas – towards the ships. The range will narrow, not widen.'

'Clever.' Marler leaned against the wall. 'What after that?'

The Sikorsky flies low, well below radar level. It flies on over the Adenauer and heads north for a certain Frisian island. There a large power cruiser is waiting to take us on board. By then they will have lost us. The cruiser takes us to a certain destination where we board a waiting executive jet. Comments?'

'You've left me carrying the can…'

'No, carrying this.'

From behind the seat where Lara had lain trussed up he produced an executive case, dumped it on the seat, snapped open the catches with his left hand. He gestured to the contents.

Marler blinked. Holding the rifle in one hand, his finger inside the trigger guard, he stooped over the case. Packed with neat bundles of banknotes. He sorted through several stacks at random. Fifty-pound notes. He made a quick calculation.

'One hundred thousand pounds,' Klein said.

Marler extracted one note, held it up to the light. He examined it carefully then stuffed it in his breast-pocket behind his display handkerchief. Closing the case, he replaced it behind the seat, straightened up.

'Hope you didn't print those yourself. If you have done, I will certainly find you. What about the big balance?'