Colin Forbes - Deadlock

Things happen when Tweed arrives somewhere. Baptism of fire.'

Commander Alec Bellenger arrived at Park Crescent late in the afternoon of the following day, which caused Tweed to put off his flight to Geneva until twenty-four hours later. A phone call from Admiralty had warned he was delayed returning from abroad.

Mid-thirties, Tweed estimated, Bellenger was a tall heavily-built man with thick brown hair. Ruddy-cheeked, a strong jaw, ice-cold blue eyes, he carried himself with the easy assurance of a man accustomed to command.

He listened in silence as Tweed related the bomb incident at Blakeney, his eyes never leaving Tweed's. He's weighing me up, Tweed thought. Fair enough. He finished speaking and Bellenger crossed his large hands in his lap, then reacted.

'Nicholls, that Bomb Disposal officer, came to me afterwards. Brought the shell and innards of the infernal device. It's a Cossack, all right…'

'Cossack?'

'Code-name for the sea-mine we smuggled out of Russia. Can't tell you how. Came out by submarine. Period.'

'Understood,' Tweed assured him.

'Apart from the hydrogen bomb it's the most devilish device invented since World War Two. Don't mind telling you the thing scares the living daylights out of me.'

'Why?'

'First the explosive the sample we purloined contained. We've called it Triton Three. Its power is roughly midway between TNI and an atom bomb.'

'Just supposing,' Tweed said casually, 'we were talking about thirty of these sea-mines – plus twenty-five bombs -and they were all armed with this Triton Three. What effect could that lot have?'

Bellenger stiffened, leaned forward. Monica, who was watching him from behind her desk could have sworn the naval commander lost colour. He took his time replying, like a man recovering from shock.

Take out Birmingham,' he responded. The whole city. Three miles radius from impact point. Level every building. No survivors. Inside that three-miles radius…'

'Jesus!'

Tweed let slip the blasphemy involuntarily. He stared at his visitor, who stared back. Bellenger straightened up, steepled his hands.

'Is this theoretical? You chose very precise numbers.'

'Oh, completely.' Tweed smiled and drank some coffee. Inside the office the atmosphere was electric. He took his time over drinking the coffee – to defuse the tension. His hand was very steady as he replaced cup and saucer on desk. His tone was offhand when he spoke.

'What is so special about Cossack – the mechanism?'

Bellenger glanced over his shoulder at Monica. Tweed repeated the assurance he'd given when Bellenger arrived – that Monica had top vetting. 'In fact, if anything happened to me, she'd have to carry on.'

'Delayed action detonation for one thing. A saboteur could carry an object no larger than the smallest pocket calculator, stand thirty miles from the mine – or bomb -press a button and bang! The most advanced form of the old World War Two magnetic mine we've ever encountered. For one thing…'

'And for another?'

'It's size – in ratio to its appalling destructive power. It is quite small. About one foot in diameter. And it's death to any sizeable naval vessel. Take a submarine. They drop it within thirty miles of one of our subs. Our chaps are dead -that means they're so many fathoms under, all engine power switched off. No one even drops a spoon. Cossack homes in on them, even comes up to the hull, attaches itself like the suckers of an octopus with a revolutionary magnetic system. Someone presses the button. Our sub splits in two, is blown out of the water in a million bits.'

'How does it home in if everything is switched off and silent.'

The men inside have to breathe,' Bellenger said grimly.

'So?'

'Cossack has an ultra-sensitive chemical probe which picks up carbon dioxide – even through a hull of sheet steel. How much carbon dioxide do you imagine a sub's crew breathes out?'

'Sounds a bit diabolical.' Tweed sipped more coffee. 'But the men who despatch the mine or bomb – from a plane, another sub, whatever. They breathe…'

'I see where you're heading,' Bellenger commented. 'Cossack's sensitivity to carbon dioxide is controlled. The pocket calculator device again. Press another button and the carbon dioxide probe comes into action. We've no defence as yet. All that – and the Triton Three. Only the timer device is second rate.'

'I think,' Tweed said, checking his watch under the level of his desk, 'you've put me into the picture.'

'And now you can put me in the picture. How did that bomb in Norfolk get there? Admiralty only let me come in the hope you'd give me a lead on that.'

'I simply have no idea, no lead, no clue. I'm sorry.'

'But you'll let me know if you unearth one?'

Bellenger was standing up. Not a man to waste time. Either Tweed didn't know or wasn't telling. For the moment. Bellenger recognized a man who couldn't be talked into saying anything he didn't want revealed. They shook hands, Tweed saw him to the front entrance, came back to his office.

'Now do you believe Lysenko?' Monica asked vehemently.

'No. I'm still dubious…'

'For God's sake. After listening to Bellenger – and Lysenko telling you about the theft from that bloody Sevastopol depot?'

'Lysenko would know someone had obtained a sample as Bellenger so quaintly puts it. They'll keep careful checks on the numbers of Cossacks they have. It would embroider his story – make it sound more convincing when I found out, as he knew I would.'

'So you think it's a wild goose chase?'

'I may know more after Geneva.'

La-Chaux-de-Fonds, centre of the Swiss watch-making industry, lies high up in the Jura Mountains near the French frontier. The modern buildings are white, antiseptic-looking blocks, the streets laid out on the American grid system, forming perfect rectangles. Set amid rolling green Alpine pastures, the place had an unreal atmosphere – like some vast laboratory, Klein thought.

Behind the wheel of the Mercedes hired in Geneva, he drove along the rue de la Paix, home of the watch-making factories. 12.55 p.m. The street was deserted. He drove slowly past a three-storey edifice, headquarters of Montres Ribaud, one of the leading watch-makers.

Pulling in at the kerb beyond Ribaud, he checked the time, kept the motor running. It is doubtful whether Louis Chabot, hidden away in Larochette, would have recognized him. Klein wore dark-tinted wrap-round glasses; a soft hat concealed his black hair; a polo-necked sweater made his lean jaw seem longer.

Promptly at 1 p.m. Gaston Blanc emerged from the Ribaud building, carrying a large case. Klein watched him approaching in his rear-view mirror. Then – as arranged -he drove slowly on, turned down an equally deserted side street and stopped.

Gaston Blanc was a small, plump-faced man. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and stooped as he walked. The result of years of bending over a work-bench, Klein guessed. Blanc was Ribaud's Director of Research, reputed to be the most brilliant in Switzerland.

Klein had the front passenger door open when Blanc arrived. The Swiss deposited his case on the back seat, climbed in beside Klein, who drove off immediately without any kind of greeting.

'I will give you route instructions,' Blanc said in French. 'We don't talk until we are outside the town.'

They drove along the ruler-straight main street, reached the end of the small town at a place called Les Eplatures. Following Blanc's directions, Klein swung left over a concrete bridge spanning the railway and climbed up a green Alp. They had the world to themselves as Klein turned off the road, stopping the car behind a copse of dark firs.

'You have the timers, the radio-control systems?' he asked.

'In the case behind us. Sixty timers, five control systems. You will approve the merchandise. The timers are completely waterproof. As requested,' Blanc continued in his soft sibilant voice. 'One delicate matter. Payment…'