Colin Forbes - Deadlock

It was close to midnight when Louis Chabot returned from his walk through the deserted village and along the winding gorge where, Hipper had told him, the old railway had once run. My God, it was good to get away from that mausoleum, La Montagne. From the rooms with furniture covered with sheets. Only the kitchen was modern and in use.

He heard the car coming from the same direction he had been driven and stepped back inside a narrow alley. The Volvo braked suddenly, swerved into the drive in front of the hotel, sending up a shower of pebbles.

'Bloody maniac,' Chabot growled.

He remained hidden as the driver got out after dousing his lights. The figure was no more than a pale silhouette in the shadows as he disappeared round the side to the rear entrance. Chabot decided to wait, lit a Gauloise. He was good at waiting. Sometimes he'd had to wait hours for the target he'd been commissioned to kill.

He might learn something. Which was more than he ever would from that Hipper who was as informative as a wooden Indian. Half an hour later the Nestle truck arrived, pulled in by the side of La Montagne. Chabot went on waiting. There were some things it might be better not to know. And Hipper had let slip a cargo of timers was expected.

Klein was amiable with the Turkish driver after he had handed over the case containing the timers. He poured him a glass of red wine in the kitchen, illuminated by a harsh fluorescent tube, then perched his buttocks on a table as he chatted to the driver in French.

'You are heading for Brussels now, I understand?'

'Yes…'

The greasy-haired, swarthy-complexioned Turk's command of the language was limited. Klein spoke slowly, kept it simple.

There's been a landslide of rocks on the direct route. I will take you to Clervaux.' He produced a map folded to the right section, showed the driver. 'From there you can drive on to Brussels. You will never find the way on your own – at night it is easy to get lost in the Ardennes.'

'How you get back – from this Clervaux?'

'Easy. My friend here will follow in his car and bring me back. After I have taken you through the difficult bit.'

'You make me pay money for this?'

'God, no! The consignment of drugs you have brought is so important I am glad to see you safely on your way.'

A more intelligent mind might have wondered why such dangerous information had been revealed. But Klein had judged his man well. The Turk's Swiss work permit expired in two months and would not be renewed. He didn't worry about that. He'd be glad to get back to his family, to his wife, in the village a few kilometres outside Ankara.

He had saved a lot of money, sending it back home. But never before had he received so much for one simple job – a thousand-franc note. He had never even seen one before. He readily agreed to Klein's suggestion. He was standing up, finishing off his glass of red wine when Klein bumped against him, spilling wine down the Turk's front.

'I am so sorry…'

'It is nothing. Should we go now?'

Klein led the way to the truck, climbing up into the cab on the driver's side behind the wheel. The Turk stood looking up with a puzzled expression as Hipper ran to the Volvo.

'Get in the passenger seat,' Klein called down. 'I know the way. There are few signposts this side of Clervaux.'

The Turk shrugged, walked round the front and joined Klein. As the truck came out of the drive, heading away from Luxembourg City, followed by the Volvo, Chabot watched from inside his alley.

He didn't understand what was going on. Had the Nestle truck delivered the timers? He peered out of the alley, saw the red tail-lights of the Volvo turning left, driving north. He went back to La Montagne,

He found the open bottle of red wine in the kitchen, poured himself a glass, drank it, then began his search for the timers. He searched all three floors, using a torch he had taken from his case, which was still packed. Chabot had a feeling he might want to leave Larochette quickly. But he didn't find the timers.

It was still the middle of the night when Klein stopped the truck. He had turned off the highway up a side track – in the headlight beams the Turk could see straight ahead a thin copse of pine trees. He looked in the wing mirror on his side. The headlights of Hipper's Volvo had stopped a few metres behind.

'What is happening?'

'I have to take a leak.' Klein patted his crotch. 'Now you can take over the wheel. You back the truck the short distance we came off the highway and continue north. You are near Clervaux. And I will pay you the rest of the money in a minute…'

More money? The Turk kept his face expressionless. He'd understood at Vevey he'd be paid one thousand francs. Had this man not known he had already been paid? The prospect of another one thousand franc note filled him with joy. He would buy his wife a present…

'Here you are.'

Klein had suddenly opened the other door, climbed up into the passenger seat. He held an envelope in his left hand. His right hand grabbed the Turk's long hair and jerked his head back. The Turk felt certain the hand couldn't hold his slippery mane. He lunged forward. Which was exactly the reaction Klein was expecting. His hand opened, the palm shoved the head forward with all his force. There was a thud as the Turk cracked his skull on the wheel and lay still. Klein checked the neck pulse. Nothing. He nodded to Hipper who stood outside the foot of the passenger door, holding an inflated plastic bag.

'Dead.'

Klein spoke the single word as he jumped down from the cab, leaving the door open. He walked cautiously to the copse he had found a week earlier, looking for the right place. Beyond the sapling pines the earth dropped away sheer into an abyss.

'Let's get on with it. We have to get back to La Montagne. See what Chabot's been up to. He must be a marathon walker.'

Hipper went round to the driver's side where the Turk slumped over the wheel. He would never see Ankara, his waiting family again. Hipper perched on the edge of the cab, reached over, turned on the ignition. Klein had taken a small sachet of cocaine he'd bought on the Paris streets for an absurd sum, ripped the packet and scattered the contents inside the cab. Something for the forensic fanatics to think about – assuming any traces of the stuff survived.

Hipper waited while Klein checked the plastic bag of petrol the Luxembourger had handed him. A fuse protruded from the neck of the bag. He'd have to act fast. He took his lighter out, nodded again to Hipper standing in the cab. He really was a very small man.

Hipper adjusted the gear, jumped to the ground and grasped the brake. Klein nodded a third time as he lit the fuse. As Hipper released the brake and slammed the cab door shut Klein threw in the bag, slamming his own door shut. The vehicle was already moving down the slope.

There was a whooshing sound and light flared inside the cab. The truck trundled on downhill as Klein followed. It brushed aside the feeble trees, upended and vanished. Klein and Hipper ran to the edge. The truck plunged straight down the abyss past the rock face, went down a good hundred feet and hit the rocks at the bottom with a distant thud. For a few seconds it was very quiet. Then the base of the abyss exploded with a dull roar. Flames flared. Smoke drifted in the windless night up the side of the precipice. Klein sniffed. Smelt like burning flesh and petrol fumes.

His precautions were a waste of time. Inside the inferno the Turk was incinerated into almost a blackened skeleton.

'Better get back,' Klein commented. 'Another loose end dealt with. I'll drive.'

Tweed, like Paula, was an owl. Both were at their most alert when most of the world was going to bed. They had a late and leisurely dinner in Le Pavilion, talking about Alain Charvet, about why they were there.