Colin Forbes - Deadlock

Behind her The Parrot swore. He had almost missed her coming out. He was used to recognizing her by that long auburn sheen of hair. And she was dressed differently. A blue two-piece suit he hadn't seen before.

The Parrot was almost exhausted. Flu had struck down half the staff at the rue des Saussaies. He'd had to work without sleep for longer than he cared to recall. Lasalle himself, who cared for his men, had come to the Place Vendome to apologize, to ask him whether he could carry on a while longer.

'Of course,' The Parrot had replied, cursing himself the moment he had said the words.

He pushed the machine across the rue St Honore, straddled it in the quieter side street and kicked the starter. At least the scarf on the girl's head showed up. He cruised slowly, turned into the rue de Rivoli. Out shopping, it seemed. Still, he'd be relieved at lunchtime.

He was also worried about following her to Le Havre yesterday. His reflexes had not been too sharp and twice he'd wondered if she'd spotted him. The traffic was heavy and he kept in close to the kerb. Once she looked back after looking in a shop window. He pulled up behind a parked car and she went on, nearing the Place de la Concorde.

The traffic roared past him like an armoured division -the lights were green at the entrance to the vast square of Concorde. The Parrot blinked, his eyes twitching with fatigue. She was walking faster now. Afterwards he cursed himself for not being alerted by her increase in pace.

The lights were still green when she suddenly crossed the pavement, dived inside a parked car, slammed the door shut. Volvo. He tried to turn into the next lane but there was no gap. Couldn't see the registration plate. The lights turned amber. Good…

The Volvo shot forward, swung left into Concorde. And the lights turned red as The Parrot spurted forward. He braked. ' Merde! ' He'd lost the bitch. And it had looked to him like a deliberate manoeuvre. He hadn't even seen the driver of the Volvo. ' Merde! '

Klein roared round the Place de la Concorde in the thunder of traffic, swung up the Champs Elysees. In the distance perched the massive hulk of the Arc de Triomphe. The sun shone brightly, which added to the drivers' zest for speed.

'Any chance you were followed?'

'It's just possible,' said Lara and described the events at Le Havre, outside The Ritz, and the precautions she had taken wearing a different outfit.

'Probably that lively imagination of yours,' Klein replied jocularly. He was in a good mood. Driving at speed, and an attractive girl by his side. Pity she had to play the ultimate role when the time came. Couldn't be helped – a key part in his plan.

He drove on to La Defense, the high-rise complex where a lot of multi-nationals had their headquarters. Pulling in by the kerb, he fed coins into the meter – no point in the police getting to know him. Top criminals had been known to go down neglecting the tiniest detail. He leant back behind the wheel.

'Le Havre? What do you think?'

She was peering up out of the window. They were hemmed in by the towers of concrete and glass. It reminded her of films she'd seen of New York.

'Le Havre didn't look right,' she replied. 'Sorry to be so negative – after Marseilles. But the objections are the same. French security is tough. No obvious and easy escape route inland. Here are the pictures I took – plus a chart I bought from a ship's chandler.'

She handed him a thick envelope. Klein, in his turn, gave her a slim envelope. 'Another thousand pounds – in francs – to keep you going for a few days. Don't go and spend the lot at Valentino.'

'Where do I try next?'

'I'll want you to stay in Paris a bit longer. Another week at least. I've extended your reservation at The Ritz.'

'And how do I fill in my time?'

There it was, Klein thought. His universal problem -keeping the whole team occupied. The men in Holland were kept busy training – out in the wilds of the northern coast. Lara was getting impatient.

'Sometime during the week, check Cherbourg. It's quite a port. You can get there by train, of course. Let a few days pass, then make the trip. Now, wait here for a few minutes. I have to pay a call on someone.'

'I still haven't any idea of what I'm going to be asked to do later,' she reminded him.

'None of the others have either. Security. Worth the boredom, isn't it? A quarter of a million pounds? See you.'

Lara sat thinking as he disappeared down a walk between the buildings. Why was she doing this? She held the envelope in her hand. Another thousand pounds. Handed out like confetti.

It was her bitch of a step-mother, she decided. She wanted to show her what she could accomplish on her own. Life had been absolute hell since Lady Windermere arrived in her life. She'd done everything possible to drive her out of Eaton Square – so she could get a stronger grip on her new rich husband. In the end Lara had walked out in a flaming temper. Later she'd called her father and said she wanted to explore the world a bit. He'd approved of her wishing to make her own way.

And it was her sense of adventure. She knew the enterprise she'd undertaken was dangerous. Plus the fact that at first I couldn't keep my bloody hands off Klein, she thought. To take her mind off thoughts which didn't please her, she explored the back seat of the Volvo. Maybe find a clue as to what Klein was up to. Under a pile of newspapers she found a white pastry-cook's box. Some firm in Dinant, Belgium. The box had been opened. She lifted the lid.

Conques! Hard gingerbread baked in moulds which were often little masterpieces of woodcarvings. Shaped into cows, small houses, churches, other animals. She chose two of the little houses, closed the lid and replaced the box carefully. Klein wouldn't miss two – he'd already had a good go at the box.

Extracting a packet of large Kleenex tissues from her tote bag, she wrapped each couque and slipped them inside the bag. It was half an hour before Klein returned along the deserted walk. He climbed inside, closed the door, wrapped an arm round her, pulled her towards him and they kissed passionately. She was lost again. Almost.

It was the previous evening when Newman drove the Cortina up the narrow side road to Cockley Ford. Beside him Butler sat in his denims and windcheater, which made his frame look very bulky. Nield followed behind in the Mercedes.

As he passed the gated entrance to a field Newman slowed, waved a hand out of the window, drove on. In his rear-view mirror he saw Nield turn off the road, park the car at the entrance. Driving on, he used one hand to pull up higher the zip on his windcheater, to pat the pocket which held a walkie-talkie.

'Gate's closed,' Butler said in his laconic way.

'Tweed told us about that. And it's some electronic control system.'

'Not to worry.' Butler was taking a leather pouch out of his pocket as the car slowed, stopped. 'I've brought along a gadget which ought to fix it…'

Newman stared round as Butler walked to the gate, examined it, then checked the fence on either side. Inside two minutes he was pushing the gate wide open, walking back to the Cortina.

'I neutralized the alarm system, too. Funny business at the entrance to a village. You'd think it was Fort Knox.'

'Don't forget Tweed called himself Sneed when he was here,' Newman warned.

It was still daylight, a bright sunny evening as Newman drove round a bend lined with tall rhododendron bushes, saw The Bluebell on his left and pulled up in front of the pub after turning the vehicle through a hundred and eighty degrees.

'Set for a fast getaway,' he remarked as he turned off the engine, climbed out, locked the car and walked with Butler to the entrance.

Inside the large old-fashioned room there were four people. A long-jawed countryman sitting at a table drinking from a spirits glass; an unpleasant-looking woman with grey hair tied in a bun at the back who was knitting; an oddly faced youth, and the barman,