Colin Forbes - Deadlock

The outskirts of Brancaster was a line of isolated cottages separated from each other by hedges. The sports car overtook as Portch turned into a drive. Nield went on past the drive, found a grass verge, parked, walked back.

He had trouble reading the lopsided sign outside the cottage where Portch had parked. The cottage looked tumbledown, the garden was knee-high in uncut lawn, the paved path a mass of weeds between the stones. He had to use a torch to make out the lettering. Crag Cove.

Lights were on in the front room behind drawn curtains. He walked along the highway past two cottages and went up to the front door of the third. Knocking on the door, he stood well back in case it was a woman who lived alone. It wasn't. The door was opened by a middle-aged man wearing a rumpled pullover and uncreased slacks.

'Very sorry to bother you at this time of night,' Nield began, 'but I'm lost. I have to deliver an urgent package to an address in Brancaster. Trouble is the address is smeared. Looks like Crag Cove but I can't read the name.'

'Oh, him.' The man's tone was indifferent, almost hostile. 'Keeps himself to himself, he does. Crag Cove? Three doors up to your left at the end of my path. Seaman type called Caleb Fox. Got it?'

'Yes, indeed, I have got it,' said Nield. 'You have been most helpful.'

The marksman known as 'The Monk' drove just inside the speed limit as they headed through the night towards Rheims. Klein sat beside him, still smarting under Marler's insistence that he would drive.

But Marler had the reputation of being the finest killer with a rifle in Western Europe. He was 'credited' with the shooting of Oskar Graf von Krull, the German banker who had helped finance an army of private informants to track down Baader-Meinhof.

Another of his kills had been an Italian chief of police at the behest of the Mafia. And always he had an unbreakable alibi. He was officially in France every time he carried out a 'commission'. His fees were enormous but he guaranteed results.

Klein studied the Englishman as they approached Rheims. His researches into the Englishman's background had proved difficult. Plenty of rumours through underworld contacts but nothing concrete. Klein didn't know as much about him as he would have liked – but that was a tribute to the man's ability, and he was an independent-minded bastard.

Marler was in his thirties, a slim man of medium height, clean-shaven with a determined jaw. His smooth face was frequently creased in a half-smile which did not reach his brown eyes. His hair was flaxen-coloured, but seen from the back he had a small bald patch over his pink crown. Hence his nickname, The Monk.

He spoke with a public school accent, his voice light in tone. He always appeared calm and under complete self-control. He had proved himself a crack shot at Bisley – Klein knew that much. There had been talk of an embezzlement, which had shut out the world of business to him.

His father – now dead in a road accident – had been a famous racing driver. The nationality of his mother was obscure. He had a flair for speaking foreign languages -which was probably why he had settled in France. He seemed to have no permanent residence, flitting from one country to another.

'He is what they call a soldier of fortune,' a Corsican in Paris had told Klein. 'A man who will do anything for money. He has expensive tastes. He likes expensive women, I hear.'

Klein's careful preliminary investigation before approaching The Monk only told him Marler had a short-term lease on a good apartment in the upper-class Parisian district of Passy. Discreet enquiries revealed he spent very little time there.

The Corsican had provided Klein – for a fee – with a phone number. A girl had answered, had asked a lot of questions. He had been forced to give her his room number at the Georges Cinq. 'He may call you back,' the girl had said and rung off.

Later Marler had called him, instructing him to meet him at a grotty pension called the Bernadotte on the Left Bank. It had been a very clandestine meeting and Klein had choked at the requested fee. Five million francs.

'Take it or leave it,' Marler had told him. 'And I need one million in advance. Cash. Used notes. The usual thing…'

All these thoughts ran through Klein's mind as they passed Rheims in the early hours. He told Marler to make for Sedan next. There had even been an argument as to who would drive. 'I'm not yammering on about the point any longer,' Marler had informed Klein. 'I like to be in control.'

That remark had jarred on Klein. He liked to be in control. And it was already clear Marler was not in the least frightened of him. Klein was a man who liked to reinforce his authority by intimidating members of the team he had recruited.

'It's not Germany, is it?' Marler asked.

'I told you no before…'

'Sometimes,' Marler continued amiably, 'people attempt to trick me. Not a wise procedure, I assure you. Where are we making for?'

'The Ardennes. The Belgian province of Luxembourg.'

'Oh, that's all right. As I told you, I never undertake a commission in any country more than once – which rules out Germany, Italy, Spain, Greece and Egypt. Had the devil of a job hiring a Citroen with a rack fitted on the roof. A practice shoot, you said. Why the rack?'

'You'll see. When the time comes it will be a moving target.'

'We're approaching the Franco-Belgian frontier,' Klein said. 'You have the rifle well concealed?'

'Strapped with tape under the car.'

'You also brought a shovel?'

'Wrapped in a sack inside the boot. I am reputed to be efficient. Here's the border coming up. You might leave me to do the talking,' he snapped in French. They had used the language since their first meeting.

In the dark the headlight beams showed up a striped pole across the road, a small hut alongside it. There were low hedges with fields beyond on either side. Marler pulled up, lowered his window. 'Give me your passport,' he said as a French Customs official plodded towards them with a heavy tread.

'Papers…'

Marler showed a British passport. The official made a dismissive gesture and yawned. He saw Klein's German passport and made the same gesture.

'Why are you going to Belgium?' he asked in a bored tone.

'On holiday,' Marler replied.

'Push off!'

'I think we woke the poor devil up,' Marler commented as he drove on.

'A good hour to cross the border. And our passports are both Common Market. Keep straight ahead…'

The flat character of the countryside they'd passed through changed. Forested hills dropped sheer to the road which wound its way through deep defiles. Klein pointed to a sign-posted side turning.

The road to Bouillon. I leave you at the Hotel Panorama on the way back. A room is reserved in your name. I take this Citroen. Hire yourself another car. You stay in Bouillon until you hear from me – or a man called Hipper.'

'What about my fee – the advance payment?'

'You get that after you've shown me you can shoot.'

It was wild and lonely Ardennes country where they stopped the car. An abandoned stone quarry yawned before them in the dawn light – like a vast amphitheatre with sheer walls on three sides. The ground was scattered with stones and rocks across its sandy surface. Marler stood with Klein in the treacherous light – difficult for aiming. A long way off he heard two sharp reports. Marler jerked up his head.

'Rifle shots.'

'They're hunting boar. Anyone who hears you will assume we are doing the same. Let's get on with it.'

From the boot Klein took the large sack and the shovel. He proceeded to fill the sack with a mixture of sand and small rocks. Marler crawled under the car, removed the adhesive tape, emerged holding a high-powered rifle and a telescopic sight which he attached to the weapon. He wiped the infra-red lens of the sight with a silk handkerchief, pressed the rifle stock into his shoulder and swept the top of the quarry.