Colin Forbes - Double Jeopardy

'You're not to chain that thing to your wrist,' he told her.

`Why not? I'm doing this job.' She spoke sharply as she locked the case, extended the chain from the handle and clamped the cuff of steel round her wrist, snapping shut the automatic lock. Both knew why he had said that.

Tweed would sooner lose the case rather than subject McNeil to a frightful ordeal – and instances had been kriown where attackers used the simple method of obtaining such a case. They chopped the hand off at the wrist.

1800 hours, the American Embassy, Grosvenor Square. In a second-floor office Tim O'Meara stood holding his executive case while his deputy, James Landis, listened on the phone, said yes and no, and then replaced the receiver.

`Well?' O'Meara demanded impatiently.

`Air Force One is on schedule over the Atlantic. It will touch down at Orly in good time for the President to be driven direct to the Gare de l'Est and the Summit Express…'

`Then let's get to hell out of here so we're at Orly ourselves in good time…'

'A curious report came in about a half-hour back, sir – concerning the investigation into the murder of Clint Loomis on the Potomac. Apparently a nosey international operator in Washington listened in on a call which came through from…'

'I said come on!' O'Meara blazed, cutting off his deputy in mid-sentence.

1800 hours, Elysle Palace, Paris. In the courtyard outside the main entrance and behind the grille gates leading to the street Alain Flandres watched the anti-bomb squad going over a gleaming black Citroen. In a few hours this car would transport the French President to the Gare de l'Est.

As always, Flandres could not keep still – nor trust anyone except himself. As two men directed a mirror at the end of a long handle underneath the car he stood to one side and watched the mirror image.

'Hold it there a moment!'

He stared at the reflection and then called out to a leather-clad man nearby. 'Get underneath this car and check every square centimetre. The mirror could miss something..

He ran up the steps inside the Elysee and went to the operations room where an armed guard opened the door. Two men were hunched over powerful transceivers while the third, a cryptographer, checked decoded signals. He looked up as Flandres came into the room and tried to hand his chief a sheaf of messages.

Just tell me what they say, my friend! Why should I ruin my eyes when you are paid to ruin your own?'

There were grins at the sally and the tense atmosphere lightened with Flandres' arrival. It was part of his technique to defuse any heightening of tension. Calm men took calm decisions.

'The American President lands at Orly at 2300 hours

'Which leaves exactly one half-hour to drive him from airport to train. We had better close off the route – they will drive like hell. It is the Americans' idea of security. A demonstration by Mr Tim O'Meara of his efficiency! Long live the Yanks!'

`The British Prime Minister will land in her special flight at Charles De Gaulle at 2200 hours…'

`Characteristic of the lady – to allow sufficient time but not so much that she wastes any. A model passenger!'

`The German Chancellor is scheduled to board the express at Munich Hauptbahnhof at 0933 tomorrow morning

`That I know – it has long been planned…'

'But there is an odd signal from Bonn I do not understand,' the cryptographer told him. `We are particularly requested to stand by in the communications room aboard the Summit Express for an urgent message from Bonn during the night.'

'That is all?'

`Yes.'

Flandres left the room, walking slowly along the corridor. The Bonn signal was a new, last-minute development which he could not understand – and because he did not comprehend its significance it worried him.

1800 hours, The Chancellery, Bonn. Erich Stoller left the study of Chancellor Langer in the modern building on the southern outskirts of the small town which overlooks the Rhine. The tall, thin German wore an expression of satisfaction: his dash by private jet from Munich had been worthwhile.

During the flight Stoller had wondered whether he could manage it: Langer was notoriously unpredictable, a highly intelligent leader with a will of his own. And it had taken only ten minutes' conversation to persuade the Chancellor.

Stoller had sent off the coded signal – prepared in advance – while he was still in Langer's study, the signal to control H.Q. at the Elysee in Paris. Alan Flandres would by now, he hoped, have received- this first signal. It was the second signal, timed to be sent later when the train was on its way, that was vital.

'I have pulled it off,' Stoller said to himself. The plan is working…'

1800 hours, Heathrow Airport. Flight LH 037 took off for Munich on schedule, climbing steeply into the clear blue evening sky, leaving behind a vapour trail which dispersed very slowly. Two passengers had come aboard and settled themselves in the first-class section at the last moment. Special arrangements had been made in advance to receive the couple.

Neither McNeil, carrying her brief-case locked to her wrist with a metal hand-cuff and chain, nor her companion, Mason – who carried a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 in a shoulder holster – passed through normal channels. Once identified, they were hustled to an office with a sign outside. Positively No Admittance.

They remained inside the locked office until a phone call to the uniformed police officer sharing the room informed them all other passengers were aboard. They ran down the covered way leading into the aircraft where stewardesses waited to escort them to reserved seats.

'Isn't it nice to be VIP's?' McNeil whispered as she sipped her champagne and the plane continued its non-stop ascent.

'All in a day's work,' Mason replied, his expression blank.

1930 hours, Heathrow Airport. Flight BE 026 departed for Paris on schedule. Tweed – who was deliberately travelling economy class – had a difficult job timing his boarding of the flight. As he knew from McNeil's private intelligence service, Howard was travelling on the same flight, but first-class.

Tweed, therefore, entered the final departure lounge just as the last-but-one passenger disappeared down the ramp. The steward on duty beckoned frantically.

'The flight is just departing!'

`So I'm just in time,' Tweed responded as he rushed down the ramp. Damnit, he had paid for his ticket.

As the stewardess ushered him aboard he glanced into the first-class section on his left. The back of Howard's head was just visible. Fortunately when disembarkation took place the custom was to let off first-class passengers ahead of the plebs. Tweed chose a seat he hated, a seat at the rear of the plane. He detested flying.

He sank into his seat and after take-off forced himself to gaze out of the porthole window. In the evening sunlight the full glory of Windsor Castle revolved below. For Queen and Country. A bit old-fashioned these days, but Tweed never bothered about what impression he might create on the rest of the world.

Flight LH on had crossed the German border when Mason excused himself to McNeil. 'I want to send a message to Martel confirming we are aboard this flight – the pilot can radio it for me…'

'But he's expecting us,' McNeil reminded him.

'Expecting is not the same thing as knowing we caught the plane. With what you're carrying we can't take any chances…'

He made his way towards the pilot's cabin and was stopped by a stewardess. He took out his identity card and gave it to her.

'Show this to the pilot. I have to send an urgent radio signal. The pilot knows we are aboard…'

After a short delay he was shown into the cabin and the door was locked behind him. Mason introduced himself and then turned to the wireless operator. The pilot nodded that it was all right and the agent asked for a pad to write the message. It was addressed to a Mtinich telephone number.