Deadlock (36 page)

'Pilot! Can you take her down? Now? Land on that towpath?'

'Risky. . .'

'It's clear below us . . .'

'Give it a try, sir.'

Something touched Tweed's sleeve. He glanced up. Benoit, who had heard the exchange, was beside him. Standing behind the Belgian were Newman and Lasalle. The machine began a slow descent as trails of vapour curled round the fuselage.

Tweed had forgotten his queasy stomach. His eyes were fixed on a vast swathe of reeds and grasses projecting from the left bank. Almost like a dense swamp, dark and brooding at a bend in the river. His eyes flickered to the right. Another brief glimpse. This time of forest clinging to the near cliff-like hillside. Again it seemed to be feet away from the machine.

'What is it?' Benoit asked.

'I think I saw something. Down there among the reeds.'

'What was it?'

'Let's wait till we're down . . .'

The pilot was glancing from side to side. More mist had drifted in close to the chopper, mist rising up from the river. He had poor visibility. End up in the bloody river, he was thinking. He said nothing, concentrating on his controls, praying the towpath would appear in the right place as they went down, down, down.

'This,' Lasalle contributed, 'if I'm not mistaken, is where the Ardennes are at their highest. The river is almost walled in by rock and forest. Perhaps your eyes deceived you . . .'

'Perhaps.'

Behind Newman Paula stared fascinated at Tweed. He was crouched forward, like a hound watching a fox, ignoring the chopper's descent. His head was motionless, his stare fixed, gazing at the swamp-like morass extending from the river bank.

She jumped as the machine hit something, settled, lying still. The pilot operated another control, switching off the engine. The whirling rotors began to slow. They had landed on the towpath.

"This is bloody ridiculous. You know that?' Marler remarked to Hipper who sat beside him as he drove on, his headlights hardly penetrating the fog.

They were driving along a curving road above Les Dames de Meuse. Visibility came and went as the fog curtain whirled in front of them. And Marler's mood was not improved by the presence of the soft-spoken Luxembourger.

Hipper turned up early in the morning at the Panorama in Bouillon unexpectedly. He had explained that their 'mutual acquaintance' wished him to accompany Marler on his mission. Marler would have told him to piss off -but he didn't want to draw attention to them in the hotel lobby. The next thing he knew Hipper was in the car beside him, carrying a whacking great Leica cine-camera equipped with a zoom lens.

'Why?' enquired Hipper as Marler drove on along a deserted road.

'Why what?'

'Why is it ridiculous?'

'Oh, God Almighty.' Mailer's tone was at its most superior and resigned. 'It is ridiculous because how do you think I am going to locate Newman in this fog? Just assuming he is within a hundred miles of this part of the world.'

'We shall find his car. You will recognize him from the picture I gave you. He will come.'

'How do you know?'

'A friend of our friend pointed him to Les Dames de Meuse. For today.'

'Why don't you say Klein? Your so-called friend is Klein, I take it? Give me an answer or I'll pitch you out of the car.'

'Yes. But you see . . .' That slow pedantic voice. Marler felt he could strangle him.'. . . I have trained myself never to use his name. It is good security . . .'

'Shut up! I heard something. An engine . . .'

'Maybe Newman in his car ..."

'I said shut up - and I meant it.' Marler stopped the car as the road began running downhill towards the river.

Perching an elbow on the window edge, he listened, one hand cupped to his ear. There it was again. Throb-throb. Louder now.
Above
them. Somewhere in the ceiling of solid fog.

'What is it . . .' Hipper began.

One look from Marler silenced him. The throb-throb was coming closer. Marler craned his neck out of the window, staring skyward. The fog was thinning, a pallid glow which was the sun appeared, illuminating a large break in the veil of mist overhanging the river.

'Chopper,' Marler said. 'Coming down. Taking one hell of a chance in this stuff. And there it is.'

'A police helicopter. Oh, dear. Now-we-must-be-very-careful-indeed.' Hipper was spacing words again, like a ruddy child. 'Do you not think they may well be able to see us?'

'In this fog?' Marler's tone was contemptuous. 'And in case you haven't noticed, the colour of our car is grey. So, the answer to your question is not if we remain stationary. And this happens to be a good vantage point.'

The fog was clearing lower down the steep hillside. Marler had stopped at a point where the road curved round a rocky bluff, hanging over the Meuse which now came into view far below. It flowed slowly, smooth as gliding oil. Pretty wide even this far upstream. A towpath on the bank below them, Marler noted. A sedge-like projection of clumps of grass and reeds appeared spreading from the edge of the far bank.

'Oh, no!' Hipper exclaimed. 'Not here. Not here . . .'

Marler sighed. Hipper was whimpering, almost like a scared puppy. The big Alouette, fuselage gleaming in the pallid sun-light with moisture, descended slowly, a few hundred yards from where they sat in the parked vehicle. Marler could see the pilot was nervous. With damned good reason. A similar bluff of limestone rock projected above the river on the opposite bank.

He waited for the brief clash of metal striking rock, the whirling rotors crashing against a crag. The machine dropped very slowly, landed on the towpath - which was just wide enough to accommodate the Alouette. He reached for the rifle concealed beneath a travelling rug carelessly thrown over the back seat, pulled the telescopic sight free from beneath his seat to which it had been attached by adhesive tape. He asked the question as he cleaned the sight, began attaching it to the rifle.

'Could Newman be aboard that police chopper?'

'I really have no idea . . .'

'And why are you so concerned the chopper landed at this point?'

'Nothing.' Hipper had hesitated before replying. 'Just a fit of nerves . . .'

"Then stop yammering and let me concentrate.'

Marler climbed slowly out of the car, walked to the edge of the bluff. He wasn't worried he'd be seen. People looked everywhere except
upwards
. He adjusted the sight, aimed it at the passengers alighting from the Alouette on to the towpath. Behind him Hipper also alighted from the car, gripping his camera as he joined the Englishman.

'Newman is with that crowd,' Marler observed.

'You can get him?'

Hipper sounded excited. He couldn't keep still. He raised his camera and stared down through the lens at the group moving below.

'Keep your voice down,' Marler whispered. 'Sound carries a long distance in this fog.' He lowered his rifle and glared at the Luxembourger. 'Can't see him now - the fog keeps drifting down there. And get away from me. Climb that hill on the other side of the road. You're disturbing my concentration. What the hell are you doing anyway?'

'Waiting for you to kill Newman. I want a photograph of the body. Our friend will be interested to see that . . .'

Tweed stood on the towpath, sniffing the dank air, moisture clinging to his face like the fingers of an invisible ghost. Down at the edge of the Meuse the atmosphere was creepy. A shaft of sunlight, reflecting motes of the moisture, shone briefly on the opposite bank and was gone. A heavy silence hung over the river and the damp cold was beginning to penetrate their clothes. Tweed adjusted his wide-brimmed waterproof hat and pointed to the congested morass projecting from the opposite bank.

'That's where I want to explore.'

'God knows how,' Newman commented. 'Care for a swim?'

'What a horrid-looking marsh,' Paula said and buttoned up her raincoat to her neck. 'Are you sure that was the place, Tweed?'

'Quite sure. I saw something. Ah, what have we here?'

Inspector Sonnet, looking mournful, had disappeared along the towpath round a bend. There was a chug-chugging sound and he reappeared, holding the tiller of a large outboard dinghy as he cruised towards them, steered inshore, stopped the engine and climbed on to the towpath, holding a mooring rope.

'I found it tied up to a rotting landing stage,' he explained. 'Probably belongs to a fisherman. This is one of their favourite grounds.'

'And just commandeered by the police for investigation purposes,' Lasalle announced breezily. 'How do' we get out of here if the mist persists? I can't see the pilot agreeing to lift off until it clears.'

'Arrangements have been made,' Sonnet told him. 'A couple of my men are driving two Deux-Chevaux from Givet. They are the only vehicles which can negotiate this towpath. Since they did not know where we would be they started at the end. They should be here soon.'

Tweed glanced at the thin-faced inspector with approval; he seemed well-organized. Almost too good a man for the provinces. He felt the torch he always carried inside his coat pocket, braced his shoulders against the chill.

'Well, who is coming across with me to check over there? I would like Newman with me - if no one objects.'

'I'd like to come to,' Paula said firmly. She saw Tweed's expression. 'At the risk of boring you, someone used the phrase baptism of fire.'

Three of us so far,' Tweed remarked. 'It's a large dinghy. How many will it hold? Safely.'

'Five,' said Lasalle. 'Benoit, you go too. Sonnet is the helmsman. I'll stand guard here. I could do with a stroll up and down this towpath. I'm stiff. Good hunting, Tweed. Bet you don't find anything . . .'

Tweed thanked God he'd taken a Dramamine as he climbed carefully into the rocking bow of the craft which wobbled madly. He gave Paula a hand to come aboard and then sat down, staring at the swamp.

Sonnet handled the dinghy with great skill, heading upstream to counter the flowing current, following Tweed's instructions to bring the dinghy to the reed bank at a certain point. Inshore, the power of the current slackened. Sonnet slowed and nosed the dinghy inside the waist-high reeds, stopping so the outboard was not tangled.

It was very dark beneath the overhang of the forest. Paula was looking everywhere and she stiffened suddenly while gazing up at the bank they had left behind. Tweed sensed her reaction.

'What is it?'

'The mist cleared up there for a few seconds. I could have sworn I saw someone on top of a crag.'

'I doubt it,' Benoit called out. 'The mist plays tricks and you see phantoms which aren't there.'

'I suppose so . . .'She sounded unconvinced, then broke off as Tweed stood up and shone his torch. 'My God!' she began. 'What are you doing . . . ?'

Tweed appeared to have stepped out of the dinghy into the squelchy morass. His feet hit solid surface and he reached out to pul! at a mass of broken reeds, pulling them away to expose the upper half of a wheelhouse.

Gargantua
. The name, a brass plate screwed to the wheel-house, jumped out in Tweed's torch beam. He had removed a mass of broken reeds piled up against the structure. He shone his torch inside the wheelhouse. Empty. The wheel heeled over at a drunken angle.

'God! You were right,' Newman, close to Paula, called out. They sank the barge.'

'Klein's work,' Tweed said. 'I bet six months' pay that when the French forensic people check the hold they'll find traces of gold. Which was why it had to disappear. Better keep back, both of you. The deck's like a skating rink.'

His shoes slopped through a mess of reeds and water, making his way along the inclined deck of the half-submerged vessel. He crouched low, keeping to starboard, holding on to the deck rail. His torch beam picked out a muddled pattern of coiled ropes, oil slicks. It was-the port side which had heeled into the swamp, tilting the starboard clear of the deep water.

Sliding his left hand along the rail, he slithered, recovered his balance, continued towards the bow. Following close behind, Paula was amazed at the agility he displayed, moving one foot in front of the other, feeling his way cautiously, checking what lay ahead with the torch.

Paula knew something was wrong when, close to the slanting bow, he stopped suddenly, his posture rigid. He switched off the torch, turned and called out over his shoulder in a brusque but calm voice.