'Let me check.'
The official examined a large folder filled with large forms already filled in. 'Nothing for Rio,' he said. Tweed sensed he was being cagey and Benoit had the same reaction.
'Look here.' He leaned across the counter. 'Gansen gave you instructions. Don't play with me. Answer my colleague. Any large transport machines?'
'Several…'
'One from Frankfurt?'
'Actually, yes. A Hercules. During the next three days. A detailed flight plan is awaited…'
Extracting the information was like trying to get a loan from a miser. Tweed sensed Benoit was going to explode. He nudged him and stared at the official, his tone pleasant.
'Yes, a Hercules is a big job. Do you handle many shipments of that magnitude?'
'No.'
'But they'd have to give you some rough idea of destination. What is it?'
'South America. Details to follow…'
'Name of the consignee?'
Tweed's eyes held the official's. There was a pause. Tweed waited, standing motionless. 'It is police business,' he reminded him.
'The Zurcher Kredit Bank of Basle.'
Keeping an eye open for traffic patrol cars, Butler pressed his foot down, exceeding the speed limit along the deserted highway. Soon he was inside the city, crossing a bridge which spanned the gorge, turning left up a hill. Fortress walls began to appear.
He drove just inside the speed limit through the old city and green lights were with him all the way. He recrossed the canyon over the Pont Adolphe, at a much greater height than the previous bridge. The gorge was far wider, a great depth and the walls had become immense.
He was now driving slowly down the Avenue da le Liberte, the home of so many Luxembourg banks. He saw the Banque Sambre on his side of the broad avenue, cruised past and stopped by a parking meter. Using coins he obtained when he changed money at Findel Airport, he dealt with the meter, then settled down behind the wheel, leaving the engine running.
He adjusted the rear view mirror to give him a perfect view of the entrance to the bank. Checking the Identikit photocopy of Klein, he folded it and put it in his pocket. Brand he would recognize from Newman's description, newspaper reporters were good at that sort of observation.
Butler was now in position to watch anyone who entered – or left – the Banque Sambre. Further down the street was the Place de la Gare where several streets met in front of the old station. He pretended to read the newspaper he'd bought at Findel, giving a convincing impression of waiting to pick up someone.
Klein stood outside the station in the Place de la Gare, in a rare state of indecision. To avoid the sun glare he stood with his back to the taxi rank. He had just come out of a cafe on the far side of the street where he'd consumed a sandwich au jambon and drunk some excellent coffee.
His mood was edgy. He sensed danger and was trying to identify what had alerted him. That Belgian police helicopter? No – he had experienced this phase just before he was mounting an operation.
He couldn't imagine that he'd left behind him anywhere a clue. Not in that weird watchmaking town up in the Jura; not in Geneva; not in Marseilles or Paris, And not on the Meuse.
It was the imminent launch of the vast operation, he decided. He always became even more cautious at this stage. He had planned to walk straight up the Avenue de la Liberte, to catch Brand oil guard at the Banque Sambre. Change of plan.
He went inside a telephone booth and called the bank, dialling the number from memory. Data written in notebooks was dangerous. The operator took a minute or two to put him through to Brand, The banker had been caught off balance. Klein would continue to keep him in that frame of mind. There was surprise in Brand's voice when he came on the line.
'Klein? Where are you?
'Luxembourg City.'
'You might have warned me…'
'No reason to. I hope? Meet me half an hour from now. At the Hotel Cravat. Ask for my friend, Max Volpe. Arrange for one of your secretaries ~ someone you can trust – to come to the same place a quarter of an hour after you've left. She also is to ask for Max Volpe. My friend's room. See you…'
'Wait a minute!' A hint of annoyance in Brand's upper crust voice. 'I have a full engagement book I can probably squeeze you in…'
'Check your watch. Thirty minutes from now.'
Klein replaced the receiver Discipline. Instant obedience. The only way to keep the upper hand. And Brand was about to make another fortune Or so he thought…
He walked out of the booth, climbed inside a cab.
'Hotel Cravat, if you please.'
Klein asked for a double room, registered in the name Max Volpe – another advantage of operating inside the Common Market. The Swiss were meticulous (pedantic was the word Klein used) about hotel registration and often asked to see your passport.
He was given a room on the first floor overlooking the Place de la Constitution and a panoramic view of the curving chasm beyond. Locking the door, he dumped his case on the bed, took out his make-up box and went to the bathroom.
Standing in front of the mirror over the wash-basin he applied foundation cream and then the light-coloured face powder. The face which stared back at him was now chalk-white. Returning to the bedroom, he took a black beret from his case, pulled it well down so it concealed all trace of his black hair.
He next took a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from the case and perched them on the bridge of his nose. The final item which completed the transformation was a curved pipe, the bowl already filled with tobacco which he'd tamped into the pipe aboard the express.
Stripping off his jacket and trousers, he substituted an old and worn sports jacket and a pair of grey slacks. He repacked the suit and closed and locked the case. Taking a label from his wallet, he penned in capitals the name Max Volpe and attached the label to the case. The make-up box he slipped inside his raincoat pocket.
He stood for a moment, checking over in his mind the sequence of events he had planned. Yes, everything was ready. He walked back into the bathroom and double-checked his appearance. The smartly-dressed businessman who had walked into the Cravat was now replaced by a professorial type.
And there would be no trouble at reception when he left. While registering he had insisted on paying two days in advance for the room, explaining he might have to leave urgently to attend a conference.
He was standing by the circular corner window, looking down into the rue Chimay, when the phone rang. Reception calling. A Mr Brand had arrived, asking for Mr Volpe.
**
In the rear view mirror Butler saw Newman's word picture of Peter Brand emerge from the Banque Sambre and climb into the red Lamborghini. He dropped his newspaper and waited, knowing Brand had to drive past him. Avenue de la Liberte was a one-way street – except for the buses.
Brand wore a small-check suit and a deerstalker hat. Flashy type. Plus the car. One of the boys. Played hell with the women. Butler had him summed up in seconds. He pulled out and followed the Lamborghini.
Brand turned left at the bottom of the Avenue and before he reached the Place de la Gare. Butler had a rough mental plan of Luxembourg City in his mind – after a few minutes' study of the street chart the car girl at Findel had provided. It looked as though Brand was heading back -along the one-way system – by the same route Butler had entered the city. Was it Findel?
Brand streaked across the Viaduct spanning the gorge, past the British Ambassador's residence perched on a projecting plateau above the gorge, past the Cathedral, was then stopped by lights. Which enabled Butler to drive up closer one car behind the banker.
Brand then turned off into the rue Chimay, braked savagely, waited for a girl to leave her slot. Butler drove slowly past, spotted another empty slot, parked his car and was in time to follow Brand walking back down the street.