Satisfied with the security, Anton dabbed at his mouth with a silk handkerchief. He twisted round in his chair to stare hard at the Professor.
'You saw the short planks of wood still in the boot? I bought them at a timberyard on the way. You've seen the two boxes on the floor here?'
'Yes.' Seton-Charles stared down at the containers, made of heavy wood and like tool boxes. The lids were open. Inside one was a collection of wires, steel slides and other electrical-type equipment. The second box looked like a carpenter's and was crammed with planes, saws, screwdrivers and other tools. 'What are you up to?' he asked.
'A complex operation. Each of those furniture vans has to be fitted with a large sliding panel in the roof- electrically operated. The hydraulics will be difficult. And inside each van I'll be building a platform with steps – the platform top to be about three feet below the roof, fitted with a chair I'll clamp to the platform.' Anton grinned. 'Guess what all that is for?'
'I'm not in the guessing game,' Seton-Charles said coldly.
'We're in the business of building two mobile rocket launchers.'
PART THREE
42
'We're coming in to land,' said Paula and gripped Tweed's arm. 'This is the bit I never like.'
'Look at the view over there out of the starboard windows,' he suggested and squeezed her hand.
They were aboard Swissair flight 801, approaching Zurich's airport, Kloten. The machine was banking and Paula saw framed in a window the magnificent sweep of the Bernese Oberland range, its peaks snow-capped. She sucked in her breath as she watched the mountain summits silhouetted against a backdrop of cloudless azure sky.
Tweed had taken one of his snap decisions. They had left London Airport at 9.30 a.m. and were due to arrive at 12.05 p.m. Before leaving Tweed had phoned Federal police chief Arthur Beck, an old friend. Beck was meeting them at Kloten. What worried Tweed was the closeness of their connection with the Swissair flight taking them on to Athens.
Flight 302, bound for Athens, departed from Kloten at 12.30 p.m. It gave them no time at all to check in on the fresh flight and Tweed needed time to consult with Beck. As the plane descended he laid his hand over Paula's and she turned and smiled.
'I'm OK now. Just a brief fit of nerves. Do you think Monica has got through to Newman, warning him we're coming?'
'It all depends on how early Newman makes his daily call to her. At least we know where to find him. The Grande Bretagne…'
Paula hardly realized the plane had landed as it skimmed along the runway. Beck was waiting for them at Passport Control. He wore civilian clothes and a Tyrolean hat with a little feather in the hat band, dressed like a man on holiday. The grey eyes under the thick brows gleamed as he spotted Paula. He took her arm.
'Welcome to Zurich, Paula.' He kissed her on the cheek. 'We bypass all the checks.' He looked over his shoulder as he led her to a side door which a guard unlocked. 'You'd better come too, Tweed. We have time to talk.'
Tweed smiled to himself. Beck had developed a soft spot for Paula when they'd met previously in Geneva. And he had organized their arrival so no one would notice them. He followed Paula along a corridor and into a starkly furnished room with maps on the walls.
Thank you,' said Paula as Beck pulled out a chair for her from under a table. 'But what about our cases? Shouldn't I go to the carousel?'
'All taken care of, my dear. I phoned Jim Corcoran, security boss at London Airport. When you checked in a special small red label was attached to your luggage and Tweed's. Two of my men are at the carousel now, collecting your things.'
'Am I permitted to join you?' Tweed enquired mischievously.
'As a special favour, rny friend. This is Kloten security chiefs office I have borrowed. As you see, there is coffee and sandwiches. You would like some, Paula? Good.'
On the table was an electric warmer with a transparent flask of coffee perched on it. Sandwiches wrapped in clingfilm. A telephone with a red button. Tweed sat down and stared at the instrument as Beck spoke while he poured coffee.
'Monica called you from London, spoke to the security chief and left a message. Can you call her urgently?'
Tweed looked at a clock attached to the wall with a red second hand sweeping the dial. 'We're going to miss our flight we're booked on for Athens. It leaves at 12.30 as I told you.'
'So…' Beck waved a hand. 'It has been delayed. A bomb hoax. All passengers have to identify their luggage laid out on the tarmac before they board. That takes time.' He smiled. 'One of the advantages of being Chief of Police.' He sat next to Paula as he addressed Tweed. 'So, make your call, then we can talk.'
I should have guessed he'd tie it all up for us, Tweed thought. He reached for the phone, pressed the scrambler button, dialled Park Crescent. Beck and Paula talked in whispers while Tweed was calling London. She liked the Swiss: he had a wicked sense of humour. She put her hand over her mouth to suppress laughter and then noticed Tweed's expression as he replaced the receiver.
'Is something wrong?'
'Later,' he replied and looked at Beck. 'Greece. Have you heard anything unusual on the grapevine?'
'No. Unless this comes under the heading of unusual…' For five minutes he recounted his two conversations with Kalos. He recalled how he had followed his quarry, kept an eye on him while he had spent a night at the Schweizerhof and then boarded a plane for Lisbon the following day.
'Lisbon?' Tweed's expression was grim. 'Are you sure, Arthur?'
'Of course I'm sure. I followed him myself to the airport. Later I checked with the pilot that he was on board. He was.'
'Sorry. That was a silly question. How long ago?'
'Ten days from today.'
'Hell's teeth.' Tweed stood up, began pacing the room. 'And I was congratulating myself that he was safely back in Athens. I'm getting this all wrong.' He looked at Paula. 'I said the solution lay in Greece, not Exmoor. Maybe it's the other way round.'
'Do we go on?' Paula asked.
'Yes. And we'd better hurry.'
'Might be as well,' Beck agreed. 'The baggage check should just about be over. You'll have to identify your own stuff. It will be all that's left on the tarmac…'
He hugged Paula, shook hands with Tweed. 'Anything more I can do to help – you give me a call.'
'You've helped a lot already,' Tweed assured him and they followed the Swiss to the aircraft.
They had eaten lunch. The plane was thirty thousand feet up and well south over the Adriatic Sea before Paula asked the question.
'You had bad news when you talked with Monica?'
'It's getting worse. Like the Klein problem we faced last year, the body count is rising. Butler called Monica. You remember that nice sharp old lady, Mrs Larcombe, we called on at Porlock Weir? This morning a neighbour noticed she hadn't taken her milk in. She started worrying, called the police. They found the front door unlocked and Mrs Larcombe battered to death.'
'Oh, that's awful. She was so bright for her age. Bright for any age. What do they think happened?'
'The police think some drunken youths called, pushed open the door when she reacted to the ringing of the bell, attacked her and walked off with fifty pounds she always kept in ready cash under her mattress. They found two empty beer cans in the front garden. No fingerprints.'
T did catch your emphasis on "police". What do you think?'
'I'm convinced it was staged. Drunken youths don't remember to wipe beer cans clean of fingerprints. Something bothered me about what she said to us and I couldn't recall it afterwards. Now I can.'