Part 5 (2/2)

The Head ignored him. 'We know from our French and German friends that the planes were dismantled and s.h.i.+pped by ca.n.a.l into France, where they were taken in two convoys of trucks, to Le Havre and Ma.r.s.eilles. They were billed to be s.h.i.+pped as spares for non-strategic purposes - from Ma.r.s.eilles to Momba.s.sa, and from Le Havre to Port Harcourt. A routine check established that both the Kenyans and Nigerians knew of the s.h.i.+pments - though, after a few inquiries, it appeared that neither government had actually placed an order for the stuff. And Tallant and Burg had offered the spares gratis, in exchange for what euphemistically pa.s.ses for ”commercial goodwill'.'

'We thought there was something fishy about the deal, and so, to do them credit, did the Kenyans and Nigerians. But the French didn't seem worried. It was more or less their pigeon, so we left it to them. Until the two s.h.i.+ps disappeared.' He gave what pa.s.sed for a smile: 'The one from Le Havre was called the Delphinia. 20,000 tons, Greek owner and crew, Liberian registration - all properly registered with Lloyd's along with the spare parts - and logged through Gibraltar three weeks ago.' He paused with melancholy emphasis: 'Which would seem to rule out West Africa. As for the second s.h.i.+p, out of Ma.r.s.eilles - same tonnage, same routine. The Suez authorities have no record of either vessel, and Lloyd's have heard nothing. Which leaves us to look round the whole Mediterranean. That, gentlemen, means the Middle East.'

'Or that they're sunk?' said Suchard: 'Scuttled? What was the insurance?' 'The six aircraft were purchased for a total of just over three million dollars, and the two cargoes insured for the same.' He shook his bony head.

'No, not a chance. Lipp are too big for that kind of game. One s.h.i.+p, just possibly, but not both. Anyway, as I said, Lloyds have heard nothing.'

'What about the owners? And the charter company?' asked Suchard.

'The owner is a Greek Cypriot called Kyriades who operates out of Larnaca and Athens. Each office manned by a single secretary, both of whom claim to know nothing. And so far not a trace of Kyriades. The charter company is Entreprise Lipp. Which brings me to the central issue. Lipp's main shareholder is a Frenchman called Pol. He's bad news, in about half-a-dozen countries. We've managed to keep him out so far, but he's got some uneasy relations.h.i.+p with our French friends. Which could make things rather tricky.'

'Oh Lord.' Suchard leaned back, rattling coins in his pocket. 'I suppose the moment we start fis.h.i.+ng around, some b.u.g.g.e.r in Brussels or Strasbourg will tell us to lay off?'

'That is precisely why I want you to get to the bottom of this business with the utmost speed, and with absolute secrecy. Now, I would like each of you to give me your a.s.sessment of the situation as Tar as we know it. Suchard, you first.'

Suchard's scrambler rang late that afternoon, Connecting him to the Minister's car which was driving down from his const.i.tuency in the North.

'I'll make it snappy, Simon. I've got a lot of paperwork and a nasty debate tonight. I just hope you're not going to add to my troubles?'

'G.o.d never imposes a duty without giving time to do it.' Suchard grinned into the phone: 'Ruskin, sir.'

'p.i.s.s off. Listen, I've got you a man called Muncaster. ”Super” at the Yard, excellent track-record, gets on well with the SB. Politically sound, but dull.

Doesn't like us or Whitehall, distrusts foreigners, and can't even order a cup of tea in French. Be nice to him, Simon. And make sure that the SB don't walk all over this with their big boots and ruin everything. Muncaster's an obedient workhorse, but he moves quietly, so you don't have to worry about him. He's been fully briefed - at least, with as much as he needs to know. I want a complete report from you every twelve hours, and anything hot served up at once. I don't care if you have to interrupt me in the middle of a speech.

It always looks good, anyway. Adds a mysterious dimension to my authority.'

Suchard acknowledged the chuckle the other end, and said: 'Thank you, sir.

Good luck with the debate.'

'You b.l.o.o.d.y hypocrite! Now get on with it.' The line clicked dead, leaving no dialling tone.

The Minister was a slob, but an efficient one. A gritty grammar school boy who played rough but fair - or as fair as anyone in this game. And like most of the players he hated Suchard's guts, but knew a good man when he saw one.

Sooner or later someone was going to stab Simon de Vere Suchard in the back, and make an awful mess doing it; but for the moment the man enjoyed the exhilarating certainty that his talents, not to mention his contacts and knowledge, guaranteed him a comfortable immunity from the civilized in-fighting of Whitehall, and of its arcane inner sanctums through which he moved with such immodest ease and confidence. Detective Superintendent Cyril Muncaster was a small man with a long nose that always looked as though it needed wiping. The man on the Clapham omnibus, Suchard thought. His suit looked at least a couple of sizes too big.

Muncaster had a grubby pocket-book open on his lap, and referred to it like a poor speech-maker reading from notes. 'I decided to use Customs and Excise, VAT division. A young chap and girl. The suspect, Oswald Thurgood, is only an employee - contrary to what he appears to have told Mason. His job is mostly maintenance and repairs. Only he didn't check into work yesterday or today.'

'Of course not.'

'A second man went in under VAT cover - Special Branch, expert in radio and electronics. After a lot of argument the owner opened up his books for the last month. Among the few items which seem to have been transacted legally were six j.a.p hi-fi sets and eighteen pairs of 18K102 loudspeakers - the most powerful on the market - each with an audio-sensor which adjusts the volume according to outside noise. They were bought, at a discount, from the makers three weeks ago, fully paid for, and air-freighted ten days ago to Athens, apparently to equip a new football stadium. Export licence in order.'

'So?' Suchard touched his mouth as though to suppress a yawn. 'What does that tell us, except that the shop may stoop to a straight deal from time to time?'

'They paid just over twelve thousand pounds for the stuff,' Muncaster continued relentlessly. 'On a banker's draft from Geneva and drawn on the company account of Tallant and Burg.'

Suchard inclined his head. 'Thank you. Go on.'

'During further questioning, the owner informed us that the deal was set up by a Belgian called Rebot - Jean Rebot.' He saw Suchard wince at his atrocious accent. 'The Belgian apparently gave the order and Thurgood selected the goods. Rebot also made a down-payment of one thousand in cash. And it shows on the books. Rather as though, on this one deal, they wanted everything to be absolutely above-board. Later, the stuff was collected in a van by a tall blond man. Didn't give a name, just showed the receipts.'

Suchard's eyes were half-closed with thought. 'And Thurgood?'

'No trouble. We traced him to a service-flat near Gloucester Road tube station. I have the address here. Four men, two cars outside, and one man booked into an adjacent room. And all Port Authorities have been alerted, of course.'

'What have you got on him otherwise?'

'He has form. And a medical record. Violent, psychotic. After being tossed out of the RAF, he ran amok in a restaurant in Leicester - got a meat-cleaver from the kitchen and chopped up a few tables, then a.s.saulted a police officer. He was given a two-year suspended sentence, on condition that he underwent regular medical treatment. Didn't finish the course. Hopped over to Canada where he got into trouble carrying a gun. Three months ago he arrived back here. We picked him up a couple of weeks later, on grounds that he'd broken the conditions stipulated by the Leicester Court. His flat was searched and two clips of .38 Magnum ammunition found, but no gun. He was charged, and the magistrate granted bail for five hundred. Case adjourned twice, still pending.' 'Ye G.o.ds.' Suchard had crossed over and freshened his drink. 'And they talk about law and order. Who stood bail?'

'The Belgian gentleman - Rebot.'

Suchard settled back in his chair. 'Yes. I like that.' He sipped his drink.

'And I suppose a high-powered lawyer popped up and tied the magistrate into knots?'

'One of the best, Vincent Colgrave.'

Suchard bared his teeth. 'I see. The Sea-Green Incorruptible himself.

Specialist in international law. My G.o.d, somebody must have slipped him a packet to have him run round clearing up after a nut like Thurgood! At least it proves they look after their employees - providing they toe the line, of course. What else?'

Muncaster turned his long snout down towards his notes. 'The lab are through with the Range-Rover. Covered in Thurgood's prints. But contrary to what Mason originally stated, Thurgood isn't the owner. We traced it to an outfit in Bayswater, called ”Overland Motors”. It was hired eight days ago. The girl there remembers it well - mostly because the man paid in cash, new twenties, two weeks in advance. Tall blond man, British driving licence, though the girl thought he had a slight accent. The licence was in the name of Dirk Roger Peters.'

Suchard closed his eyes again and nodded. 'I'm still listening.'

Muncaster had Peters' file with him, prepared over several years by the Special Branch. He had emigrated to South Africa in 1957 and had trained as a pilot, while retaining his British pa.s.sport. Ten years ago he was caught having illicit intercourse with a Zulu girl - a crime that was compounded by the fact that he had also indulged his tastes by lacerating her. Despite his British nationality, he was sentenced to a flogging and two years' jail. He had then left the White Republic and signed on as an instructor to the new Air Forces of several Black African governments.

He was known to have committed at least two political murders in Africa; and the Dutch police had arrested him a couple of years ago at Schipol Airport, Amsterdam, on suspicion of smuggling arms. West German Intelligence, the END, had also marked him down as 'surveillance worthy', so far without result. The Italians had no record of him. But the fact that Peters might be too grand for Baader-Meinhof or the Red Brigades gave Muncaster little comfort.

'And we've checked on Ritchie,' he continued. 'He doesn't live in the Barbican, as Mason reported, but has a luxury flat down in Albert Docks. Seems to have plenty of money to splash around. He's a minority share-holder in his company, ”Come Fly with Me”, which operates out of Lydd. The majority holdings are in Lichtenstein, under the name of Jean Rebot, Belgian nationality.'

Suchard breathed softly and smiled. 'Very neat. Almost too neat for comfort.

Any form?'

'I was hoping that you'd be able to help out there, sir. Your people must have taken the file.'

'The file?'

'From CRO. A couple of young chaps came in and helped themselves to it nearly a month ago”.' Muncaster's joke was toneless. 'Usual accreditation - had theMet. jumping to attention. Not good for morale, sir, if you'll permit the comment.'

'I see.' Suchard took a quick sip at his drink. He saw only too well: the sort of small, tiresome misunderstanding between the department and the boys in blue which could so easily lead to an embarra.s.sing break-down in relations.

But worse, it meant that somebody in the department had nearly a month's start on him, and wasn't letting on. Muncaster would know that too. Suchard didn't like playing blind-man's buff any more than did the regular police. 'So you've got nothing on Ritchie?' he added. 'I did make a few inquiries, sir. Whoever it was even took the trouble to wipe the computer at the Peel Centre, Hendon.

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