motor-cycle gear.
'I'm surprised you came yourself, Chief . . .' 'Something about the way you described Lara Seagrave.
What she did down there south. A check has come through from London. Step-daughter of Lady Windermere. High society stuff.'
'Sounds an unlikely terrorist,' The Parrot ventured.
'The rumours report an entirely new organization being built up. Don't like that. Our normal sources have no inside track. She could just be a new type. Better get back. Here it comes . . .'
The express came slowly inside the vast concourse, stopped, doors were thrown open as impatient passengers alighted. Lasalle had two more men standing further back. His eyes blinked. This girl, carrying one case, smartly dressed, fitted Valmy's description. He glanced towards The Parrot who nodded once and then vanished outside where his motor-cycle was parked.
Lasalle took a newspaper out of his pocket, opened it, crossed to where his other two men stood, engaged them in conversation, pointing to the paper. Attractive, Miss Lara Seagrave; walked erect even though she must be tired. She passed out of the concourse, heading for the taxi rank.
'Rue des Saussaies,' Lasalle snapped. 'Then we wait. For The Parrot's report . . .'
Gare Centrale. Luxembourg City. The express from Basle, Switzerland, which had travelled via Mulhouse, came to a stop at just about the same time. 11 p.m. Among the passengers who alighted was Louis Chabot, carrying a case which bore a Cook's label. On the label in large printed letters were the words Brussels Midi , circled twice.
Chabot walked slowly along the platform, trailing behind the few other passengers. Without appearing to do so, he glanced everywhere, looking for his contact. Klein was so bloody careful - he didn't even know the contact's name or sex. Still, security like that protected him as well.
'Mr Louis Chabot?'
The odd-shaped figure had appeared from nowhere.
Chabot studied him, kept walking as the hatless man trotted by his side. Small, running to fat, a clean-shaven face the colour of lard. His eyes were blank of expression, his clothes nondescript. A grey two-piece suit, the trousers crumpled, the wide shoulders slumped.
'Yes, I'm Chabot.'
'Our mutual friend, Mr Klein, arranged for me to meet you. Outside I have a car waiting. We go into the country. A peaceful village . . .'
'Strangers are noticed in villages. You have a name?'
They were talking in French, but his escort spoke it with an odd accent. Chabot had already taken a strong dislike to the placid little man. More like a servant. Not what he had expected. A nobody.
'I am Hipper,' the little man said. 'We will be working closely together. We go up in this lift. And no one will know you are at Larochette.'
'Where?'
'The village. Twenty-five kilometres north of Luxembourg City. I am in charge,' Hipper continued in the privacy of the ascending lift. 'You will stay underground until the operation begins . . .'
'What operation?'
'Only Mr Klein knows that. You are explosives expert?'
'Yes. You're not French.' It was a statement.
'I am Luxembourger.'
God, Chabot thought, how long am I going to be hanging round with this creep? Hipper had a habit of sneaking sidelong glances at the Frenchman and never looked him straight in the eye. Luxembourgers. A hybrid race. A mix of French and German - with all their vices and none of their virtues.
'You are explosives expert,' Hipper repeated as the elevator stopped and just before the doors opened. 'When the timer devices arrive you will have a chance to practise your expertise.'
'Valmy here . . .'
'Yes?' said Lasalle, leaning back in the swivel chair inside his office at the rue des Saussaies. He frowned at the two officers to stop them chattering.
The subject is occupying a room at The Ritz. Room 614. She registered, went straight to bed. The registration form gives an address of Eaton Square, London . . .'
'I know all about that. Did she make a phone call after she'd arrived?'
'No,'
'I'm surprised you came yourself, Chief . . .' 'Something about the way you described Lara Seagrave.
What she did down there south. A check has come through from London. Step-daughter of Lady Windermere. High society stuff.'
'Sounds an unlikely terrorist,' The Parrot ventured.
'The rumours report an entirely new organization being built up. Don't like that. Our normal sources have no inside track. She could just be a new type. Better get back. Here it comes . . .'
The express came slowly inside the vast concourse, stopped, doors were thrown open as impatient passengers alighted. Lasalle had two more men standing further back. His eyes blinked. This girl, carrying one case, smartly dressed, fitted Valmy's description. He glanced towards The Parrot who nodded once and then vanished outside where his motor-cycle was parked.
Lasalle took a newspaper out of his pocket, opened it, crossed to where his other two men stood, engaged them in conversation, pointing to the paper. Attractive, Miss Lara Seagrave; walked erect even though she must be tired. She passed out of the concourse, heading for the taxi rank.
'Rue des Saussaies,' Lasalle snapped. 'Then we wait. For The Parrot's report . . .'
Gare Centrale. Luxembourg City. The express from Basle, Switzerland, which had travelled via Mulhouse, came to a stop at just about the same time. 11 p.m. Among the passengers who alighted was Louis Chabot, carrying a case which bore a Cook's label. On the label in large printed letters were the words Brussels Midi , circled twice.
Chabot walked slowly along the platform, trailing behind the few other passengers. Without appearing to do so, he glanced everywhere, looking for his contact. Klein was so bloody careful - he didn't even know the contact's name or sex. Still, security like that protected him as well.
'Mr Louis Chabot?'
The odd-shaped figure had appeared from nowhere.
Chabot studied him, kept walking as the hatless man trotted by his side. Small, running to fat, a clean-shaven face the colour of lard. His eyes were blank of expression, his clothes nondescript. A grey two-piece suit, the trousers crumpled, the wide shoulders slumped.
'Yes, I'm Chabot.'
'Our mutual friend, Mr Klein, arranged for me to meet you. Outside I have a car waiting. We go into the country. A peaceful village . . .'
'Strangers are noticed in villages. You have a name?'
They were talking in French, but his escort spoke it with an odd accent. Chabot had already taken a strong dislike to the placid little man. More like a servant. Not what he had expected. A nobody.
'I am Hipper,' the little man said. 'We will be working closely together. We go up in this lift. And no one will know you are at Larochette.'
'Where?'
'The village. Twenty-five kilometres north of Luxembourg City. I am in charge,' Hipper continued in the privacy of the ascending lift. 'You will stay underground until the operation begins . . .'
'What operation?'
'Only Mr Klein knows that. You are explosives expert?'
'Yes. You're not French.' It was a statement.
'I am Luxembourger.'
God, Chabot thought, how long am I going to be hanging round with this creep? Hipper had a habit of sneaking sidelong glances at the Frenchman and never looked him straight in the eye. Luxembourgers. A hybrid race. A mix of French and German - with all their vices and none of their virtues.
'You are explosives expert,' Hipper repeated as the elevator stopped and just before the doors opened. 'When the timer devices arrive you will have a chance to practise your expertise.'
'Valmy here . . .'
'Yes?' said Lasalle, leaning back in the swivel chair inside his office at the rue des Saussaies. He frowned at the two officers to stop them chattering.
The subject is occupying a room at The Ritz. Room 614. She registered, went straight to bed. The registration form gives an address of Eaton Square, London . . .'
'I know all about that. Did she make a phone call after she'd arrived?'
'No,'
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