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back in a great show offeree, so that the blows looked far harder than they
were. But, for a boy with forty or fifty pounds strapped on his back, and
metal studs in his shoes, it was more than enough to send him reeling and
sliding. A third jab tumbled him into the rain-filled ditch that gurgled under
a jungle of thorns and weeds. The boy landed with a splash, and was trapped by
the weight of his burden. He let out a scream that was strangled as the cold
water took away his breath.
'You bastard,' said the Birmingham boy. It was a different sort of voice now:
just as bitter, and even more angry, but there was an undertone of defeat
there, too. 'Jerry's not strong,' he shouted. 'Leave him alone, you old
bastard. It's not fair!'
Schlegel had not used his left hand, in which the map and detonators were
still clasped. He spared no more than a glance at the boy who was struggling
to climb out of the ditch. He stared at the talkative one. 'It's fairness
we're talking about now, is it? I thought we were talking about dynamite.
About blowing the bourgeoisie into hamburger.' He waved the detonators about.
'Not strong, your friend Jerry, eh? Strong enough to carry a machine-gun and
two hundred shells, right? And strong enough to pull the I
trigger, providing both you punks think you'll get away unhurt.' By now Jerry
had hauled himself up the side of the steep ditch. He was on his hands and
knees, shaking the water from his head and whimpering to himself.
Schlegel was close to him. He looked down at him for what seemed like ages.
Shivering and wet, the boy did not look up. Schlegel gently put his foot on
the boy's shoulder and pushed. He grabbed Schlegel's ankle but could not hold
on to it. There was a cry of despair as he tumbled back into the ditch.
'He'll get pneumonia!' shouted the boy from Birmingham.
'Are you a medical student?' said Schlegel, with polite interest.
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The boy swallowed. 'I'll talk,' he growled. 'I'll talk. You win, I'll talk.'
The rain lessened but the wind was cold. Schlegel buttoned his collar tight
against his throat, and flicked the brim of his corduroy hat to get the rain
off it.
From the clearing where our chopper had landed, there came the sudden clatter
of a two-stroke motor, and then the terrible scream of a chain-saw biting into
wood. I shivered.
'You heard me, Yank. I'll talk!'
Schlegel said. 'Go ahead, son. I'm listening.'
'Outside the American Express in Amsterdam--that place on the pavement, you
know ...'He looked at his friend sprawled in the ditch.
'I know,' said Schlegel.
'A guy named Frits--he bought hot dogs for us. The next day we went back to
his pad and smoked. He had a friend ... least, he said he had a friend. There
was a thousand guilders for starters. Another fifteen hundred for delivery of
the stuff to an address in the village of Schmidt We thought it was pot,
honest we did.'
'Sure. And the Sten guns you thought were pipes, to smoke it,' said Schlegel.
'Come out of there, you stinking little fairy.' He reached down and grabbed
the rucksack straps of the boy m the ditch. With apparent ease, he hoisted him
back on the road. 'O.K.,' said Schlegel. 'I'll believe you.'
'Can we go?'
'You sort that one out with the German cops,' said Schlegel.
'Come on, Harrington. Just standing downwind of these little creeps makes me
throw up.'
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'We could identify Frits, the man in Amsterdam. Do a deal... huh?' said the
boy.
'A man for all seasons,' said Schlegel. 'I don't do deals with kids like
you--I squeeze them; and they drip.' He flicked the boy away, as he would some
insect buzzing around his head.
'In Schmidt. We had to meet our contact in the Haus Rursee,' added the boy
anxiously. The police officer took the boy's arm.
'Come on,' said Schlegel to me. He turned and I followed. The scream of the
chain-saw grew louder. When we reached the clearing the tree was dismembered,
the amputations marked by bright circular wounds, and pools of sawdust.
The police pilot sat at the controls of the helicopter waiting for the order
to go. Schlegel did not give it 'immediately. We sat back on the seats, with
rain forming puddles underfoot, and the world multiplied ten thousand times in
the raindrops on the Plexiglas.
'It's Champion, no question of that,' said Schlegel. 'He wanted us here, but
what the hell are we supposed to do?'
'They are just stupid kids,' I said.
'I know they are,' said Schlegel. 'But I had to know if they were more than
that.'
'Could those trucks be across the border by now?' I asked.
'They were going like hell all last night,' said Schlegel. 'No reason why
not.'
I looked at Schlegel.
He said, 'Why should he stage a diversion like this, while the trucks cross
the border? They have diplomatic protection: borders make no difference in
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this case.'
'There has to be a reason,' I said. 'Something happened when those trucks
went across the border. And that something would have told us what the plan
was.'
'The drivers were all checked at the dock gates. All of them are French-born
professional drivers, with at least eight years' experience. Already we have
checked their fingerprints with London, Washington, Paris and Bonn. Not a
whisper of a clue.'
'No, it must be the vehicles.'
'You think Champion is inside one of those trucks?'
I said, 'I only wish I had a theory.'
'What happens to trucks when they cross a frontier?' Schlegel asked the pilot
of the police helicopter.
'They check the manifests and the personal papers. They make sure the load is
firmly secured. Perhaps they check the brakes and the roadworthiness. It's
according to how busy they are.'
'No,' I told Schlegel. 'It's not going to be something that the customs men
would notice. It's something that would only seem strange to you or me, or to
someone who knows the situation. Otherwise there would be no point in staging
a diversion that would take our attention.' '
Schlegel sat hunched forward in his seat, while the rain beat down upon our
plastic bubble. 'They must be on the Autobahn to Cologne by now,' he said
finally. He reached for the pilot's map and opened it on his knees. 'If they
are going to Bonn, they will turn off the Autobahn at that big clover-leaf
there--Autobahnkreuz Koln West--and follow the circular road as far as the
next clover-leaf.' He stabbed the place on the map. 'From there, it's only a
lousy twenty kilometres to Bonn.' He looked at me and then at the pilot. 'When
those trucks get halfway between Cologne and Bonn-- we stop them, and screw
the diplomatic ruckus.'
'You want me to radio for permission?' the pilot asked.
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Schlegel looked at him unenthusiastically. 'I'm giving the orders, Baron von
Richthofen! You just pull the levers! Let's go!'
The pilot clipped his helmet chinstrap tight, and twisted the microphone wire
so that it was close to his mouth. Schlegel, having made his decision, twisted
his nose in his hand, and then pinched his own cheeks as a physician might
help a patient recover from a coma.
I looked at the pilot's map. On both sides of the River Rhine, from Cologne
to Bonn, the land is fiat and, by the standards of the great industrial
complex of the Ruhr, comparatively lightly inhabited. But there were towns
there--Wesseling and Nieder-kassel--I wondered how they would like being
expendable in favour of the great dues each side of them.
The starter banged and I watched the pilot's lips moving as he began his
litany of radio signals. I guessed he would call the traffic police who had
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