by Colin Forbes
When Cassin returned from his breath of fresh air, Grelle left the Surete to drive back to his apartment on the Ile Saint- Louis. The next step would be to circulate Alan Lennox's description to all French frontier checkpoints.
CHAPTER SIX
LEON JOUVEL. Robert Philip. Dieter Wohl.
The list of names and addresses meant nothing to either Grelle or Boisseau when the envelope containing the typed sheet reached the prefecture on Tuesday morning, 14 December. The envelope arrived in the prefect's hands by a somewhat devious route. As instructed earlier if he had anything to send by post, Hugon-Moreau had sent the envelope to an address in the rue St Antoine near the Place de la Bastille. The rue St Antoine is one of the many 'village' districts which make Paris one of the most complex and varied cities in the world. The envelope was addressed to the owner of a small bar who lived over his business; an ex-police sergeant, he supplemented his income by acting as a post-box for the Surete. Under the circumstances, it would hardly have been discreet for Moreau to send a communication direct to the rue des Saussaies. Warned of its imminent arrival, the bar-owner phoned the Surete when it arrived, who in turn phoned the prefecture. A despatch rider delivered the envelope to Grelle's desk by ten in the morning.
`These people mean nothing to me,' Boisseau told Grelle as they checked the list together. 'Do you think Hugon is inventing information to justify his four thousand francs a month ?'
`No, I don't. Look at the German name—Dieter Wohl. I read about him in the file on the Leopard. He was the Abwehr officer in the Lozere during the war. I seem to remember he compiled a diary on the Leopard's activities. . .'
`In any case,' Boisseau said, sucking on his extinct pipe, 'the Leopard, as I keep reminding you, is dead. . .'
`So, Boisseau, we have two facts which contradict each other. First, the Leopard's deputy, Petit-Louis, whom we now know to have been Gaston Martin, stated quite categorically that he saw the Leopard walk in through the gates of the Elysee five days ago. That is a fact—he made the statement. Fact two, the Leopard is dead—the record says so. How do we reconcile these two contradictory facts ?'
`We check them . .'
`Precisely. I want to know everything there is on file about the burial of the Leopard in 1944. I want to know where the grave is, whether a priest attended the funeral, whether he is still alive, who the undertaker was, whether he is still alive— every little detail that you can dig up. Phone my friend Georges Hardy, the police prefect of Lyon. But tell him to keep the inquiry just between me and him. . . .' His deputy was leaving the office when Grelle called him back. 'And Boisseau, I want the information yesterday. . .'
The prefect next called in his secretary and dictated a confidential memo to Roger Danchin telling him the contents of the latest message from Hugon-Moreau. When the memo was typed he initialled it and a despatch rider immediately took it to the Place Beauvau. And as has been known to happen before when a subordinate reports to his superior, Grelle censored the report, omitting any reference to the Leopard. Danchin was reading the memo before noon.
Earlier, as soon as he arrived at his office, the prefect started the machinery moving which, in a few hours, would have circulated to all French frontier checkpoints the name and description of Alan Lennox. 'It's odd,' he said to Boisseau, 'I once met a man with this name when I was in Marseilles. Get someone to phone the right man at our embassy in London and try to check him out—with particular reference to his present whereabouts. Alan Lennox—he was an international security expert. . .'
The headquarters of the BND, the German Federal Intelligence Service is located at Pullach in Bavaria, a small town on the banks of the river Isar six miles south of Munich. On the morning when Grelle received the list of witnesses from Hugon, Peter Lanz called in at his office in the two-storey building which houses senior staff at the unearthly hour of 5 am. Rising so early did not bother Lanz who could easily get by on four hours' sleep a night. As he collected papers from his desk and put them inside a briefcase, his secretary, Frau Schenker, a pretty girl of twenty-seven and the wife of an army officer, came into the room.
`The car has arrived, Herr Lanz. They say the airfield is fogged in. . .
`They have a flare path, for God's sake!' Lanz grinned to take the edge off his outburst. 'I haven't had coffee yet, so you must excuse me. You can phone me in Bonn up to nine o'clock —if you must!'
`I shall forget you have gone to Bonn,' Frau Schenker replied. She was half in love with her boss, but sensible enough to know that this was really because she spent all day with him and he was so considerate. At least it helped to dispel the feeling of isolation working at Pullach engendered; none of the people who worked at the BND were able to let their friends know their real job.
As Lanz went down to the car, she checked her watch. He would be airborne within thirty minutes.
As Lanz had foreseen, they had to light the flare path before his executive aircraft could take off, then it was climbing steeply through grey murk which was always disturbing: you couldn't rid yourself of the feeling that a large airliner might be heading direct for you. To suppress the fear, Lanz pulled out the table-flap and read the transcript of Col Lasalle's latest broadcast over Europe Number One. The Frenchman had excelled himself.
`The Hawk in Paris is getting ready to take flight. . . . Soon he will alight in the city of the new Tsar whose shadow falls over the ancient and famous cities of Athens, Rome and Lisbon. .. . Is Paris to be the next city to fall under the darkness of this barbaric shadow ?'
Which was as good as saying that Paris might soon fall to a Communist coup d'etat. Ridiculous. Lanz scribbled the word in the margin. Chancellor Franz Hauser, whom he was flying to see at the Palais Schaumburg, would be furious at this latest outburst. Every Tuesday morning Lanz flew to Bonn to brief Hauser on the latest international developments as seen by the BND. It was really the job of the BND president to attend this meeting, but the president was now no more than a figurehead. 'That empty old beer barrel,' as Hauser rudely called him, only to correct the description even more rudely. 'I'm wrong, of course. He's always full of beer—that's the trouble. . .
Finishing the Lasalle transcript, Lanz checked his diary. After seeing the chancellor he would then fly straight back to Frankfurt, take a car from the airport and drive straight over the Rhine bridge to Mainz on the west bank of the river. The previous evening Alan Lennox had phoned him at the number provided by David Nash from Saarbrucken. At ten o'clock in the morning Lanz was due to meet Lennox at the Hotel Central in Mainz.
* * *
The meeting did not take place at the hotel. When Lanz arrived at the Hotel Central reception desk and inquired for Alan Lennox he was handed a note inside a sealed envelope. The Hauptbahnhof second-class restaurant, the note read. Lanz hurried across the square and found the Englishman sitting reading a copy of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. 'I prefer the anonymity of railway stations,' Lennox explained in German. `How are you ?'
The Englishman spent the next fifteen minutes telling the BND chief about his visit to Lasalle, but when he mentioned the list and Lanz asked to see it, he shook his head. 'If I'm going to see these people, the fewer who know where I'm going the better. As you know, I always work on my own— that way I can only betray myself.'
`I'm relieved,' said Lanz. 'It suggests you haven't lost your touch since the Syrian days. And yes, we are going to provide you with cover papers—identity card, driving licence, and so on. In the name of a Frenchman, you said?'
`Jean Bouvier,' Lennox replied. 'A reasonably anonymous name. Your documents section can put me down as a journalist—a useful profession for someone who wants to go about asking questions. . .
Leaving Mainz Hauptbahnhof, Lanz drove the Englishman in his own car back over the river Rhine and then accelerated along the main highway to Frankfurt. 'There are speed-traps near the Rhine bridge,' he remarked as the speedometer needle climbed. 'It wouldn't do for me to get caught by the cops!' On the way to Frank
furt he talked in English, always glad of the chance to practise another language. Reaching the city, he slowed down, went past the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof and then crossed a bridge over the river Main into the ancient suburb of Sachsenhausen. The shoe-box buildings of glass and concrete which are modern Frankfurt changed into weine stube going back to the days of the first Rothschild. 'We are there,' Lanz announced.
The shabby photographic studio was on the first floor of an old building with a cake shop below, a building containing a number of small firms with single offices. 'If anyone has followed us,' Lanz explained as they climbed the twisting staircase, 'they won't have a clue as to which office we have visited. And I don't think anyone has followed us. . .'
The taking of the photograph occupied less than five minutes. 'Too good a print on an identity card would at once arouse suspicion,' the old photographer with horn rim glasses commented with a dry smile He promised Lanz that the false papers would be ready for collection within two days. Lennox, who had been watching the old man sceptically, asked him sharply to make a note of his vital statistics. 'You are going to need them for the papers,' he pointed out. The old man grinned and tapped his forehead. 'I've noted them up here. Eyes brown, hair black, your height I checked when you stood close to that vertical rule. . .'
They were driving away from Sachsenhausen when Lennox asked the question. 'I thought you had your own sections for producing convenient papers—or has Hauser cut your budget ?'
`He has increased our budget most considerably. And we do have our own documents sections, as you suggest. But yours is a delicate undertaking and I have received orders to take you nowhere near a BND department. Joachim, whom we have just left, and his younger brother, probably produce the best documents in Germany Even if the Surete examine your papers I am sure they will be quite satisfied with them. Now, I know an excellent place for lunch. . .'
Lennox refused the invitation, saying he had things to do, and Lanz drove him back to Mainz, giving him a Frankfurt number he could phone before they parted company. As soon as he was on his own, Lennox went to the garage where he had parked his Citroén, registration number BL 49120, and drove out of the city, heading back towards the French frontier along the same route he had come from Saarbrucken. On the way he purchased some food and a bottle of beer and he ate his snack lunch as he drove. At exactly three o'clock he reached the French border.
There was no trouble on the way in. The frontier control officials took little interest in him, waving him on after a brief glimpse of his British passport. From then on he drove at speed, keeping just inside the limit until he reached Metz, the nearest large city to the border.
As he was parking his Citroén it occurred to Lennox that Metz was Marc Grelle's birthplace.
He spent one hour in Metz, moving quickly from shop to shop, limiting himself to only a few purchases at any one establishment. When he drove out of the city at five o'clock he had a suitcase full of French clothes—nine shirts, two suits, underclothes, ties, handkerchiefs, one raincoat, one heavier coat, a hat, and various accessories including two ballpoint pens, a wallet and a reporter's notebook. He had also purchased toothbrush, toothpaste and a set of French shaving equipment.
Arriving back at the frontier control point well after dark he immediately noticed signs of intense activity. Papers were being checked with great care, the number of officials on view was greater, and a long queue of cars had formed. When his turn came the passport officer studied his document with interest, going through every page, which was unusual. 'You are leaving France, sir ? That is so ?' He was speaking in French.
`I beg your pardon ?' Lennox replied in English.
'Un moment. . . .' The officer disappeared into a hut, still carrying the passport. When he returned ten minutes later he brought with him another official who spoke English. The second man, who now held the passport, leaned into the car and stared hard at Lennox. 'What was the purpose of your visit to France and how long have you been here ?'
Lennox switched off the ignition, leaned an elbow on the window and assumed an expression of great patience. Never provoke passport control; they can make life hell for you. 'I have been in France for three hours,' he explained. 'I found myself close to the border and decided to drive over here for the pleasure of some French food. I have not found German food all that interesting,' he lied blandly. 'Can you understand that ?'
`Please proceed!'
And what the hell was that all about? Lennox asked himself as he crossed over into Germany and accelerated. Why the interest in someone with a British passport? It gave him a feeling of relief to have passed through frontier control; he had not particularly wanted his suitcase opened up when it was full of newly-bought French clothes. Must have been a spot check he thought as he drove on through the night towards Mainz where he had booked a room at the Hotel Central. Within the next two days he would have his second meeting with Peter Lanz to collect the French papers. Then he would cross the French frontier again, this time as Jean Bouvier, newspaper reporter.
Grelle received the summons to the Ministry of the Interior at 6 pm., just about the time when Lennox was coming up to the frontier control post. 'He's getting worse,' he told Boisseau. `Soon I shall be seeing him hourly. I'll see you when I get back. . .'
Driving to see Roger Danchin, he ran into the rush-hour traffic, and since it was pouring with rain people's tempers were even shorter than usual. Sitting in a traffic jam, he quietly cursed the minister in barrack-room language. It was 7 pm when he pulled into the courtyard behind the Place Beauvau, sighed, and then went inside the building. When he entered the minister's office Danchin was standing in his favourite position, by the window and staring down into the hidden garden with his back turned. `Grelle,' he said, 'I have the report on my desk of your visit to the American Embassy yesterday. You arrived at six and left at six-twenty. That seems to have been a very brief visit indeed.' Then he waited, still not looking round.
Grelle made a very rude, two-fingered gesture behind his trouser-leg and remained standing, saying nothing. He had not yet been asked a question and he was damned if he was going to play Danchin's game, to start babbling on, explaining himself.
The silence lasted a minute.
`Well,' Danchin said sharply. 'What happened ?'
`I saw David Nash. . . Grelle, well prepared for the query, spoke in a monotone, almost in a bored tone. 'He had come over to try and find out why Florian is making more and more anti-American speeches. Apparently the State Department is getting very worried about it. I fenced with him, told him I knew nothing about politics, that I was a policeman. He didn't seem very satisfied with my reply, so I thought it best to leave, which I did.'
`Mm-m. . . .' The stooped figure turned away from the window and suddenly stood quite erect. It gave Grelle a slight shock; he could never remember seeing Danchin perfectly erect. 'I think you handled the situation well. What do you think Lasalle is up to now? I had your memo this morning.'
Again the disconcerting switch to an unexpected topic, a typical tactic of Danchin's to catch the man he was interviewing off guard. Grelle shrugged his shoulders, aware that his casual dress of slacks and polo-necked sweater was being studied with disapproval. 'I'm as puzzled as you are, Minister, about Lasalle,' he replied. 'I've alerted the frontier people about the Englishman, but we may have to wait for Hugon's next report before we learn more.'
`Probably, probably. . . Danchin wandered round the room and then stopped behind Grelle. 'Do you think there is any chance that Lasalle is in touch with the Americans ?' he inquired suddenly.
Grelle swung round and stared at his interrogator. 'So far I have no evidence to suggest that. Are you saying that you have? Because if so I should know of it. . .'
`Just thinking aloud, Grelle. Not even thinking—just wondering. I don't think I need detain you any longer. . .'
On his way back to the prefecture Grelle went into a bar behind the rue St Honore to calm down. Does everyone hate his boss? he wo
ndered, as he got back into his car and drove to the Ile de la Cite. The news Boisseau gave him made him forget the irritation of the trip to the Place Beauvau.
`They've spotted Lennox. . .'
Boisseau came into the prefect's office holding a piece of paper. 'They checked his passport at the nearest border control point to Saarbrucken. He was travelling alone in a blue DS —registration number BL 49120. It all fits with the data Hugon gave us. The passport simply designates him as business executive.'
`Quick work. Have they put someone on his tail ?' the prefect asked.
`No. How could they ? He was crossing into Germany. The time was 1800 hours this evening. . .
`Crossing into Germany? You mean he had just left France ? What the hell is he up to ? According to Hugon he was coming into France!' Grelle walked across his office to study a wall map. 'He crosses the border into France and then drives straight back into Germany ? It doesn't make sense, Boisseau.'
`Perhaps Hugon is not all that reliable. . .'
`He was reliable in telling us the Englishman had visited Lasalle. I just don't understand it.' Grelle began pacing backwards and forwards in front of the map, occasionally glancing at it. 'It's too much of a coincidence that he should cross over so close to Saarbrucken,' he decided. 'He must have gone back to see Lasalle. We'll have to wait for the next report from Hugon. I've no doubt he'll tell us that Lennox went back to see the colonel.'
`Shall we keep on the frontier alert ?'
`Yes. Just in case he comes back again.'
The third member of the Soviet Commando was Antonin Lansky, the man they called the Rope. Twenty-eight years old, Lansky had already travelled abroad to track down two Czechs who defected from the political intelligence section in Bratislava. The two Czechs, a man and a girl, had fled across the border into Austria where they sought refuge in Vienna. Their disappearance—on a Friday night in the hope that they would have the weekend to get clear—was discovered by accident within a few hours. Lansky was sent after them.
