by Colin Forbes
COLIN FORBES
RHINOCEROS
POCKET BOOKS
LONDON • SYDNEY- NEW YORK- TOKYO - SINGAPORE - TORONTO
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2000
This edition first published by Pocket Books, 2001
An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
A Viacom Company
Copyright © Colin Forbes, 2000
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention
No reproduction without permission
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved
Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of
Simon & Schuster Inc
The right of Colin Forbes to be identified as author of this work has
been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
13579 10 8642
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
Africa House
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 0-7434-1522-1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is
entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd,
Polmont, Stirlingshire
Printed and bound in Australia
by Griffin Press
Colin Forbes writes a novel each year. For many years he has earned his living solely as a full-time writer. He lives well away from London in the countryside. An international bestseller, each book has been published worldwide. Colin Forbes is translated into thirty languages.
He has explored most of Western Europe, the East and West coasts of America, and has visited Africa and Asia. All the locations in his novels are described from personal experience.
Surveys have confirmed that his readership is divided almost equally between men and women.
Author's Note
All the characters portrayed are creatures of the author's imagination and bear no relationship to any living person. Equally, Berg Island is an invention and bears no relationship to any existing island.
For IAN S. CHAPMAN
Prologue
The first strange event was when Bob Newman, foreign correspondent, arrived at Heathrow to meet the American guest. He showed his SIS folder to pass through the formalities. Standing by the carousel, he checked the photo sent from Washington. On the back was a written description.
Six feet one tall, weight 190 Ibs, clean-shaven, thirty-five years old. Newman spotted Mark Wendover at once among the crowd waiting for their baggage. Coming up behind him, he laid a hand on his shoulder.
'Welcome, Mr Wendover . . .'
The American, built like a quarterback, reacted in a most unexpected way. As he swung swiftly round, Newman saw his right hand stiffen in the gesture of a potential karate chop. Newman spoke quickly.
'I'm Bob Newman, here to meet you. Didn't they tell you? We did send a message.'
'Great to see you. Thanks for coming. May I call you Bob?'
'Of course.'
'Then I'm Mark. Sorry if I startled you. Haven't had any sleep for over twenty hours.'
'Better watch the carousel. . .'
'You're right. And here comes my bag . . .'
They were in Newman's car, driving into London, sitting next to each other when Newman asked the question.
And if I startled you, he thought, you certainly startled me. You were on the verge of launching an attack. Why?
'We're not quite sure what your status is. Cord Dillon, the Deputy Director of the CIA, was in a rush when he phoned and a bit vague about you.'
'I'm vague myself about what to do next. I was with the CIA for five years. It was OK, but too much paperwork for my liking. I did fieldwork too,' he added quickly. 'Shot a saboteur in Denver once. Left the outfit - the Company as some of the oldsters still call it - and set up a private detective agency. That did well - I've left behind a staff of twenty.' He looked at Newman and grinned, but the grin did not extend to his cold blue eyes. 'But that isn't why I'm here.'
'I gather you're here because you have information about the recent suicide of Jason Schulz, top aide to the Secretary of State.'
'Except it wasn't suicide,' Wendover rapped back. 'It was cold-blooded murder, amateurishly disguised to look like suicide.'
Why, Newman was asking himself, don't I feel comfortable with this guy? And why am I sure he's nervous? The traffic had temporarily stopped the car and he looked straight at his passenger.
Wendover had corn-coloured hair, cut very short, a handsome strong face of the type which would appeal to a lot of women. His long nose was broken, which seemed to add to his good looks. He had a wide determined mouth and just enough jaw to suggest strength without aggression.
'If it was an amateurish-seeming job, why is it being called suicide?'
'That's the mystery. The FBI was hauled off the case. Its chief is raging - and mystified. Schulz was supposed to have driven to a park in Washington, walked into a copse, leaned against the trunk of a tree, taken out a gun and blown the side of his head off. He was a very important man in the State Department.'
'So what's wrong?' Newman prodded as the traffic moved again.
'First, Jason's wife swears her husband never owned a gun - and we believe her. The weapon, a Smith & Wesson revolver, had the serial number filed off. So, impossible to trace where it came from. Second, he was found slumped at the foot of the tree, still holding the gun. The trouble is, the way his fingers were clutching the gun didn't seem right. More like someone had placed his fingers there after he was shot. Third, no trace of his car in the park. They found it parked in his usual slot in an underground garage.'
'With all that evidence, who on earth called off the FBI?'
'We don't know. It's pretty mysterious.'
'We've booked you a room at the Ritz. If it's all right by you I'll call later and take you out to dinner. Would seven be too early?'
'Just give me time to take a shower. Seven is fine . . .'
The conversation lapsed until Newman was pulling up outside the Ritz. Before Wendover grabbed his bag he turned to Newman and asked the question.
'Jason Schulz died five days ago. I gather Cord sent me over because Tweed is worried. Right?'
'We can talk about that over dinner.'
He watched Wendover, carrying a heavy bag, leap up the steps to the hotel like a ten-year-old. That doesn't look to be a man who hasn't slept for twenty hours, he thought.
In time sequence the second event occurred earlier the same day. Newman's chief, Tweed, Deputy Director of the SIS, had driven down to East Sussex at the invitation of an old friend, Lord Barford. He had taken Paula Grey, his assistant, with him.
It was late on a brilliant sunny afternoon as he drove between the open wrought-iron gates and into the Barfbrd estate. Paula, seated beside Tweed, gazed at the spacious parkland. The ruler-straight drive extended across to a large, distant Elizabethan mansion. The sun had shone first after lunch and there were still traces of a heavy frost, islands of white on the beautiful lawn, which was an intense green.
'You've known Lord Barford for a long time, I gather?' she remarked.
'When I first joined the SIS he was in command of Special Branch. In those days we found them very cooperative. None of the bitter and stupid rivalry there is between the two outfits today. He's one of the old school. Very wealthy but he felt he had to serve his coun
try. He's very shrewd.'
'Looks like quite a party,' she commented as they drew closer to the terrace running along the front of the mansion. An assortment of expensive cars were parked below the terrace. She counted a Porsche, four Mercedes, a Lamborghini, five Audis and two Rolls-Royces.
As they mounted the steps one of the massive double doors at the entrance opened. A tall man who had to be in his seventies came out with a warm smile. Despite being near the end of March, a bitter north wind blew along the terrace.
'Lord Barford,' Tweed whispered.
Their host had a long head with a beaked nose, lively grey eyes which, Paula thought, missed very little. Wearing a velvet smoking jacket, he advanced towards them.
'Welcome to Barford Manor. It's been too long, Tweed. Who is your delightful companion?'
'Meet Paula Grey, my right arm.'
'I'm pleased to meet you, Lord Barford,' she said as she shook his extended hand. 'If you don't mind my saying so, it's Arctic on this terrace and you're not wearing a coat.'
'Used to it, my dear. I was once shooting bear in Finland when the temperature had gone off the thermometer. Come in, come in.'
He studied Paula, saw an attractive woman in her thirties with a mane of glossy black hair, fine-boned features and a stubborn chin. He went on talking as they entered a large hall and a butler took their coats.
'You must be remarkably efficient and self-controlled to work for this young tyrant.'
'Young?' Tweed laughed. 'Your eyesight must be going.'
Barford stared at Tweed. He saw a man of medium height and uncertain age, well-built without any sign of a paunch and wearing horn-rimmed glasses. He was the man you passed in the street without noticing him, a characteristic he had found useful in his profession.
They were ushered into a large drawing room, luxuriously furnished but with great taste. A number of people seated with drinks on sofas and armchairs turned to look at the new arrivals.
'Introductions,' Barford announced. 'I told you Tweed was coming,' he began. 'The attractive young lady he has brought for my delight is his personal assistant, Miss Paula Grey. Now, this is Lance, my eldest son.'
A forty-year-old, still clad in riding gear, dragged himself up slowly. His arrogant face was long and lean but without his father's grace. Clean-shaven, he spoke in an extreme upper-crust drawl as Paula smiled, extending her hand. He bent down, took hold of it, brushed his lips across her fingers, a greeting she disliked.
'Don't often see the likes of you round here, my dear. I suggest you spend a few days down here. Plenty of empty bedrooms.'
'Thank you, but we have to get back to London tonight.'
'And this is Aubrey,' Barford said quickly, glaring at Lance. 'A little younger, a little politer.'
Aubrey had already risen out of his chair and was smiling. The smile was warm, welcoming. From his suit he looked like a businessman and he shook Paula's hand, not holding it too long.
'And this is our guest, Lisa,' Barford said with enthusiasm. 'She has brains as well as looks.'
Tweed agreed as he followed Paula in shaking hands with a slim, very good-looking redhead who was gazing at Tweed intently with a quirky smile, her blue eyes seeming to look inside him. She exuded intelligence and her movements were swift and graceful.
'I've been looking forward to meeting you, Mr Tweed. Please come and join me on the couch.'
'That would be my pleasure . . .'
Other people were introduced. Several women were looking Paula up and down with an admiration verging on jealousy. Tweed sat down next to Lisa and they began talking as drinks were served. Paula tried to avoid Lance but he took her arm and led her to an empty couch.
'I hear,' Lisa began in her pleasant soft voice, 'that you have a difficult job. In a very special form of insurance. To do with covering rich people against kidnapping - and then negotiating their release on the rare occasions when they are kidnapped.'
'Something like that,' Tweed agreed, secretly thanking his host for using his cover. 'But what do you do? I detect just the faint trace of another accent.'
'You have a good ear. My father was German, my mother English.'
'So are you a linguist?'
'Up to a point.' Lisa hesitated, gazed at him. 'I do speak German, French, Spanish, Italian and Swedish. What do I do? I'm a confidante. Silly word,' she said apologetically. 'People come to me when they have a delicate problem.'
She lowered her voice. 'I've got one now. Better not discuss it here. If I could come to see you some time. Although I expect you're very busy.'
Tweed took a card from his wallet, handed it to her. She cleverly palmed it, looked round casually, slipped it inside her handbag. The card he had given her gave his name, followed by General & Cumbria Assurance, the cover name for the SIS, with its Park Crescent address and the phone number for outside callers.
She had been nervous, he sensed. She seemed to relax when she had taken his card. They chatted about various places in Europe they both knew. The blow fell very late in the evening. It was after dinner and Tweed had a shock when he checked the time as Barford approached him, whispered.
'There's an urgent phone call for you. From no less than Gavin Thunder, Minister of Armaments. Silly name. Found out where you were from Monica, your assistant at Park Crescent. You can take the call in the library . . .'
When he eventually returned, Tweed kept an amiable expression on his face. He beckoned to Paula, then turned to Lisa.
'Sorry, but I have to leave now.'
'That's all right.' Lisa smiled. 'I also must go back to my flat in London. My sister is guarding the dog. Or maybe it's the other way round!'
'Do come and see me . . .'
'Do you know how to get to Alfriston from here?' Tweed asked as they drove away.
'Yes. Head back to the A27. I once visited Alfriston for the day. It's very old, has a lot of character. I'll navigate.' Paula glanced at him. His expression was now grim. 'Is there a crisis?'
'Jeremy Mordaunt, under-secretary to the Minister of Armaments, has been found shot dead. Gavin Thunder spoke to me himself. Arrogant type. I'm not sure why I agreed to his request.'
'Surely it's a police matter?'
'That's what I said. But after Thunder had rung off I called my friend. Superintendent Roy Buchanan at the Yard. He said the Minister had contacted him, told him he wanted me to investigate. Roy had checked with the Commissioner and Thunder had already called him, demanded that I investigate the suicide.'
'I don't like the sound of this. Smells of political overtones,' Paula suggested.
'That's what I think. And how does the Minister know that it is suicide? The body was only discovered about an hour ago. The local police called the MoA.'
'I suppose Thunder thought of you because you were once the youngest homicide superintendent at Scotland Yard, as it was called in those days.'
'Still doesn't make sense . . .'
They had left the Barford estate behind and joined the fast-moving traffic on the A27. The headlight beams of their car pierced the dark and when Paula checked her watch it was close to midnight.
'Where has the time gone?' Paula wondered.
'Well, we had a leisurely dinner before we returned to the drawing room and chatted some more. The signpost says Alfriston coming up, off to the left.'
'I was just going to warn you about the turn-off. We'll soon be in Alfriston. It has occurred to me why you did accept this weird, if not illegal assignment. You've had two calls from Cord Dillon about the suicide of Jason Schulz in Washington. So-called suicide, according to Cord, who even called you from a public phone outside Langley. Which suggests he doesn't trust his own outfit.'
'This mysterious Mark Wendover he's sent over has probably arrived by now. Newman was going to meet his plane. We will know more after we meet Wendover.'
They had turned off the A27, were driving along an ill-lit road which was little more than a lane. Paula decided it was time to lighten the atmosphere.
'You really seemed to get on well with Lisa, chatting her up before and after dinner.'
'Very intelligent, strong-minded,' Tweed remarked, 'but there is something odd about her.'
While Tweed was still in East Sussex, Lisa had driven back to her flat in town. She covered long distances at speed in her sports coupe. The roof was closed, the heating turned full up. The moonlit night illuminated the beautiful countryside once she left the A27 behind, but outside the temperature had dropped below zero.
After slowing to descend the curving road on the north side of the Downs she pressed her foot down again. There was no other traffic at that hour and on either side spacious fields covered with a blanket of glistening frost spread out. It is still not quite the end of March, she thought. And I have contacted Tweed.
Lisa drove at a sedate pace on reaching London. The last thing she wanted was to be stopped by a police patrol car. Taking her usual precaution, she parked in a side street near her flat. The car was her getaway in an emergency.
As she walked quietly along the deserted street to her flat she turned suddenly to look back. No one was following her. Glancing up at her first-floor flat window, she saw the light was on behind the net curtains. Helga, her sister, had not bothered to close the heavier curtains, which bothered her. But she could hardly expect her sister to take the precautions she herself always took.
As Lisa paused, taking out her key, she looked up again and frowned. The glass in front of the lighted window was fractured. Vandals? A brick hurled up? Tiger, her Alsatian, would have torn the culprit to pieces had he been able to get at him.
