Rhinoceros

by Colin Forbes

  'We watched a bit on TV,' Monica interjected. 'The pics were frightful and Washington thinks there are other cities targeted. They're trying to guess which ones.'

  'I have Keith Kent coming in any moment,' Tweed told her. 'You remember Keith, the brilliant analyst of movements of large sums of money, often secretly. It occurred to me all this is being financed by a fortune, a huge one. Thugs like to be paid for their dirty work. Never mind the slogans "Down With Capitalism". Then there's the transport to move them over long distances. What Marler has told us shows that is going on. So who is paying out these vast sums? And why?'

  The phone rang. Monica told Tweed that Keith Kent had arrived and he asked her to tell him to come up right away.

  'Poor devil,' commented Mark. 'It's the middle of the night.'

  'He's an owl,' Tweed said. 'Works best through the early hours . . .'

  Keith Kent walked in. Of medium height, he was slim and clad in an expensive business suit. In his late thirties, he was clean-shaven, had thick dark hair and grey eyes which concentrated on the person he was talking to. Tweed introduced him to Mark, then asked him who could be financing the carnage.

  'My best bet,' Kent replied, sitting down, crossing his legs, 'is the Zurcher Kredit Bank.'

  'What?' Tweed was taken aback. 'It's a Swiss bank.' 'Used to be. Thank you, Monica,' he said as she handedhim a cup of coffee. 'I'll need this. I happen to have spent a lot of time scrutinizing that bank. I have a strange story to tell you.'

  Going back to the late 1790s, Mayer Amschel Rothschild was establishing the banking business, which was to grow into a colossus, in the Frankfurt Judengasse.

  The Judengasse was the ghetto Jews were confined to and operated from. Enter Salomon Frankenheim, in his teens. Not a Jew, he had studied the Jewish faith, their rituals, their way of life. He then applied to Mayer for a job. Mayer put him through his paces, realized Frankenheim was a mathematical genius, took him on.

  Frankenheim learned every trick of the Rothschild technique of trading. He was not thirty when he left Rothschild, slipped out of the Judengasse, formed what was to become the Frankenheim Dynasty in Paris.

  Time passed. Frankenheim married, produced three sons. After their father's death they were running Frankenheim banks in Paris, Vienna and Rome, all of which were prospering.

  More time passed until after several generations 1925 arrived. All the Frankenheims were long-lived but by then the head of the dynasty, Joseph, had no sons. Who was to take over, this highly successful, all-powerful and very secretive organization?

  After so many generations history repeated itself. Joseph adopted a son, name and origin unrecorded, who proved later to be a mathematical genius like the founder, Salomon. When he was old enough to take control, still a young man, he followed the policies that had made the Frankenheims so rich.

  Then, recently, he obtained control of the Zurcher Kredit Bank and changed the name from Frankenheim. What had been for so long the Frankenheim Dynasty now became the Zurcher Kredit. The present head was only known to a few - as Rhinoceros.

  'That was a lot for you to absorb,' Keith Kent commented and gratefully accepted another cup of coffee from Monica.

  'Why "Rhinoceros"?' Tweed asked.

  'Because one of the earlier Frankenheims liked going on safari in Africa. On one trip he shot a rhinoceros. The symbol of the Frankenheim banks then became the head of a rhinoceros, with an engraved plate of the animal outside every branch of the bank.'

  'I don't understand this,' Tweed objected. 'How could he possibly take over a Swiss bank? The Swiss make a point that none of their banks can be controlled by anyone except a Swiss.'

  'Rhinoceros was clever. He persuaded the Zurcher Kredit directors to invest larger and larger sums in valuable property outside Switzerland. They did not realize he was using his own lawyers - to put the properties secretly in companies he controlled - outside Switzerland. When he had eighty per cent of the capital he began selling the properties - at a profit, being Rhinoceros -and then he re-formed the Zurcher Kredit to replace his Frankenheim banks. In Hamburg, in Paris, Vienna, Rome, Berlin and also Brussels. He has branches in other major cities.'

  'How did the Swiss react?' Tweed wondered.

  'Rhinoceros treated the original Zurcher Kredit directors very generously. Made them all millionaires. Result? The directors used the remaining twenty per cent still in their bank to buy more properties abroad, properties which Rhinoceros suggested. This kept them inside Swiss banking law. In due course these remaining properties were sold and the proceeds absorbed by Zurcher Kredit, now totally controlled by Rhinoceros.'

  'I find this intriguing,' commented Tweed. 'What I would like to know is who is Rhinoceros, where does he live, what is his nationality?'

  'I don't know and I can't find out.'

  The phone rang. Monica looked surprised as she indicated the call was for Tweed.

  'It's a Mr Rondel.'

  'Tweed here. I don't think I know you . . .'

  'You don't. Not yet.' The voice was warm, buoyant. 'Is this a safe phone?'

  'It is.'

  'I do my homework. I know quite a lot about you. I'm not referring to that smokescreen you put up — a negotiator in an insurance company specializing in covering wealthy people against the contingency of their being kidnapped. You are the Deputy Director of the SIS.'

  'If you say so.'

  'Mr Tweed, I'd like us to meet. At a convenient - to you - destination on the Continent. At a time convenient to you.'

  'Before I considered agreeing I'd have to know the subject you propose discussing.'

  'Of course.' The voice chuckled. 'I can see why you hold the position you do. The subject is what steps we can take to prevent the collapse of the West. I refer to the recent riots aimed at destabilizing the present system. I want to find out who is organizing them, who is paying a lot of money to finance this very dangerous onslaught on our way of life.'

  'Can you give me a number where I can call you?'

  'Ah!' Another chuckle. 'The trouble is, I travel about a lot. Sometimes I don't know where I shall be myself tomorrow! May I call you again soon?'

  'Please do. And thank you for contacting me . . .'

  Tweed put down his phone, looked at Keith Kent who was drinking a third cup of coffee.

  'Ever heard of a man called Rondel?'

  'No, I haven't.'

  'Was that really him on the phone?' Paula asked.

  'It was.'

  'What did he sound like?'

  'Able, quick-witted, humorous, very pleasant. I'd say he has a very strong personality.' He transferred his gaze back to Kent. 'You were telling us about Rhinoceros. How does he operate?'

  'In great secrecy. He lives somewhere in a secluded base

  - its location unknown.'

  'You mean like Howard Hughes, the American millionaire who stayed locked up and guarded away from the world. A hermit?'

  'Not at all. He travels about a lot. Always using a pseudonym - a different one each time. He uses commercial flights a lot, sometimes travelling Club Class, sometimes Economy. Never First Class. I've picked up that much about his habits and no more.'

  'Is Rhinoceros honest? I did ask you how he operates.'

  'He operates just like the Frankenheims of long ago- as the Rothschilds sometimes did. He rarely gives a loan. Very rich people trust his bank. They deposit huge sums of money there, knowing it will be safe. He charges a stiff fee but they don't care. They pay for peace of

  mind. Is he honest? He's the most trustworthy banker in the world. Which is why I'm staggered at what I've discovered.'

  'Which is?'

  'Huge amounts of laundered money, source unknown, are passing through the Zurcher Kredit. I can't believe it, but it is so.'

  'Doesn't sound like the portrait of Rhinoceros you painted.'

  'It goes against all his principles. Clever accountancy is covering up what's happening. I stumbled on it. That's all I know.'

  'And as regard
s who is financing these worldwide riots?'

  'Can't help you. I'll keep looking.'

  'One more question. How much is the Zurcher Kredit worth?'

  'Eighy billion dollars. More than Microsoft . . .'

  CHAPTER 11

  'M. Bleu', as he was known to a small circle of French security, already responsible for the murders of Jason Schulz in Washington and Jeremy Mordaunt at Alfriston, fiddled with his motorcycle, perched by the kerb a short distance from the Elysee in Paris.

  He gave the impression he was repairing his high-powered machine. Tall and slim, he appeared to be more heavily built, clad in black leather trousers and jacket, his crash helmet pulled well down over his head. From under his visor he kept glancing at the exit from the Elysee, official residence of the French President.

  He was waiting for the appearance of Louis Lospin, chief aide to the Prime Minister and his most confidential adviser. Walking towards him was a Frenchman, a mechanic by trade. He stopped by the motorcyclist, offered to help.

  'Merdel' Bleu snarled the insulting response.

  The mechanic shrugged, resumed his stroll. You couldn't even offer to help some people. Behind him M. Bleu glanced up as a car emerged from the Elysee courtyard. He noted the number plate. It was Louis Lospin's car. He pulled his visor down further, straddled his machine which started as soon as he turned the key. He began to follow the car at a discreet distance.

  Lospin's car followed the same route it had taken the previous day. When it eventually pulled up in front of an apartment building in the select district of Neuilly, the motorcyclist stopped, parked by the kerb, watched.

  In his left hand he held a stopwatch. He was checking the exact time it took Lospin to emerge from his car, climb the steps to the front door. He also noticed the chauffeur who had driven the car moved off quickly, as he had done before. Lospin was taking out his key to open the front door when the car vanished at speed round a bend. The same routine as yesterday.

  M. Bleu was infinitely thorough in his preparations, tracking his target day by day, looking for a pattern, a routine. It was only when he had discovered one, had checked the timing by his stopwatch, located an escape route, that he decided he could approach his victim, do what had to be done quickly, then vanish.

  What he didn't know was that at Interpol, situated inside a fortress building in a city a long way from Paris, there was a file on M. Bleu. In his tiny office inside the building Pierre Marin was examining his copy of the file. The French embassies in Washington and London had wired data on their subject to Interpol.

  Why? Because the French never stop worrying. They didn't know of any connection between Schulz and Mordaunt, but they suspected there was one. So did Marin. He had read the file very slowly three times, even though there was very little data. Tweed would have appreciated Marin.

  Eventually Marin decided this man did not concern him or his country. French security was too tight. Germany was the next likely target. He scribbled a note in French on the last page. Not for us, could be for you. He then told an assistant to send a copy of the file by courier to Otto Kuhlmann, chief of the Federal Police in Germany.

  Kuhlmann, a quick-witted man, read the file once, read the comment Marin had scrawled on the last page. Taking out a pen he scribbled through the comment, wrote one word next to it. Dummkopf. Which is the German word for 'idiot'.

  On the same day, at Park Crescent, Tweed received a call from his old friend and sparring partner, Superintendent Roy Buchanan. At times they agreed, then disagreed, but Buchanan was probably the most efficient detective in Britain.

  'Come over, now if you want,' Tweed suggested.

  'That's me knocking on your door. I've something to show you.'

  No more than fifteen minutes later he walked into the office, carrying a large cardboard-backed envelope. In his forties, Buchanan was a tall, lean-faced, lean-bodied man. His hair was dark brown and below his long nose was a neat moustache of the same colour. His eyes were shrewd, swept round the room at its occupants, all of whom he knew. Monica, Paula, behind her desk, Newman in an armchair and Marler, leaning against a wall.

  'I've left Sergeant Warden downstairs,' he remarked.

  Tweed invited him to sit down and Monica bustled out to fetch coffee. A stranger's impression of the lanky Buchanan would have been that he was relaxed, easygoing - which was a mistake many a villain had made.

  'Is it about the riots, Roy?' Tweed enquired.

  'Yes and no. I would appreciate your account of what you saw. One of my men recognized you near Reefers Wharf.'

  'We didn't see any uniformed police until it was nearly all over,' Newman said caustically.

  'That was because I took an unorthodox decision. I sent in teams in plain clothes so they didn't become a target. They ended up arresting twenty thugs.'

  'That was clever,' Tweed commented. 'What did we see . . .'

  He gave Buchanan an abbreviated report. Buchanan was writing in his notebook. He had just put his notebook away

  - Tweed had made no mention of Lisa - when Monica

  arrived with the coffee. He drank half a cup, asked his

  question.

  'Any clue as to who is behind them? Here? On the continent? In the States? Pity we hadn't an American contact.'

  Mark Wendover had once more not arrived. Nor had he contacted Tweed, who was getting used to the American's independent habits. He shook his head as he answered the question.

  'Not a clue. I'm investigating possible sources of finance.'

  'Good idea. Very. Jumping to another topic, ever heard of a Mr Blue?'

  'Yes,' said Marler. 'What do you know?'

  'Only the name. One of my undercover men heard a reference to him in a sleazy nightclub. Made by a man who knows things no one else knows. I only asked because the name struck me.' He looked at Marler. 'Your turn.'

  'Mr Blue,' Marler began, 'is the strangest case I've ever come across. Rumour hath it - no more than rumour- that he's a top-class assassin. The weird thing is he's not for hire, no matter how much the money offered on the grapevine. He selects his own targets. That really is weird.'

  'So we know nothing,' Buchanan commented. 'Jumping now to a third topic, a murder case. Here in town. In a flat off Ebury Street. I was nearby so I went and interviewed the landlady who rents out the flat. The victim, a Helga Trent, was shot dead from a window across the street. So was her dog.'

  'Sounds unusual,' said Tweed quickly.

  'I've got here . . .' Buchanan took a thick sheet of paper, cartridge, from his envelope, gave it to Tweed. 'That's a picture one of our artists drew from the landlady's description of a sister Helga who was visiting her. The sister who rented the flat has since vanished.'

  Tweed, his face expressionless, looked down at the drawing. It was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a woman with long red hair. It was a surprisingly good likeness of Lisa.

  Tweed stood up. He walked towards Newman and Paula with his back to Buchanan. He was frowning a warning at them. Paula looked at the portrait, shook her head.

  'Can't help you.'

  Tweed presented the portrait to Newman, who took his time studying it. He handed it back to Tweed.

  'A good-looker. Wish I did know her.'

  'Well, it was a long shot,' Buchanan remarked as he returned the paper to its envelope. 'But you lot mix with a whole variety of people.'

  'We do,' Tweed agreed. 'If you'd like to have a copy of the portrait reduced to a small size - something I could carry in my pocket - we just might spot her here in town.'

  'Make you three copies. One for you, one for Paula and one for Newman.'

  'Before you go,' Marler interjected as Buchanan started to stand up. 'Any news from Dorset?'

  'I knew there was something else.' The superintendent sat down again. 'The Chief Constable down there had a chopper up all night. They changed crews and the chopper tried its luck in daylight. Not a thing. No sighting of a crowd of men like Tweed described - from what you saw. No bus
es, but they could have hidden them in old barns.'

  'I don't suppose this Mr Blue could have killed Helga Trent?' Marler suggested.

  'It is a very strange case,' Buchanan ruminated. 'The landlady said Helga was older than her sister but also had long red hair and looked a bit like her. The body was lying under a window with heavy net curtains. Two bullet holes in the window. One for Helga, the other for the dog. It crossed my mind that maybe the killer had shot the wrong target - that he was after Helga's sister and thought he saw her as Helga stood behind the curtains, with the light on behind her.'

  'Anything to back up that theory?' Tweed asked.

  'The fact that the younger sister has vanished - and made no attempt to call the police. Mind you, the landlady said they didn't get on. Helga tried to dominate her younger sister - the landlady heard arguments. I must go now . . .'

  Monica held the door open for him, peered down the stairs. Sergeant Warden was sitting motionless on a chair facing George, the guard. As usual, Warden looked like a wooden Indian.

  When Monica came back into the room Paula had shifted her desk chair in front of where Tweed was sitting. She sat down.

  'That gave me a shock,' she said. 'That drawing is a perfect likeness of Lisa.'