Rhinoceros

by Colin Forbes

  Both doors were opened with a flourish by a tall uniformed chauffeur. A Daimler was parked near the corner of the mansion. Tweed studied the chauffeur intently. Not the usual chauffeur - even by the standards of those working for rich men. He had brown hair trimmed short, a strongly featured face, and was in his thirties, but it was the eyes that caught Tweed's attention. They were exceptionally intelligent, and the man moved athletically.

  'Yes, I'm Tweed.'

  'You are expected, sir,' the chauffeur replied in faultless English. 'If you would wait in the hall for just a few moments ..."

  Left to themselves in the spacious hall, Tweed noticed a Louis Vuitton case standing against a wall. He bent down. Someone had tucked in below the handle a Bordkane, or a boarding pass. Lufthansa. From BER to HAM. Dated the previous day. Someone had flown back from Berlin to Hamburg in the afternoon - on the day Kuhlmann had reported that Kurt Kruger, aide to the Deputy Chancellor, had been murdered.

  Tweed was holding the pass in his hand when Rondel entered like a whirlwind, clad in riding gear.

  'Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!'

  He bowed, took Paula's right hand, kissed it, looked up at her with a broad smile. She found she rather liked a gesture she would not normally have found acceptable. Tweed held up the printed slip.

  'I found this boarding pass from Berlin to Hamburg lying on the floor. It must have slipped out of the case.'

  'That belongs to Danzer, the chauffeur who greeted you. He flew to Berlin and back again yesterday.' Rondel grinned. 'He has a new girlfriend. He collects and dismisses them as though they were playing cards . . . Please excuse my attire. I have an engagement to go riding . . . Want to come?' he asked Paula.

  'It's a long time since I sat on a horse. Thank you, but I think I need a quiet day. Yesterday was rather hectic. I did enjoy the dinner, though.'

  'You couldn't have enjoyed it as much as I revelled in having a chat with you ... I couldn't sleep last night. Your image kept coming into my mind . . .'

  He was talking as he had at the restaurant. In rapid bursts that demonstrated the extraordinary quickness of his mind. He waved towards the interior of the house.

  'My partner is waiting for you. Or rather, he would like to see Tweed alone, if that is not too impolite . . . Paula, you and Bob can come with me . . . we will enjoy a drink together. I am hoping Bob, the famous international foreign correspondent, can tell us what is wrong with the world. If both of you would like to make yourselves comfortable in this room . . .' He was leading them towards a closed door. '. . . I will be back in a tick.'

  He turned to Tweed, who had slipped the boarding pass under the handle of the case.

  'Please, Mr Tweed, let me escort you . . .'

  Inside the room she had been shown into with Newman, Paula remained standing. It kept going through her head. Lisa concussed, after the blow Delgado had struck her back home at Reefers Wharf. The message she had desperately tried to get across, hardly able to speak.

  Ham . . . Dan . . . Four S.

  Ham had been Hamburg. Four S had been Four Seasons Hotel. Dan. Couldn't that have been Danzer, the chauffeur who had shown them in?

  After opening another door at the rear of the hall, where gilt-framed portraits of men of earlier times were hung, Rondel accompanied Tweed down a long hall to a door at the far end. This opened on to a large conservatory full of different plants. His partner sat facing them in a wickerwork chair with a high straight back.

  In front of the chair on a glass-topped table were the remains of a meal. His partner had been holding the silver box close to his mouth while he manipulated one of the ivory toothpicks. He closed the lid quickly, tucked it inside a pocket of his linen jacket.

  'The gentleman you are so anxious to see,' Rondel said.

  'Thank you. Do not let his two colleagues leave. I wish to pay my respects to them later,' the seated man ordered.

  'Let us go into the garden, Mr Tweed,' the partner suggested, rising, holding out his hand. 'There we can talk without inhibition. May I offer you a drink?'

  He was speaking slowly, each word enunciated with clarity. Not from age, Tweed guessed, but from temperament. A very careful man.

  'Just water, please . . .'

  His host opened a door, ushered Tweed, holding his glass of water, into what seemed more like a beautiful park with an abundance of flowers. Especially hydrangeas. Paved walkways wended their way in all directions, disappearing round curves. They strolled slowly and Tweed kept quiet, leaving his strange host to choose a subject.

  'I will tell you something very few people in the world know. My name is Milo Slavic. Which shows I trust you.'

  'Why should you?' Tweed asked outright.

  'Because before I get even a little close to someone I have him checked out meticulously.' He drew out the word as m-e-t-i-c-u-l-o-u-s~l-y. 'I have had you checked out on two continents. You are a unique man. I never flatter.'

  'So what did you want with me?'

  'Direct, too. Do you believe that, with all the weakness of present Western governments, we need something stronger?'

  'Depends on how strong. In the last century we have had Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Josef Stalin. Do we need men as strong as that?'

  'There was chaos when those men took power. The masses were frightened, looked for strength. Perhaps it may have to happen again?'

  'Are you related to an earlier member of the Frankenheim Dynasty?' Tweed asked suddenly.

  'Ah!' His host chuckled, an odd sound. 'History sometimes does repeat itself. You know about the Frankenheims - I can tell. The first Frankenheim took the name, pretended to be a Jew, made himself indispensable to Mayer Amschel, that brilliant man who created Rothschild. We are back in the late 1790s. Frankenheim, as he continued to call himself, then learnt all the tricks of the profession from his mentor - left him, founded his own bank in Paris. Jump forward to 1940. As a very young man I met the last of the Frankenheims, who had no son, no heir. I was naturally gifted in mathematics, in accountancy and solved for him a problem he had found insoluble. He obtained a Swiss passport for rne, as he had for himself, and soon I was Director of his bank in Zurich. When he died I found he had appointed me his heir. I have simplified a rather complicated history.'

  'So where do you come from?'

  'Slovenia.'

  'The northernmost state of what used to be Yugoslavia in the time of Marshal Tito. Adjoins the border with Austria. Has gained its complete independence.'

  'Not everyone would know that. Are you concerned with what is happening?'

  'Yes. We could be on the edge of a catastrophe.'

  Tweed looked at Slavic. He was broader across the shoulder than he had realized, looking down on him at the restaurant. He emanated physical strength as well as mental power. Tweed was still unsure.

  'Your mutual chauffeur is an unusual man,' he remarked.

  'Danzer. He is my chauffeur. Blondel prefers to drive his own Bugatti, Maserati - whatever is his latest toy. Shall we turn back? We are close to the house.'

  'You said "Blondel". I thought your partner's name was Rondel.'

  'Ah.' Slavic chuckled unpleasantly. 'Vanity. He has blond hair, so dislikes his real name. Calls himself Rondel. Had a French father, a German mother. We must meet again soon. My headquarters are in the far north. I like privacy.'

  'How shall I know where you are?'

  'I, Mr Tweed, will always know where you are.'

  'I may need to call you something to the closest members of my team. So what name do I use?'

  'Simply call me Milo. It sounds as though they are enjoying themselves.'

  They had almost reached a side door open to the park.

  Tweed could hear Paula laughing with Rondel. A middle-aged woman with blue-rinse hair appeared out of nowhere, carrying in her hands large clusters of hydrangeas. Milo Slavic waved her away. She looked disappointed as she retreated.

  'That is Mrs Gina France, my chief accountant. A most professional accountant but with
a volcanic personality.' He paused. 'You do believe, then, in iron governments?'

  'Depends on how strong they are,' Tweed replied.

  'We must meet again.' Slavic sounded urgent. 'I will contact you when the moment arrives. Then you must come quickly.' His voice changed, became mellow as they walked in through open doors into the room where Rondel sat with Paula and Newman. Slavic remained standing.

  'I think we should leave now,' said Tweed.

  'So early!' Rondel jumped up. 'This charming lady and I are just getting to know each other.'

  'There will be another time, Victor,' Paula said, smiling as she stood up and Newman followed.

  Tweed turned to thank his host, but the man from Slovenia had vanished. Instead he looked at Rondel.

  'Please tell your partner I found the conversation most illuminating. I look forward to the possibility sometime of repeating the experience . . .'

  Rondel led the way along a devious route through the complex mansion until they emerged into the hall and he opened the double doors. As he did so, another figure appeared at the back of the hall, watching them. The chauffeur. Danzer.

  'Safe journey,' Rondel wished them and then they were outside and the doors closed behind them.

  They were moving slowly down the drive when Tweed glanced back, saw Mrs France dashing after them, still clutching her hydrangeas.

  'Stop the car,' he ordered, lowering his window.

  'It's Floral Dress,' said Newman, looking back. 'The lady who was feeding ducks, who spoke to you as we walked along the edge of the Alster.'

  Mrs France was almost out of breath when she reached them. She thrust the flowers through the open window and Paula took hold of them. She smiled at the plump-faced lady who had a high colour. Mrs France peered through her huge thick-lensed spectacles.

  'These are really beautiful.'

  'That is very kind of you,' said Tweed, smiling.

  The woman pushed her face inside the window. She was very nervous and her hands were trembling. She tried to speak, then had to start again.

  'Mr Tweed, I need to come and see you on my own. Something is happening which is very serious, which you should know about. I expect they are watching me from the house.'

  'Four Seasons Hotel,' Tweed said quickly, keeping his back to the house. He gave her his suite number. 'You would like to come and see me soon? This afternoon? Three o'clock any good to you?'

  'I will be there at three. Oh, thank you so much. You are a nice man. I must go now. They will question me. I will say I heard Miss Grey comment when you arrived how much she admired the hydrangeas.'

  'I do . . .' Paula began.

  Mrs France didn't hear her. She was hurrying back up the drive to the house.

  'That,' said Newman, 'is one very frightened lady.'

  CHAPTER 25

  On the day Tweed was driven to Millionaires' Row, in London Gavin Thunder stood in his Whitehall office and gave orders to Montagu Carrington, the aide who had replaced Jeremy Mordaunt.

  'You will, nominally, be in charge while I am away. I am flying abroad on holiday for five days. Try not to make too big a mess of things in my absence.'

  The heatwave was intensifying and Thunder wore tropical kit. His sharp features seemed even more pronounced, as though he was in a state of tension. His temper was on a short fuse.

  'A sudden decision, sir,' commented Carrington, a pale-faced man in his thirties who regarded himself as a high flier. 'May I ask where you are going so I can contact you?'

  'You damned well may not. How can I get a quiet holiday if people like you are bothering me? My destination is both private and secret. Has your thick head grasped that?'

  'I can at least arrange for a limousine to drive you to the airport . . .'

  'You bloody well won't. I'm driving myself. Got it?'

  Carrington, clad in a grey suit quite unsuitable for the weather, frowned. He shifted his feet.

  'You are a Minister, sir. You should at least have two bodyguards wherever you are going. Somewhere hot?'

  'I know I'm a Minister, you idiot. Has anyone ever told you that you're like a mangy dog which keeps on chewing its bone?'

  'No, sir, they haven't. . .'

  'Well, I'm telling you now.' Thunder's mouth was tight, his eyes impaled Carrington's. 'No bodyguards. No limousine. No nothing. Shall I write it down for you?'

  'Not necessary, sir.' Carrington had been told wrongly that as a civil servant it was important to stand up to a Minister. 'Supposing there's an emergency while you're away,' he suggested in a subdued voice.

  'An emergency!' Thunder exploded. 'In that case I would have thought your reaction was obvious. Clearly it isn't. You pass it straight to the PM,' he roared. Then his tone became casual. 'If I have any more of your foolish chatter when I return you will be fired. You may be anyway when I get back. Now get out of my room!'

  Alone, he unlocked a cupboard, took out his packed case, left the room. He departed by a back entrance, got into the parked modest Ford car waiting for him, drove off.

  Aware that his appearance was well-known, due to the many times he had blasted inerviewers out of the water on TV - a popular act with the public - on his way to Heathrow he parked in a deserted side street. It took him only a moment to perch a Jewish skullcap on his head, concealing his hair. He checked his fake passport in the name of Rosen, then strapped a dark patch over his left eye. Checking himself in the rear-view mirror, he decided he was unrecognizable, drove on to the airport.

  After passing through the controls he looked at the monitor. His flight would be leaving in fifteen minutes. His flight to Hamburg.

  'I saw Marler while I was walking with our host in the park behind the mansion,' Tweed remarked as Newman headed back for the hotel. 'I thought it was a shadow, then, as he was vanishing, I recognized his walk.'

  'He takes good care of you,' Paula told him.

  'The odd thing was I couldn't see any guards at first. A man like that would have guards, I thought. Then I noticed a couple of gardeners. One of them was bent over and his bolstered gun was exposed.'

  'Incidentally,' Newman called out from behind the wheel, 'Marler and Nield are only a little way behind us in the Opel.'

  'How did Rondel's partner strike you? 'Paula asked. 'Would you trust him?'

  'I can't say that, one way or the other. We were talking about the present state of chaos. He mentioned strong government being needed. I responded by recalling Hitler, Mussolini and Stalin. His reaction was ambiguous.'

  'You mean he approved of those three terrible dictators?'

  'In one way he seemed to, but I did say he was ambiguous. He wants me to meet him again. He said he had his headquarters in the far north. That could mean north of Hamburg or even further north. Scandinavia.'

  'He doesn't tell you much,' she observed.

  'He's a very wily man. Oh, Rondel's real name is Blondel — had a French father, a German mother. Milo explained it was vanity, that Blondel is conscious of his blond hair.'

  'So,' she mused, 'I'd better be careful if I meet him again. To call him Rondel, not Blondel. Safer if I just use Victor.'

  'You rather like him, don't you?' Tweed suggested.

  'He's a charmer.'

  'I always did mistrust them. Maybe because I lack charm myself.'

  * * *

  Tweed had lunch in the Condi with Lisa, Paula and Newman. He sensed that Lisa was ill at ease, although she chattered quite animatedly to Paula. They were having lunch when the Brig appeared. He dragged a chair over to their table.

  'Mind if I sit with you?'

  'You are doing.' Tweed smiled. 'And welcome too. You do look serious.'

  Paula thought Tweed was right. The Brig, clad in khaki drill, looked grim. It seemed to her that his hawk-like face was even larger, more ferocious than when she'd last seen him. They had reached the coffee stage and the Brig said he'd like some too. He remained oddly silent until coffee had been served.

  'You've heard there was a fatal shoo
ting outside here late last night?' he said suddenly.

  'We have,' said Tweed.

  'I saw the body when I was coming back from a walk. I may have been the first person to see the corpse. Head blown clean off.'

  'We know,' Tweed said, annoyed at the brutal description when Paula and Lisa were present.

  'I called the police.' He paused. 'I thought what was left of him looked like one of your people.'

  'It was.'

  'Might be wiser if you went back home. Hamburg has become a dangerous place.'

  'Coming from you I find that suggestion surprising. Since you were in the Army you must have seen worse in the way of casualties.' Tweed leaned forward. 'Much worse. So why are you so anxious that we should leave Hamburg?'

  'Anxious?' The Brig drank some of his coffee. 'I'm never anxious. But what was lying on the pavement did rather hint that Hamburg is - or may be - not a healthy city for any of you.'

  'I'm fairly experienced in unhealthy situations,' Tweed said in the same even tone.

  'You are. But what about the ladies here?'

  'What about them?' snapped Paula. 'I don't wish to sound callous but it goes with the territory.'

  'Very dangerous territory,' the Brig told her.

  'Just how dangerous?' enquired Tweed. 'Maybe you could tell us, since you seem to be on the inside track?'