by Colin Forbes
I'm so sorry I blew my top. You're carrying most of the burden. I know you feel so responsible for us all. This whole thing is such a hellish ordeal for you I don't know how you bear it.'
He produced a handkerchief, lifted her chin, dabbed her eyes as he spoke gently.
'What you are experiencing is a reaction to the terrible business at the quarry. I'm getting a reaction too, but I mustn't show it to the others. They depend on me to sustain their morale.'
He was dabbing her face dry where tears had run down it and reached her chin. She stood quite still, her eyes on his, but the trembling had stopped. As he handed her the handkerchief to complete the job she leaned forward, gave him a kiss on his cheek, then backed away.
'Thank you,' she said in a normal voice. 'Thank you for being so understanding.'
At that moment Tweed's mobile began buzzing nonstop. He pulled a face, took it out of his pocket.
'Hello, who is this?'
'Monica. Thank heavens I've at long last got through to you. I've been trying for ages. I have important news.
I've been decoding messages sent over the Internet. They come from Seattle on the Pacific coast. Someone called Ponytail. I gather all the forces spread across the West, which are going to wreck everything, are in place. I don't know where. The important thing is they're expecting more coded messages telling them the exact local times to erupt. It's within the next two days at the latest. The new riots will be frightful. You have to stop Ponytail sending more messages.'
'How do you know he's in Seattle?'
'He slipped up once. He signs off a coded order "Pony-tail". But in one message he was probably tired. He signed off "Seattle" instead.'
'You seem to have become an expert.'
'I just keep plugging away, surfing the net. I'm getting the hang of how he uses it. Someone else has taken over the phone so I can spend all my time on it. Howard is giving me all his support, running the place well during your absence.'
Howard was the SIS Director.
'When did you last eat?'
'Who needs to eat?'
'You do . . .'
Then the connection broke down. He put his mobile away and repeated what Monica had said to Paula. She now had complete control of herself.
'We can't do anything about Seattle, can we?'
'Not a thing. What we can do is to reach Traveműnde as fast as we can. Let's get back to the car.'
Paula began to run. Tweed caught her up, gripped her by her arm.
'No running. Not in this heat. In case you haven't noticed it's getting hotter. We walk back. Don't say anything about Monica's news in the car.'
'You're right.'
* * *
At Inselende, on the island of Sylt, a fresh meeting of the four powerful men was taking place in a soundproof room. Thunder was chairing this meeting and his voice was fresh and dominant.
'I've been in touch with Seattle. Gentlemen, we're close to the climax of all our planning and endeavours.' He rather liked the way he had phrased that. 'I've been in touch with Seattle, as I've just said. Twelve hours from now the coded messages giving the times - local, of course - will be dispatched . . .'
'It was going to be later,' the Deputy Chancellor objected. 'We all need time to get home before the world goes up in flames.'
'Not quite correct,' Thunder said with a conciliatory smile. 'We need to be on our way home when everything blows up - that way it will give time for panic to take hold in the populations. But, more important, time for our respective governments to panic, to be desperate for strong leadership. Our leadership.'
'Makes sense,' the American Secretary of State agreed.
'So when do we leave this prison?' demanded the French Prime Minister.
'Within hours we fly from here in the helicopter to Hamburg. We are then on the spot to fly in our executive jets back to our home capitals when the moment is ripe.'
'You seem to have worked out this timetable rather well,' conceded the Deputy Chancellor. 'From Hamburg I can be back in Berlin in no time.'
'But not too early,' Thunder insisted. 'No one can predict how quickly the populations will become demoralized. And on that depends the cracking of the nerve of our governments.'
'It all depends on Seattle,' the American pointed out. 'So are you sure the vital messages will be sent out on time?'
'Seattle is secure,' Thunder said firmly. 'That is why I have refused to disclose the location of the building from where the messages will be dispatched. Now, if there are no more questions I suggest we adjourn to the living room and drink to success.'
He stood up as soon as he had said this. The last thing he wanted was any more discussion.
From the light aircraft Barton had suddenly seen the blue Merc driving steadily much further along the same road he had last seen it on. He had earlier kept his distance and hadn't seen it enter the quarry or the two jeeps which had arrived soon afterwards.
'There it is,' he burst out. 'Where the hell has it been?'
'We have it. Great,' replied Panko. 'Where it go now?'
'He's bypassing Lűbeck.' Barton studied the map he had purchased in Flensburg. 'He's heading for Traveműnde. Only place the road he's on leads to now.'
Barton pondered whether to call Thunder. He had given up Oskar as unobtainable. He decided he would call the Minister.
Thunder was relaxing in his suite. He was recovering from the arguing, coaxing, wearing down tactics he'd had to employ at the long meeting to bring the others round to his way of thinking. His mobile started buzzing. He swore, picked it up.
'Yes?'
'Barton here, sir. We are still in the air, tailing the Merc. Tweed is inside . . .'
'You are!'
Thunder was taken aback. He had enquired several times whether Miller's convoy had returned, which it should have done hours ago. He had been disturbed when told it had not been seen. Now Barton was telling him Tweed was still on the move. The news disturbed him greatly. They were so close to victory. Was there any chance of Tweed upsetting everything?
'Where is his car now?' Thunder barked.
'Bypassing Lűbeck. He can only be heading for Traveműnde.'
Lűbeck? Traveműnde? Thunder was appalled. It was amazing for Tweed to have travelled so far. Obviously heading for Traveműnde for a reason. His voice was tense as he gave the order.
'You must eliminate Tweed and his team in Traveműnde. You understand? Wipe them off the face of the earth.'
'Understood. But we have a problem. There is no airfield at Traveműnde. I've checked on the map. We have to land at Lűbeck and he'll be ahead of us . . .'
'Use your brain,' Thunder shouted. 'Contact the Lűbeck control tower - you have to, anyway, before you can land. Tell them to have a car waiting for you. A VIP is aboard. Do it now And keep in touch with me . . .'
He switched off, flung the mobile to the other end of the couch he was seated on. He emptied his glass of brandy, poured another large tot. Should he tell the others? No, he decided. They got upset so easily. He took another drink. He had a premonition. Something was going to upset the whole apple cart. Something called Tweed.
CHAPTER 39
They had reached Traveműnde, parking the car near the rail station. There were signs warning 'No parking', but Tweed had extracted from his wallet an old notice Kuhlmann had once given him. In German was printed the word 'Doctor'. It was used for undercover detectives who wanted to make sure their transport wouldn't be hauled away. He stuck it on the inside of the windscreen. Harry left his motorcycle chained to the rear bumper.
It was very quiet as they walked down a footpath and then they were in the riverside town. They passed an old and small red-brick police station which looked as though it had stood there since the Flood. The whole atmosphere of loneliness they had experienced driving along country roads changed as they reached the river front.
It was early holiday time. The rich people came at this time of the year, Tweed explained, before the masses swar
med in.
'Mustn't mix with the proles,' Newman said impishly.
Paula revelled in the animated activity as she walked with Tweed and Lisa. The river Trave was about half the width of the Thames at Westminster. Powerboats and larger luxury craft were moored beyond landing stages, ships costing a fortune. Tweed paused and divided up his team.
'Too many of us together would be conspicuous,' he explained. 'Harry and Pete, you check upriver until you come to where the fishing boats are moored. We'll be in the cafe-restaurant I described to you in the car. Newman, you just float around, keeping your eyes open. I'll take Paula and Lisa to find the rendezvous, if we ever do.'
'I'm coming with you,' Marler said firmly. 'Hanging back a bit. . .'
The town wasn't packed but there were plenty of Germans wandering along in summer attire or sitting with drinks at tables. There was an air of jollification, of people enjoying themselves. The main street running parallel to the river was narrow and lined on both sides with shops and cafes and restaurants.
The buildings were small and mostly ancient, three or four storeys high. Several had white-painted picket fences and canopies over the area behind them where people sat drinking at tables. Tweed pointed across the river to a forested shore where two ferries carrying cars hustled back and forth.
'That's Priwall Island. I read once how during the end of the Second World War a British tank unit landed there and halfway across the island met a Soviet tank force coming from the opposite direction. The Russians tried to claim the whole island but the British tank commander was firm with his opposite Soviet commander. Ended in a compromise - we held this half of the island, the Russians the other. It's been developed a lot, as you can see - with those white blocks of flats.'
'I loved Tender,' said Paula, 'but this is a lovely contrast. So much bustle and fun.'
'I think this is the place Mrs France described,' Tweed said. 'Where we should wait.'
There was an upmarket restaurant under cover and outside a wide spacious area with umbrellas over tables. It overlooked the river. Marler had caught them up, had heard what Tweed had said.
'Don't like you sitting here,' he said. 'Too exposed. I suggest you sit across the road at those tables in the open.'
They crossed the road and sat outside the cafe he had suggested. They ordered large glasses of orange juice and plenty of water. Marler drank his quickly, stood up and looked at the open entrance next door where a staircase of stone steps led upward. He was still carrying his long tennis-like hold-all which contained his Armalite.
'Think I'll explore a bit. Back soon.'
'Look at that thing gliding past,' Paula called out.
An immense white wall, six decks high, was sliding past on their side of the river. Lifeboats were slung over the side high up. The white wall continued sailing past up-river as though it would never end. It loomed over the town, dwarfing it.
'Probably a car ferry coming in from Sweden,' said Tweed. 'It docks further up the Trave at a place called Scandinavienkai. The train going back to Lűbeck stops at a long platform so passengers can go on to Hamburg or Rostock.'
Newman had appeared and he had heard what Tweed had just said. He pulled a sour face.
'Don't mention Rostock. Remember the Cold War days when you sent me in behind the Iron Curtain?'
'Yes. That wasn't pleasant for you . . .'
Marler, still carrying his hold-all, was quietly mounting the stone steps which were dusty, clearly little used. He came to the landing, listened, heard nothing, turned the handle of an ancient wooden door. It creaked open and he was inside a wooden-floored room with several wooden chairs and no other furniture. He walked across to the window, heaved it up. It groaned but the sound was muffled by the giant ferry's siren sounding non-stop.
He pulled up one of the chairs to the window, sat slowly on it, testing its strength. Then he opened his hold-all and extracted his Armalite. Looking down, he could see the three others perched under their umbrella. He also had a clear view across to the river.
'I think I'm going in search of a loo,' Lisa said, getting up from the table. 'Shouldn't be long.'
'I made use of the facilities behind the quarry just before we left,' remarked Paula. 'I'd just stood up, made myself decent, when Newman appears. I told him "There's no privacy round here". The devil grinned, said "No, but there is a makeshift privy". I could have killed him. Now he's gone off again - and so has Lisa. Isn't it nice to be able to relax here? I wonder when someone's coming to meet us?'
The light aircraft had landed at Lűbeck airport, south of the town and port. Barton completed the formalities for both the plane and the hired Audi waiting for them. Once they left the airport he moved like the wind.
Ignoring all speed limits, he raced to Travemunde. He was lucky not to meet any patrol cars. Parking the car in a slot which had just become vacant on the front, he looked round and almost jerked away in the opposite direction. But the pro who had taught him years before had constantly warned.
'When stalking a target you have in view, never move quickly. People notice sudden movements faster than they hear unexpected sounds.'
'What is it?' asked Panko.
He was about to look where Barton had gazed but his partner grabbed his arm, holding it hard. His grip was so firm Panko was about to protest when Barton spoke.
'Keep still. We've hit pay dirt. Tweed and his dolly are sitting under an umbrella on the pavement. We walk normally back the way we've come.'
'Why we do that?'
'Because I bloody well say so . . .'
Barton himself had to stop himself hurrying. By the time they came back in the unusual way that had occurred to him, Tweed might have gone. Driving into Travemunde he had seen further back along the front a powerboat with a sign on it in German. He knew enough of the language to read the sign which had said 'For Hire'.
He smiled as they walked up to the lone seaman perched on the gunwale of his boat. The seaman didn't return the smile. He didn't like the look of either of them, despite the fact that they had bought summer clothes while in Flensburg.
'How much?' Barton asked, hoping the seaman spoke English.
'For what?' asked the seaman, looking at the river.
'Hire of your boat for two or three hours.' The seaman named a sum which nearly made Barton fall over. If it was a question of haggling, the seaman was starting at an amazing price. Barton looked again at the boat and his mouth watered. The control cabin was elevated near the prow, all the windows open. Barton again recalled what he had been told by Thunder.
'That's the price of buying this boat, not hiring it,' he said mildly. 'Could we look it over?'
'You're thinking of buying?'
The seaman's attitude was changing. He was less aggressive, a greedy look had come into his eyes.
'Welcome aboard. Is that not what you say in Britain?'
'We do.'
The seaman gestured for them to join him. They walked over the gangplank, followed him down into a saloon. Curtains were closed over the windows, presumably to ward off the heat. As the seaman was turning round to face them Barton struck him a hard blow on the side of the neck. The seaman reeled. Barton grabbed his long hair, jerked his head forward, then shoved it back against the wooden panelling with all his force. He fell and didn't move again.
'You kill him,' gasped Panko.
'Let's get this thing moving.' Barton took an automatic rifle out of a well-worn hold-all he had been carrying in his left hand. 'Control cabin.'
'What we do with him?'
Panko asked the question as Barton was hurrying back up the steps, disappearing into the control cabin. Panko ran after him.
'You know how boat works?' he asked anxiously.
'I've fooled around with stuff like this on the Norfolk Broads. Go down on the landing stage, untie the mooring rope off the bollard, come back aboard, haul the gangplank on to the deck. Get moving, for God's sake.'
Barton started up the engine. It had a
powerful purr. He liked it. Panko had released the mooring rope, run back on board, hauled the gangplank in. He slipped down into the saloon, felt the inert seaman's pulse. There wasn't a flicker. He ran back to the control cabin. Barton was easing the boat away from the landing stage, heading out for the open river. Panko appeared.
'What we do with man you hit? He dead.'
'There's always the river.'
'What is plan?'
'You watch how I handle this. Watch carefully. You only have a handgun. I need to be free to pick off Tweed and his girl with my rifle. They'll never expect an attack to come from the river. Watch what I do, I said.'
'OK. How long it take?'
'To kill Tweed? Five minutes from now.'
On Berg Island, way out in the Baltic, Milo Slavic sat in his study, smoking one of his many small cigars. He looked at his modest watch, then his eyes revolved to Victor Rondel, standing by the sheet of glass from floor to ceiling at the narrow end of the oblong room.
