by Colin Forbes
Paula glanced over her shoulder. Sharon Mandeville had entered the dining room. She headed straight for their table.
'I thought I could rely on you, Tweed, she said in a quiet voice. 'Yesterday we were going to have drinks.'
'I'm so very sorry, Sharon,' Tweed responded, standing up. 'I was caught up in a business meeting I couldn't get away from.'
'You're forgiven. Thank you, Bob. Or am I interrupting?'
Newman had jumped up, brought her a chair which he placed next to Tweed's. When Sharon sat down she was facing Paula.
'I feel out-gunned,' Sharon said with a smile. 'So many men.'
'I'm here,' Paula reminded her. 'I'll give you moral support.'
'That's very sweet of you.'
'You look dressed magnificently,' said Newman. 'Ready to set the world on fire.'
He was referring to the smart red trouser suit she wore. She gave him a warm smile of appreciation, then frowned before she spoke.
'Talking about setting the world on fire, somebody tried to do just that last night to the American Embassy in London. Smoke and flames were pouring out of a window, the fire brigade was called, Grosvenor Square was in chaos.'
'How do you know this?' asked Tweed.
'I called the Embassy this morning. What is happening? I don't know.'
'Which part of the Embassy was set on fire?' Tweed enquired.
'The office next to the Security room on the first floor. My office is OK, thank Heaven. I'm glad I wasn't there.' `So am I,' said Newman.
'Hi, everybody. Mind if I join the party?' a voice boomed behind Newman.
Tweed was looking up. He smiled ironically. The large figure of Ed Osborne had come into the dining room. Dragging a chair from another table, he placed it at the end, eased his bulk into it, clapped his large hands together, a grin on the outsize face above a bull neck.
'Great to see you guys again,' he said, looking at Paula and then Tweed. 'What brings you to this hick town?'
'First of all,' Newman rapped back, 'it's not a hick town. It is a more ancient and interesting city than you'll find in the whole of America.'
'Naughty.' Osborne slapped a hand against the wrist of the other hand. 'Keep your big mouth shut. Trouble is,' he went on, leaning forward, 'the mouth opens and it all hangs out. Coffee, garçon,' he demanded, addressing the waitress. 'PDQ. And since I guess you don't understand the lingo, that means pretty damned quick.'
'And for breakfast, sir?' she asked quietly.
'Just the coffee, honey. Didn't get that it was a girl at first,' he remarked as the waitress moved away. 'Her hair is trimmed so short.'
'Men don't wear skirts,' Paula snapped.
'They sure do - when they're transvest—' He broke off. 'Guess that's not a subject for breakfast.' He gazed at Paula. 'You enjoying a holiday out here?'
'We were. Until you arrived.'
'Great!' Osborne grinned broadly. 'I like a lady who answers back. You and I must get into a huddle soon as we can.'
'Don't go in for huddles,' Paula told him. 'And what are you doing in Basel anyway?'
'I get around. Why I am here?' He gave a belly laugh. 'Business, honey. Monkey business.'
Tweed pushed back his chair. Before he could stand, prior to leaving, Sharon leaned over, whispered in his ear.
'Now you won't forget we're having a drink together. Would noon in the bar behind us suit you?'
'Perfect,' Tweed whispered back.
'Hey!' Osborne boomed out. 'You two got a thing going together?'
'You'll excuse us,' Tweed said, standing up. 'We have an appointment to keep. We enjoyed your company, Mr Osborne.'
'Ed! I keep tellin' you, it's Ed...'
They were on their way out of the restaurant. Tweed had Paula by his side while Newman and Marler followed behind them. As the door to the restaurant closed behind them Paula exploded.
'What a coarse man!'
'Don't underestimate Osborne,' Tweed warned. 'Under that brash manner I suspect is a shrewd operator. Ruthless, too. I bet he could recite how all of us were dressed. His eyes were all over the place.'
'Well, he could do with a few lessons in how to dress. That loud jacket, striped shift, flashy tie, dingy corduroy slacks. It was all wrong. Like his conversation. If you can call it that.'
'Can we all have a quiet word?' Marler had caught up with them. 'Maybe over there in that far corner?' he suggested.
'Since you want to,' Tweed agreed.
They sat in a circle round a small corner table in the lobby, well away from the reception counter. Marler was about to explain when he stared. Pete Nield had appeared from the direction of the lift. He fingered his moustache as he greeted them.
'Harry and I just got here from the airport.'
'Enter the Knife Man,' Marler commented.
'And what does that mean?' demanded Tweed.
'Pete has added to his talents. During the past month or two he's been practising knife-throwing,' Marler explained, keeping his voice down. 'He's become fantastic. He invited me to go with him to a low-down pub in London. They were playing darts and Pete bought drinks all round, then asked if he could use a knife instead of darts. Everyone thought he was a lunatic but let him have a go. He stood well back from the target, threw his knife six times. Result? Six bull's-eyes. I lost a packet. I'd bet him he couldn't do it from that distance.'
'Could come in useful,' Tweed commented. 'Now what were you going to tell us, Marler?'
'It's about the Ear. Poor Kurt. He gave me an address where I could meet him in Basel in an emergency. Drew a map.' He produced a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. 'As you'll see it's a five-minute walk from here — as long as you're good at climbing steps.'
'So what is your idea?'
'That we go there and check out this place. It's not where he lived, wherever that might be. There might be a note left for me there.'
'Who is going?' asked Newman, studying the map. 'All of us,' said Tweed.
'Any thugs in Basel?' Nield enquired.
'The place is crawling with them. They appear to be based at the Euler with more at the Victoria. Two hotels close to the Hauptbahnhof.'
'I know where those hotels are. I came to Basel for you once before,' Nield said. 'I know the place pretty well. And after what you've told me I don't think it's a good idea you trooping up to this place en masse.' He took the map back from Newman.
'Then what do you suggest?' Tweed asked.
'I'm going up to have a quick look at this address by myself. I can be back in a few minutes. I'm off now. Harry will be down soon.'
Before Tweed could protest Nield, taking the map with him, had walked away. Prior to going through the revolving door he slipped on the coat he'd held over one arm. Then he was gone.
'Do you think that's a good idea?' Marler queried. 'I don't. I just hope he'll be all right. He's got the map, so we'll have to sit here and hope for the best.'
Even though it was morning it seemed like night to Nield as he headed along the pavement. The heavy overcast appeared to be almost touching the tops of the old buildings, making the atmosphere even bleaker. There was no one about. All the workers would be thankfully inside their centrally heated offices. Anyone who could would stay in their apartment. It was very quiet. The only sound was the crunch of a tram's wheels as they passed over ice.
Nield had turned left after leaving the hotel. The map was in the breast pocket of his jacket now — having once seen it he knew where he was going. He passed the steps leading down to where, in summer, ships took tourists on short cruises up the Rhine, crossed the street, came to the entrance to the Rheinsprung, a steep street leading upwards for pedestrians and cyclists only. He knew that if he followed that eventually it would lead him to the Münster, a great feature of Basel overlooking the river from a considerable height. Instead, he was treading carefully on the icy slope, looking to his right. He saw what he was looking for very quickly.
A plate on a wall identified it as a gässlein, a n
arrow alley of endless steps leading up between two high vertical walls. The plate gave the full name, a trainload of German letters. Nield, skilled in speaking and reading German, translated it.
'Alley of the Eleven Thousand Virgins. Sounds hopeful,' he said to himself.
It was a stone staircase mounting upwards into the distance. Very dark, very lonely. Remembering to bring his coat from his room, he had forgotten his gloves. His fingers were beginning to tingle with the cold when he thrust them into his coat pockets. He started climbing his staircase to heaven.
Despite the icy surface of the worn steps he climbed steadily. One advantage of the eerie quiet was he would hear anyone who might be about. He counted as he climbed. It was sixty-eight steps to the top. He paused on the last step, listening, looking. A brand-new Yamaha motorcycle was perched against a wall. A BS registration number — Basel.
Nield knew he was gazing into Martins-platz, a small cobbled square enclosed by old buildings, hidden away from the city. He walked into the deserted but claustrophobic square. No sign of anyone. He knew the address he was looking for was just beyond where the motorcycle with the large saddle had been left. The heavy wooden door was closed, but when he turned the handle slowly it opened. Warmth flooded out to meet him. He pushed the door open slowly, soundlessly. The hinges were well oiled. A dim lamp illuminated the interior. He walked in a few paces and then stopped.
An old woman wearing a dark ankle-length dress sat in a chair, her grey hair tied back in a bun. An ape of a man had been holding a lighted cigarette close to her right eye. The ape was very big, very fat, clad in a black anorak, black slacks, a black beret on his melon-like head. He spun round, holding in his other hand a Magnum pistol, pointing it at Nield. The end of the muzzle seemed like the mouth of a cannon. Like so many fat men, the ape moved swiftly. Dropping the cigarette on the stone floor he leapt forward. The barrel of his weapon struck at Nield's head. He moved slightly so the barrel slid off the side of his face, but the force of the blow made him dizzy. The ape grasped him by the collar, threw him back with a vicious shove. He went backwards, dipped his head at the last moment so his shoulders took the impact of colliding with the stone wall. His legs gave way and he sank down, back resting against the wall.
He felt groggy, but was aware of the ape's hand feeling under his armpits, sliding down his sides, then down his legs, searching for a concealed weapon. Nield was not carrying a gun. Dimly, he saw the ape straighten up, his body enormous. He spat at Nield.
'Whoever you are, you can have the pleasure of watching me torture this stupid woman.' The accent was heavily American. 'I will then deal with you after she's talked — which she will.'
Nield tried to straighten up, sagged again. His vision was beginning to clear. He was in a square stone-walled room. The warmth came from an old ceramic wood- burning stove in a corner. The ape grinned, sharp teeth showing behind his thick lips. He lit a fresh cigarette, held it between his fingers, went over to the old woman, the burning end pointed towards her. On his way, he shoved the door closed.
21
Rage was growing like a fire inside Nield. It started the adrenalin flowing. The burning end of the cigarette was close to the old woman's eyeball. He eased himself a little higher up the wall. He dared not move much — it would attract the attention of the ape. His right hand crept up over his side. He leaned forward a few inches. His hand was behind his back. The ape became aware of movement. He turned round. In one hand he was still holding the huge gun.
Nield withdrew the stiletto-like knife from the sheath strapped round the top of his back. The stiletto flew across the room with great force and speed. It embedded itself in the throat of the ape. For a moment nothing happened. Then the ape dropped the cigarette, followed by the gun. One hand reached up to the knife, then fell to his side. He gurgled. Blood began to stream down his neck. His massive weight fell forward, his head and neck striking the stone floor. The hilt of the knife was rammed upwards, the point of the stiletto projected out of the back of his neck. He lay still.
Nield let out a deep breath of relief. The door opened. Marler came into the room, Walther automatic in his hand. He was followed by Tweed, Newman and Butler. Newman took in the situation in a glance, ran to help Nield who climbed shakily to his feet. He stiffened both his legs as Newman held on to him. He managed a weak smile.
'In the films they'd say, "What kept you?"'
'Who is this lady?' Tweed asked quietly, going to her. 'No idea.'
Tweed looked at her carefully. In her seventies, he estimated. Her face was lined, her hair was thinning. But her hazel eyes were clear as she looked back at him. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. He smiled sympathetically.
'It's all right now. Do you understand me?'
'I understand.'
'What's happened?' Tweed asked Nield.
Clearing his throat, Nield told them, in as few words as possible, his experience since reaching the top of the stone staircase. As he listened, Tweed bent down, checked the neck pulse of the body on the floor. He turned round, mouthed the word 'Dead' without saying it aloud.
'Good,' said Nield with grim satisfaction.
He then continued telling them what had happened up to the moment his knife had flown through the air like a dart. Marler whispered to him, 'Bull's-eye.'
'So,' Nield concluded, 'after the ape hits the floor you lot come charging in when you're not needed.' He grinned. 'I'm joking.'
'Could you tell me, please, who you are?' Tweed asked, turning back to the old woman, still sitting in the chair.
'You haven't said anything to me,' she told him in a clear voice.
'General Guisan,' Marler said suddenly.
'So, you are the right man,' the old lady replied. 'Kurt said you would come. You have come.'
'I come with bad news,' Marler said quietly.
'I know.' The old woman put a hand on her heart. 'I felt it here. Kurt, my husband, is dead.'
'I am sorry. He died very quickly.'
'I am Helga Irina,' she went on. 'Many years ago I was Russian. I met Kurt in the cheap bar. We fell in love then. He was clever man. He helps me to escape from Moscow. Terrible life. He takes me out to Finland. Secret route. To Helsinki. Then to West Germany. We come here, his home. We marry. He was the great man. He tell me if he loses his life his friend, the Englishman, comes. I know him if he says General Guisan. This KGB kind of man on floor follows Kurt. One day in a bar Kurt talks to his Swiss friend. This KGB man sees them. When Kurt goes his friend is made drunk by this man. Barman tells Kurt later. In his drink friend tells Kurt has wife, Irina. Me. Must be how torture man found me. The week later, after friend of Kurt is dragged from river, his head smashed.'
'Can I make sure you get home safely?' Tweed suggested. 'You have had a terrible time. I am sorry.' .
'No!' Irina jumped up from the chair quickly, looked at Marler. 'Kurt tells me give the little black book to the Englishman who says General Guisan.'
She staggered as she began to walk. Tweed grasped her arm, helped her to walk. After a few paces her legs moved normally. She went to the wall to one side of the stove, her gnarled right hand reaching up to a section of the wall. Her fingers worked with surprising agility, Tweed noticed, as she slowly eased out a stone which appeared to be firmly embedded in the wall. She seemed to read Tweed's thoughts.
'I was seamstress in Russia. I am seamstress in Basel when Kurt has married me. It gives me good money to live with.'
She had released the oblong stone which Tweed took from her. Behind where the stone had rested was a cavity. Reaching inside, she brought out a small black book with a faded cover. She walked across the room, handed it to Marler. Behind her back Tweed took out his wallet, extracted ten one-thousand-franc Swiss banknotes, put them in his coat pocket.
'Thank you,' said Marler, taking the notebook from her.
'That is what I would never give to the torture man — no matter what he does to me. Kurt says it has important information.'
'No! It is his gift for you.'
Staring at Marler, Tweed jerked his head towards the door. It was a gesture Marler grasped immediately.
'Now I will take you safely home,' Tweed said.
'It is not needed,' Irina protested. 'I know the way.'
'There may be more bad men outside. I will take you home,' insisted Tweed.
'The stove!' Irina turned, walked to it, bent down and turned something. 'Now it goes cool, then out.'
'We'll deal with that,' said Marler.
'Get out of here as soon as you can,' Tweed whispered to Newman. 'If the police arrive that dead body would take some explaining.'
'Will do...'
Irina had picked up her coat which lay in a heap behind the chair she had sat in. Marler presumed the thug had torn that off her, thrown it down before he began his foul work. He waited until Tweed had escorted Irina halfway across the square and then slipped outside. It was his job to shadow them, then keep out of view while he followed Irina to her home — to make sure she arrived there safely.
'You said at one moment your name was Helga Irina,' Tweed began. He was steering her mind into another direction, hoping it would help her to forget the dreadful ordeal she had suffered. 'Irina is Russian,' Tweed went on as they continued walking. 'Helga is German. I do not understand.'
'You are the boss? The Englishman's boss?'
'Yes, I am.'
'Thank you for what you save me from. I did not thank that nice young man who save me. Please give him my love.'
'I will do that.'
'You were asking me about Helga.' She had slipped her arm inside Tweed's, so he knew he had at last established her confidence in,him. 'My mother was Russian,' she explained. 'She met a German prisoner-of-war who escaped from Stalin's gulag. They fell in love and were married secretly by a priest who had an underground church. So I am Irina for my mother, Helga for my father. They worked for the anti-Communist opposition. I was told by a friend they were trapped trying to escape from the meeting in a cellar. Both were shot dead. I was ten years old.'
