by Colin Forbes
'It just goes on and on,' she commented.
'They are,' Tweed informed her, 'the second largest docks on the Continent. The only bigger system is Europort down in Holland. But these docks are catching up.'
A chain clanked in the night. She nearly jumped out of her skin. It was the first sound she had heard since they'd begun their long plod along Elbstrasse.
'Just a barge being moved by the current,' Newman remarked. 'That would be its mooring chain.'
'Creepy down here,' Paula commented.
She had stopped looking up at the cranes. But she found herself very aware of their presence. At least they were immobile. Tweed raised an arm, pointed ahead.
'See that grassy bank, the row of terrace houses on top of it. That's where Dr Kefler must live. And there's the footpath he told us to climb. All we have to do is find No. 23.'
'Lovely view he's got,' Paula said. 'Looking out on those cranes which rise up higher than the houses.'
They began climbing the narrow footpath with Tweed in the lead. The huddle of small old houses bunched together along the terrace did not look very upmarket. Paula was wondering why a man of Kefler's eminence lived like this.
No. 23 was close to where they had left the footpath, where they were perched on top of the slope. Tweed looked up at a first-floor window where lights shone behind net curtains. A window was raised. Before Tweed could see the figure leaning out, the beam of a powerful torch shone in his face. It was switched off quickly.
Very quickly he heard steps running down stairs inside. Behind him Newman was shuffling his feet impatiently. Their position, standing on top of the slope, was very exposed. His eyes swept the metal forest of cranes but he could see no movement. Then the two new locks Tweed had noticed on the heavy old wooden door of Kefler's house were turned from inside. The door was pulled inward and a small figure stood in the dark. Why no lights?
'Come in immediately, please,' a deep voice said in English.
They filed into the gloom, the door was closed, locks turned. Light flooded a small hall. The small plump man held out a hand to Tweed.
'I apologize,' he began in English, 'for shining the torch in your eyes. I had to be sure it was you. Keith Kent's description fits you perfectly. Oh, I am Dr Kefler…'
Tweed introduced his two colleagues. Paula thought Kent's picture of Kefler as a teddy bear was perfect. The German had brown hair en brosse, eyes like buttpns which gazed at her through glasses with the thickest lenses she had ever seen. He smiled warmly, was cuddly, she felt, then dismissed the word as silly but appropriate. He wore a velvet smoking jacket, his short legs were clad in dark blue slacks and he almost danced with pleasure as he ushered them into a room on the first floor at the front. They had to be careful climbing the narrow twisting staircase. Paula guessed that the room he showed them into was his study.
'I have bought a jar of English coffee,' he confided to her. 'I know the German coffee is very strong…'
'That was very thoughtful of you,' she told him.
'It is nothing. I turned on the kettle before I came down. I will fetch it now. Yes? Make yourselves comfortable. Sit down everyone. I fetch the kettle. I have the papers for you, Herr Tweed…'
Before Tweed could ask what papers he was referring to, Kefler had trotted off into the kitchen. Relaxing in her armchair, Paula looked round the room. You can tell a man from his study. On a large old desk, which didn't look German, was a fax machine, a computer, a printer – and an ancient Remington typewriter which looked out of place. She also thought the modern equipment looked very new, hardly used. Along one wall were floor-to-ceiling bookcases. She stood up to look at them.
'Not my choice of armchair,' Newman whispered.
'You're too tall,' Paula whispered back.
Which was true. The armchairs had low seats and Newman had to stretch out his legs in front of him. It struck Tweed, who was just about comfortable, that Kefler with his short legs had chosen furniture that suited himself. An understandable lack of thought for guests – domestic matters would be a nuisance to him.
'He's got six old volumes on the history of the Frankenheim Dynasty,' Paula observed, indicating the bookcases.
'I am so sorry I take so long time,' Kefler began as he reappeared and laid a tray on a low table. The coffee pot, the cream jug, the cups and saucers were Meissen. He's got out the best china, Paula thought. 'You serve yourselves, please? Then you have the coffee the way you like it,' the German suggested, smiling all the time. Paula did the honours.
'You know something?' Kefler said as he perched on a stool. 'You noticed the two new locks on my front door, Mr Tweed?'
'Yes, I…'
'Refugees. Turks, Croats, Kosovars – God knows who else or why we ever let them in. Many are criminals. A house near mine was burgled a week ago. They take everything. And would you believe it…" Once again the teddy bear was in full verbal flood. '… they take a parrot!'
'A parrot? Difficult to take away…' Paula began.
'No, not at all…' Kefler gave a bubbling laugh. '… It was a cheap piece of pottery. Now where they sell a thing like that? Crazy. Is the coffee any good?'
They all agreed sincerely it was marvellous. Kefler nodded dubiously as though he thought they were just being polite.
'You're well equipped,' Paula remarked, looking at the old desk.
'I don't use any of it. I do like my Remington, though. Scientists are dangerous. They invent things without first thinking: what will be the consequences? That time bomb, the Internet. Great, they say. Brings the world closer together. Nations get too close to each other, disagree, quarrel, then make war.'
'I'm inclined to agree with you,' Tweed slipped into the pause. 'Now, earlier you mentioned some papers.'
'Ach! The Zurcher Kredit Bank is the best, the most honest in the world. It is notl Miss Grey, you were looking at my old desk. Not so German, eh? I bought it in your Portobello Road in London. I love it. But I divert…' Kefler stared at Tweed as though making sure he trusted him.'… Vast sums of money are being laundered through that bank – or they do the walk with the money from rich clients, maybe send it to a secret account at Vaduz in Liechtenstein…'
'You know that definitely?' Tweed interjected.
'No, nein. I only know three hundred million marks walk off.'
Paula did a quick calculation in her head, was stunned. Very roughly, one hundred million pounds sterling. Hardly chicken-feed.
'I give you papers now,' Kefler decided.
He jumped off his stool, stooped down under the cherished desk from the Portobello Road. Reaching under the knee-hole, his pudgy hands jerked, brought out a small leather folder which had obviously been attached with sticky tape. He carefully removed the tape before handing the folder to Tweed.
'Open it! Please do!'
He was almost dancing with enthusiasm. Tweed extracted a sheaf of folded stiff papers, unfolded them. They appeared to be German bank statements with Zurcher Kredit printed at the top of each sheet. The contents on the sheets baffled him – lists of figures with code letters such as GT.
'You don't understand them, of course,' Kefler advised. 'So you show them to the clever Keith Kent. He will decode… Did I say three hundred million marks?… My British numbers go wrong. I should say seven hundred million marks walk.'
Paula did another quick calculation in her head. Roughly ?230,000,000! She stared at Newman, who obviously had also converted marks into pounds. He had a blank look.
'Dr Kefler,' Tweed said calmly, 'are these papers really for me?'
'Of course! I tell you. Keith Kent decode, show you.'
'You haven't a briefcase – or something like that – I could carry this folder away in?'
'The docks. I know your meaning…'
Kefler reached down the side of his desk, produced a briefcase of a type no longer in fashion in Britain. He opened it, fumbled inside and clearly it was empty. He lifted both short legs up and down, in need of exercise, Paula realized. He
walked over to the window.
'In the daylight the view is interesting. Great barges come here. Large freighters. The ferry from Newcastle in Britain will arrive at 12.30 the pm – in the-'
The report was shockingly loud. Kefler staggered, fell backwards, face up. Blood streamed over his chest, spilt over his smoking jacket. Newman dashed to the body lying on the floorboards, crouching low so he was below the sill of the window. The glass had been shattered by one star-shaped hole with another ragged hole in the net curtain – where the bullet had come through.
'Is he…'
Paula barely found herself able to frame the question.
'No pulse,' Newman reported. 'He's dead. Don't look. The left side of his head is blown away. Explosive bullet.'
'Oh, God! No.' Paula covered her face, with her hands. She stood up, looked down across the room. 'Horrible. He was such a nice man.. .'
Newman reacted quickly. Crawling, still well below the windowsill, he reached up, pulled one heavy dark curtain across the window, then the other. When he stood up, away from the window, Paula was standing beside him, staring down at what remained of Kefler.
Only half a teddy bear, she said to herself, then dismissed the thought as obscene.
She sat down in her armchair again, tears in her eyes. She looked at Tweed, choking as she spoke.
'He was such a nice man,' she repeated. 'Wouldn't hurt a fly. In life you sometimes meet someone you know is good, even at a first meeting. You like him – or her. Trust them. So rare.'
'Same technique, same situation,' Tweed said in a very quiet voice, 'as the murder of Helga Trent off Ebury Street. Night-time. A figure silhouetted against net curtains, the light behind them. I should have realized…'
'I'm going downstairs,' Newman said, his revolver in his hand. 'There should be a back door. I can get out that way…'
'Stay where you are.' rasped Tweed.
Newman was ignoring the command, heading out of the study, when his mobile buzzed. He snatched it out of his pocket, faced them, standing in the doorway.
'Yes?'
'Harry here.' The voice was very low. 'No one leaves that house till I call back. That's an order…'
Newman, still holding the revolver, repeated what Harry had said.
'We all stay here then – until Harry calls back,' Tweed replied. 'Harry knows what he's doing…'
Harry Butler, sweating from the heat in his motorcyclist's black leather kit, had been crawling on his hands and knees to get closer to where he'd seen Tweed and his companions disappear into No. 23. A short way ahead he heard a sound, like the squeak of an old wooden door being opened. Looking up, he saw a door close on the control cabin of a monster crane a few yards away.
He was inside the wire that fenced off the docks from Elbstrasse. Earlier he had picked a padlock, opened a gate. He continued his crawl, his rifle with the sniperscope in his right hand, his left hand testing the ground ahead for loose chains or oil drums.
Arriving at the base of the crane, which reminded him of a slimmed-down version of the Eiffel Tower, he peered up at the cabin way above him. A ladder led down from it to the ground. He was uncertain what to do next.
It could be a spy, keeping an eye on Tweed. On the other hand it might be a stupid vandal. He checked his watch. Tweed and the others had been inside the house for a while. He settled down to wait.
He switched his gaze frequently from cabin to house and back again. There was neither sight nor sound of any activity from the control cabin. It could be a drug addict – they did the craziest things, were totally unpredictable. Again he looked at the house. There was the same light in the first floor window, but he'd seen no sign of anyone inside the place.
He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. His grip would slip if he ever had to use the weapon. He looked back at the house, saw a small figure silhouetted against the light behind the net curtains. He looked up. He never heard the sound of any movement above him; but he saw the muzzle flash, jerked his head back to the house, saw the small figure topple out of sight. The report of the rifle being fired echoed across the Elbe river.
Taking out his mobile, he rang Newman, gave him his message. Bracing himself against the base of the crane, he raised his rifle, aligning the cross-hairs on the cabin. Nothing happened. He crawled to the far side of the crane, looked up at the ladder.
The cabin door opened. A figure appeared, stood on a small platform, closed the cabin door, which squeaked again. Harry could have shot him then but he decided perhaps there was a chance to take him alive, to extract information. The figure began to descend the long ladder, his back to Harry, a rifle strapped huntsman-style across it.
Harry waited, his own rifle held in both hands. Less than halfway down the ladder the figure stopped, looked down. Holding on with his left hand, his right hand dived inside his jacket, came out holding a handgun.
'All right, chum, have it your own way,' Harry said to himself.
In less than a second the figure appeared in his cross-hairs. He pressed the trigger. His target stiffened, lost his grip, came tumbling down from a considerable height.
Harry jumped aside, fearing his target would crash on top of him. Instead it hit the ground near the foot of the ladder with a sickening thud. The assassin's rifle had slipped off his back, had fallen a few yards away.
Harry stepped forward, his weapon aimed. You never could be sure. He checked the twisted neck's pulse. Nothing. The corpse lay on its back, both legs broken. To Harry's surprise the right hand still gripped an automatic. Reflex action.
He shone his torch on the upturned face. Slavic cheekbones, hawkish nose, thin cruel mouth. Long hair. Harry called Newman on his mobile.
'You can come out now. Down the footpath. Find me by watching for my torch flashing.'
While he waited he put on latex gloves, searched pockets he could reach for identification material. Nothing. From the mess on either side of the head he guessed the fall had crushed the back of the skull.
He went to the gate he had opened, flashed his torch when he saw them coming. Tweed was carrying an old briefcase. Harry led them in, shining his torch on the ground so they didn't trip over discarded rusty chains. He waved Paula back, but she came over.
Butler shrugged. These days you couldn't tell Paula anything. He led the trio to the base of the crane, switched on his torch – after glancing down deserted Elbstr. Paula found she had no feelings at all about the corpse. This was the man who had killed Dr Kefler. Butler had aimed his torch at the face.
'He was up in the control cabin,' Butler said, pointing. 'Did he kill someone?'
'Yes.' Tweed paused. 'Dr Kefler, the man we went to consult. Who is he?'
'No idea.' Butler extended his hands, showed they were covered with latex gloves. 'I've searched him as best I could. Traces of identity? None.'
'Probably a Croat,' Newman commented.
'That would be my best guess,' Butler agreed. 'Shall I chuck him into the Elbe? His rifle's over there.'
'Certainly not,' Tweed ordered. 'Leave everything as it is. The police will have to come into this – because of Kefler. Their ballistics people will prove the Croat shot Dr Kefler, which is why we must leave the weapon over there. But I don't want you mixed up in their investigation, Harry. Not if we can help it. So chuck your own rifle well out into the river. Or is that the only one you've got?'
'Another's back at the Renaissance.'
'Good. You do what you have to do quickly, then go back to your hotel. Where's your motorcycle?'
'Well hidden twenty minutes' walk from here. Lights have come on in the house next but one to Kefler's. Upstairs and downstairs.'
'Time for us to get moving. I'll call a cab when we get to the point where the cab dropped us earlier. You look queasy.'
'Yes, he does,' Paula agreed. 'Harry, I've got some stomach-upset pills which work fast.'
'Don't need them. It's the oil stink from empty drums. I'm off to dump my rifle…'
It was unfort
unate, but when Tweed later checked the card he'd been given and called the taxi firm on Newman's mobile who should arrive but Eugen, their original driver.
'Are you all right?' he called out in German when Tweed told him to take them back to Jungfernstieg.
'Why shouldn't we be?' snapped Tweed. 'We're shipping agents. We wanted to check the Hamburg docking facilities.'
'Pretty good, eh?'
'I think we prefer Europort…'
It was Paula who spotted him as Tweed paid the driver near the Jungfernstieg landing stage. No point in advertising where they were staying.
'Now what is it?' he asked as the taxi drove off. 'Mark Wendover. Mavericking again. At this hour.'
The American was coming towards them – from the direction of the Zurcher Kredit Bank. He was carrying his video camera. He began walking back with them.
'I see you've been shopping,' he said, pointing to the briefcase Tweed was carrying.
'In a manner of speaking. What have you been up to?'
'Raiding safety deposit boxes – lock-boxes, as we call them in the States.'
Tweed almost stopped dead. He stared at him, then at a dark woolly cap protruding from a pocket. In fact, Mark was clad in black from head to foot.
'You are joking, I hope?'
'No joke. Their security is good, but not that good. And I did pick up a few tricks of the trade while I was with the CIA.'
'What the devil did you think you were doing? I do like to know what's going on.'
'Well, you do know now I've told you,' Mark rapped back. 'I opened almost every box. You wouldn't believe the amount of 1,000 DM bills they have stashed away there. To say nothing of jewellery worth a king's ransom.'
'And you helped yourself?'
'I did not. I was looking for records. Found something in almost the last box I prised open. Can't understand it. A blue leather-bound book full of coded stuff. I'll give it to you when we get back. Well, here we are…'
As they approached the elevators a woman sitting in the room beyond the hall, smoking a cigarette, stood up, walked over to them. Lisa Trent.
CHAPTER 18
