by Colin Forbes
'So. that's how ferries pass into the big lake,' Nield remarked. 'I hadn't been able to work it out. They go under the road bridge.. .'
'Which is also a separate rail bridge. Bob, we've been riding round in two cream Mercs. Stretch limos at that.'
'I didn't know how many of us would be travelling in them.'
'But Oskar saw them, parked near the Turm. So I want you to return one cream limo, then hire a blue version. Park it in the nearest underground garage. We continue to use only the cream job.'
'No point in asking why?'
'Forward planning, I think the military call it. Or used to.'
'You still haven't answered my question about why Vernon's moved to the Atlantic.'
'He's very smart, so very dangerous. So just when someone is sure they've located him he whisks off elsewhere.'
They continued walking along the shore path. A large woman in a floral dress and with blue-rinse hair bent down as she fed some ducks. Her glasses had thick lenses and when she looked up she stared at Tweed, went on staring. Then her thin mouth smiled at him.
'Glorious day,' Tweed said to her.
'Pure paradise.'
Her English had a foreign accent. Newman looked back but she was concentrating on her ducks. He frowned.
'That woman was studying you,' he said.
'Not my type,' Tweed responded jovially.
'No, she really was,' Newman insisted. 'And she noticed the bulge of that Walther you transferred to your trouser pocket.'
'Just a local.' Tweed had earlier removed his jacket and carried it. Under his armpits were damp circles. 'You see the enemy everywhere. Don't get paranoid.'
'Bob could be right,' Nield interjected. 'Before we got there I saw her get out of a car on the road, then she scuttled across to where we met her.'
After only a few minutes Tweed suggested they turned back. He had the appointment with the Brig for drinks. When they reached the point where the large woman had been feeding ducks she had gone. Nield glanced across at the road between the trees. Her car had also gone. Newman bent down, retrieved a brown paper bag full of broken bread.
'Floral Dress didn't stay long after she'd given you die once-over. And this bag is still full of bread.'
'Well, we're not feeding ducks.'
'Don't you see?' Newman was annoyed. 'She saw us earlier when we were leaving the hotel, watched us, then drove ahead so she'd intercept us. Now she'll know you on another occasion. And these days women use guns. Not only Paula…'
Before meeting the Brig, Tweed dashed up to his suite, took off his clothes, had a shower, put on a fresh suit, gave the spoilt one to a porter he'd summoned and asked for it to be cleaned.
He had ten minutes left before the 1800 hours deadline. He picked up the phone on the second ring. It was Kuhlmann, in a towering rage.
'What's happened, Otto?'
'The grapevine tells me that Mr Blue murdered Jason Schulz in Washington weeks ago, tried to make it look like suicide. Then he kills Jeremy Mordaunt down in Sussex. Next M. Bleu, as the French call him, murdered Louis Lospin in Paris. Ditto suicide. All these men were close aides, confidants, to powerful people in their respective governments…'
'Slow down, Otto. You're not driving the 1C train…'
'Now!' Kuhlmann rasped. 'Herr Blau has murdered Kurt Kruger in Berlin this morning. Clumsy attempt to make it look like suicide again. Revolver clamped in his fingers, in a manner no one would hold a gun and fire it…'
'Hold on. Who is – or was – Kurt Kruger?'
'Only chief aide and closest consultant to the Deputy Chancellor. Travelled all over the globe at the behest of his master.'
'In Berlin, you said. Whereabouts?'
'In the Zoo Garden – Zoologischer Garten. A quiet day due to the heat, the stink of animals. Kruger, married, met his girlfriend there in a secluded spot. Found slumped at the foot of a tree.'
'Like Jason Schulz – in a park. Did Kruger meet his girlfriend there regularly?'
'We think he did. The girl's as much as admitted it.'
'So Herr Blau could have followed him over a period to make sure Kruger kept to his routine?'
'Ja! I mean yes. All hell has broken loose. They want me to go to Berlin. I've refused, appointed a top detective to be in charge of the investigation.'
'Any leads at all?' Tweed asked.
'Not a sausage.' Kuhlmann was proud of his command of idiomatic English. 'Herr Blau is a very careful killer. I've checked with informants in the underworld. What gets me is he doesn't seem to be an assassin for hire. Just chooses his own targets. Which I find very strange.'
'Very strange. It could be the key to his actions.'
'Go on. Tell me.'
'I've got to think it out first.'
'Thanks a lot…'
Tweed arrived in the bar on the dot. The Brig was seated behind a small table in a corner: Tweed almost expected him to check a stopwatch. To his surprise the Brig was clad in a German jacket, German slacks and a German shirt open at the collar, exposing his bull-like neck.
'Two double Scotches. On the double,' his host barked at the barman.
As he sat down Tweed noticed an almost empty glass on the table. This wasn't the first drink the Brig had enjoyed. His complexion was a brilliant red, the veins in his nose prominent.
'I phoned your room during the day but you were out,' Tweed remarked.
'Went to Bremen, didn't I? Shipping. They showed me a new destroyer. Lots of gimmicks. Played the buffoon. So they boasted about their new toy. Took more in than they realized.'
'But you're not Admiralty.'
Tweed thought his companion was explaining far more than he usually did.
'They knew that. Which was why they talked. Got a naval chum back home. Do my bit when I can. Cheers!'
Tweed sipped while the Brig swallowed half the contents of his glass. Not drunk, he decided, but not sober, either.
'Been to Berlin?' Tweed enquired.
'Berlin?'
'Yes. The new capital of Germany.'
'I know that. Made the odd trip there. State-of-the-art architecture. Horrible new jargon. It's chaos over there. Never stop building. Crazy tubes and cubes going up to the sky. Get vertigo. Looking up.'
'It's a comparatively short flight from here to Berlin.'
'Is it? Sort of thing you'd know, I suppose.'
The Brig seemed nervous. He kept looking at the entrance to the bar, as though he expected the Devil to walk in.
'How's your investigation going?' the Brig asked when he'd ordered another couple of double Scotches.
'Not for me,' Tweed said firmly. 'And this one is mine.'
'You'll accept when I say so,' Barford said in the manner of addressing an awkward subaltern in the officers' mess. 'And I did ask how your investigation is progressing.'
'What investigation?'
'Oh, come on,' the Brig said roughly. 'You're always up to your clever neck in an investigation.'
'What do you think about the riots we endured?' Tweed asked suddenly.
'Riots.' He took a long drink – while he thought out how to react, Tweed said to himself. 'Shoot the lot of them, I would – and not with rubber bullets. We've gone soft. What we need is strong government. We
…'
He faded out. Tweed felt he had pressed a button. Someone came into the bar. The Brig jerked his head to see who it was. Just a relief barman coming to take over. Visibly, the Brig relaxed. Tweed stood up.
'I must go now. Thanks for the drink.'
'Do it again. Do it again. Soon…'
For the first time since he had sat down, Tweed suspected the Brig was nothing like as drunk as he'd pretended to be. At the exit he turned round, just in time to see Barfbrd getting up, striding across to the bar to demand more service. No sign of a stagger. He'd moved as erect as the soldier he had once been.
In his suite Tweed had just taken another shower and dressed for dinner when there was a tapping at the door. Paula and Newman walk
ed in, ready for departure. Paula was clad in a stunning blue, form-fitting belted dress, slashed on one side up to the knee and with a high collar.
'You look terrific,' Tweed told her.
'Everyone says that.' Her tone was self-mocking. 'Which means Bob said something similar. What about transport?'
'We're taking a cab,' Newman announced.
'What?' exclaimed Paula. 'To the dock area?'
'Cool it.' Newman put a hand on her shoulder. 'Behind us will be two four-wheel drives. One with Harry at the wheel and Marler beside him. The second with Nield at the wheel and, I hope, Mark beside him.'
'But what the devil has happened to Mark?' growled Tweed. 'I will only take so much more of his mavericking.'
As if on cue there was a knock on the door and when Newman opened it Mark walked in, smiling broadly.
'Hello, folks,' he greeted them. 'Bet you've been cursing me,' he went on, looking at Tweed.
'I have. Where have you been? From now on you tell me or you go home.'
'Fair enough. Not going home. I'm wondering whether you're all feeling your age, going soft…'
'What does that mean?' Newman bristled.
'In case you've forgotten we knocked hell out of the thugs during that little escapade at the Turm. I was there, so maybe I'm losing it.'
'What are you talking about?' Newman demanded.
'I've been spending time keeping an eye on the Renaissance. Who should turn up late this afternoon? Two gentlemen you may recall. Barton and Panko. They have a drink at the bar and then leave again on foot. I follow. Still with me?' he asked, grinning at Newman.
'Yes,' Newman said shortly, his tone rather subdued.
'Like I said, I follow. They go to a nearby gym. I pay the fee, hide myself up in a balcony. Then I watch Barton beating hell out of a punchball. Did some fancy footwork, too. While he's doing that, Panko is on his back, lifting weights. In other words, our friends are back in business.'
'I can't believe it,' Newman said.
'You'd better believe it, buddy,' Mark told him.
'Vernon's men are tough,' Tweed said quietly. 'So we'll have to be tougher.' He quickly explained to Mark who Oskar Vernon was, that he'd moved to the Atlantic. Then he asked Newman to put Mark in the picture about the trip to the Fischereihafen.
'I imagine,' Mark speculated when Tweed had explained, 'that when we get to this place you're dining at, the rest of us stay outside, scatter, take up positions watching the entrance. I've been down to the docks. At night they won't be the most fun place to be.'
'They're not,' Paula said, with feeling.
'One more thing I have to tell you before we go,' Tweed began.
He told them about the call from Kuhlmann, the murder of Kurt Kruger, confidential aide to the Deputy Chancellor. Then he looked at Paula and Newman.
'You realize what that tells us?'
'No,' said Paula as Newman shook his head. 'Well, work it out,' Tweed snapped as he moved towards the door. 'You have the same data I have…'
Paula did not enjoy the journey to the docks. She glanced back several times and felt better when she saw the two four-wheel drives following them as the cab entered Elbstrasse.
Again, she had the illogical fear that the enormous cranes would topple down on them. She made a point of not looking at No. 23, the late Dr Kefler's residence. Tweed did look, saw there was still police tape cordoning off the property.
The moon was hidden by a heavy overcast and the humidity was trying. They reached yet another large warehouse located on the river bank and the taxi stopped. The driver pointed to a side entrance with light streaming out. Tweed led the way inside and an arrow pointed up a long staircase. Tweed leapt up it. At the entrance Paula had glanced back, had seen Marler directing his troops to their positions. The vehicles had disappeared.
'Have you worked it out?' she asked Newman. 'Tweed said we had all the data. Was he talking about Rhinoceros?'
'No idea.' Newman replied in his easy manner.
'Or maybe he was referring to the Elite Club?'
'Still no idea.'
'You're not trying,' she accused him.
Tweed was waiting in the reception area just beyond the top of the stairs. A dinner-jacketed manager had welcomed him.
'Mr Tweed? A friend of Herr Rondel. You are most welcome. May I lead the way…'
Paula was impressed as they walked inside the converted warehouse. The restaurant was enormous and on two levels. The main level was below, stretching across to large windows overlooking the Elbe river at night. The upper level, like a narrow balcony, was smaller. The place was packed with people, the men wearing either dinner dress or business suits while the women, many very attractive, wore a variety of expensive evening dresses. The restaurant was a hive of activity, with waiters moving rapidly among the tables. The atmosphere was joyful, a constant chatter, clinking of glasses. The manager led them to the balcony, paused by a table near the far end, pulled out chairs and they settled in. Tweed had a chair at the edge of the balcony. Paula was given the position opposite him while Newman sat next to her. Tweed told a waiter his suggestion was acceptable. Champagne.
Looking down at the table below them on the lower level he saw the blond-haired Rondel, seated with his back to him. Opposite him was a shorter man, well built and, like Rondel, in a dinner jacket. Tweed knew he'd seen him somewhere before, then remembered the man at the Four Seasons who had descended in an elevator and then gone back up again. The man looked up at him, said something to Rondel. He was still looking at Tweed, who felt he'd reached a decisive moment.
CHAPTER 23
Tweed went on looking at the man. His eyes. They were like glass marbles but there was no hint of a lack of humanity. He was simply scrutinizing Tweed, who felt he could see right inside his head. Earlier, while listening to Rondel, the eyes had swivelled, in short penetrating scans of different tables in the restaurant. Now they were motionless as he gazed at Tweed.
About five feet four inches tall, he had wide shoulders and a wide chest. His head was large, his complexion healthy, his skin smooth. He had neatly brushed white hair, thick eyebrows of the same colour. His nose was prominent, almost Roman, the mouth below it firm, the lips compressed above a strong jaw. In his fifties, sixties, early seventies? Impossible to tell.
He eventually lowered his gaze, produced a small silver box. Lifting the lid he took out a toothpick, used the box to conceal his usage of it. Paula had glanced down, realized the toothpicks were made of ivory. Rondel rested his hands on the table as though to leave it. His companion said something and Rondel stood up, disappeared. Watching him seated alone, Tweed recalled Paula had said he radiated dynamic power. He agreed with her. Tweed was sipping champagne when Rondel appeared.
'Welcome to the Fischereihafen. I personally think it is the best restaurant in Germany. May I join you?' He sat next to Tweed. 'My partner sends you his greetings. Yes, I will taste the champagne,' he said as a waiter brought a glass. He looked across at Paula, smiled warmly. 'I want to see if it's any good.'
'I can assure you it's delicious,' Paula replied, smiling warmly.
'Then I bow to what I am sure is your excellent judgement.' He smiled at her again, took a sip. 'And I was right – you have a subtle taste, Miss Grey.'
'Please call me Paula.'
'And I am Victor.' He smiled at Newman, turned to Tweed. 'And now we come to the important question of selecting something which will justify your visit. Of course…' He laughed. '… It really should be fish. But they have the greatest variety. Waiter, another bottle of champagne.'
Paula thought he was a handsome man. The table light gleamed on his smooth blond hair. His sea-green eyes kept glancing at her. His nose and other features reminded her of a bust of Apollo she had once seen. But his main attraction was his bubbling personality, his manners, his way of speaking English with perfect articulation. He would be easy to go out with, she thought.
Paula chose a soup, followed by sole. She had started a
trend. After studying the menu, both Tweed and Newman ordered the same. Tweed looked down again at Rondel's partner. He still held the silver box close to his mouth while he worked his teeth. His eyes were again swivelling round the restaurant, pausing now and again, then moving on. " 'You must excuse our bad timing,' Rondel said to Newman. 'We arrived early, were voraciously hungry, so we dined before you arrived. My apologies. My partner,' he went on, glancing at Tweed, aware of his gaze downwards, 'is quite happy to linger for hours over coffee. He drinks it by the litre. And he does not mind being on his own for a while. It gives him the chance to think. He never stops thinking.'
'He lives round here?' Tweed enquired.
'A good question.' Rondel was leaning forward, refilling Paula's glass. 'He lives everywhere. He travels so much. London, Paris, New York, San Francisco. And he takes the trouble to preserve his privacy. Tweed, you strike me as a very private person.'
'Yes and no. Depends on the circumstances.'
'He can be extremely sociable,' Paula said. 'Depending on who he is with and, as he just remarked, on the circumstances.'
She liked the way Rondel kept the conversation going fluently. The way he included everyone in what he said.
'Has your partner a home in Hamburg?' Tweed asked when they had ordered.
'Yes, he has. On the main road to Blankenese, if you know where I mean.'
'Millionaires' Row.'
'Yes, some still call it that.' Rondel laughed gently. 'But times have changed. I have nicknamed it Crooks' Road.'
'So such people have arrived there?'
'I'm afraid so. As you clearly know, it is a rather expensive area for property. But some of the nouveau riche, to be a shade more polite, have accumulated fortunes by questionable means. Going close to the edge of the abyss, as my partner would say.'
'Two sets of ledgers,' Tweed suggested.
'Pardon?'
'There are corporations, some large ones, who use clever accountants to create two ledgers recording the financial activities of their company. One ledger for the tax man -another for themselves.'
