by Colin Forbes
Frederick Anthony Howard came into the office without knocking. It would be more accurate to say he breezed in. It was the essence of Howard's personality that you dominated a room the moment you entered it.
He was accompanied by Mason, a new recruit. Mason had restless eyes and a lean and hungry look. He said nothing and stood behind his chief like a commissionaire.
'Tweed, I suppose you know we need all active personnel mustered for the protection of the PM during her trip to the summit conference in Vienna?'
He invested the word 'active' with a significance which included Martel and specifically excluded Tweed. Florid-faced and with a choleric temper, Howard was a well-built man of fifty who had an unruly shock of grey hair and a brisk manner. He had a reputation for being a devil with the women, a reputation he relished.
The fact that his wife, Cynthia, lived at their `small manor' in the country and he rented `a pied-a-terre' in Knightsbridge could not have been more convenient. Tweed's privately expressed comment had been rather devastating.
Tied-a-terre? I've been there once. When he has a girl with him it must be standing room only…'
`What's all this bumf?' Howard demanded, picking up the wallet from the desk. Martel had palmed the slips of paper he was perusing and slipped them into his pocket as Howard entered the room.
`That bumf,' Tweed said grimly, `happens to be the personal effects of the late Charles Warner. The BND kindly flew them straight to London from Munich so we can begin our investigation at the earliest moment.'
Having delivered his statement in a calm, cold voice Tweed put on his spectacles. Without them he felt naked, especially in the presence of people like Howard. And he was well aware that wearing the glasses made it impossible to judge his expression.
`Getting touchy in our old age, are we?' Howard enquired lightly, trying to bluff his way through what he now realised had been the height of bad taste.
`The man is dead,' Tweed replied, giving no quarter.
`I don't like it any more than you do.' Howard strolled over to the heavily net-curtained window and gazed through the armoured glass. He clasped both hands in a theatrical pose before making his pronouncement.
`I simply must insist that all active personnel are available to travel aboard the Summit Express from Paris to Vienna one week from today. Tuesday June 2
`I do have a calendar,' Tweed commented.
Howard looked pointedly away from Tweed and at Martel who said nothing, his cigarette holder in his mouth – which to Howard was insubordination. He had made it very clear he preferred no one to practise the filthy habit in his presence.
`Well?' he pressed.
Mattel stared back at Howard, puffing away, his expression hard and hostile. 'I'm otherwise engaged,' he said eventually, still clenching the holder. Howard turned to Tweed and erupted.
'This is too damned much. I'm taking Martel and attaching him to my protection group. He speaks good German…'
'Which is why he's going to Bavaria,' Tweed told him. 'We were suspicious something strange is going on in that part of the world. It looks as though we were right. Otherwise why was Warner killed?'
Howard glanced at Mason who still stood by the door like a commissionaire. Time to assert his authority. 'We?' he repeated in a supercilious tone. 'May I enquire the identity of "we"?'
'Erich Stoller of the BND and myself,' Tweed said tersely. Time to get rid of Howard. 'I have a minute from the Minister authorising me to investigate the Bavarian enigma and full powers to use my staff in any way I see fit. May I also point out that the route of the Summit Express carrying the four top western leaders to Vienna to meet the Soviet First Secretary passes through Bavaria?'
They were alone again. Howard had stormed out of the office on hearing of the existence of the special ministerial minute. Mason had followed, closing the door carefully behind him.
'He was memorising my appearance,' Martel said.
`Do let's get on. Oh, all right, who was?'
`The new boy, Mason. Who brought him in off the street?'
'Ex-Special Branch, I gather,' Tweed replied. 'And it was Howard who recruited him – interviewed him personally, I heard. I think he'd been angling to join us for a while…'
'We don't take people who apply,' Martel snapped.
'We do now, apparently. How are you going to pick up Warner's trail? And since you've had your breakfast your – stomach should be strong enough to study these pictures taken by Stoller's man – two show clearly the triangular symbol of the Delta Party carved out of Warner's back…'
'Delta being the neo-Nazis,' Martel ruminated as he studied the glossy blow-ups. 'Delta is run by that millionaire electronics industrialist, Reinhard Dietrich. He's also running for office in the Bavarian state elections which take place…'
'On Thursday June 4 – the day after the Summit Express crosses Bavaria,' Tweed interjected. 'Which is something else Howard may have overlooked. You know, Keith, I have the oddest feeling the whole thing interlocks – the Bavarian crossing by the express, the state elections, and the murder of Warner before he could reach us.'
Martel dropped the glossy prints back on the desk and extracted from his pocket the pieces of paper he had secreted while Howard was in the room. He showed Tweed one particular piece of paper.
'I'll start in Zurich to try and find out what got Warner killed.'
'Why Zurich? I did notice a first-class ticket from Munich by train to Zurich -and another from Lindau to Munich, but…'
'This little scrap of paper. Go on, have a really good look at it.'
Tweed examined it under a magnifying glass. It was some kind of ticket which carried the printed legend VBZ Zuri Linie. The words RENNWEGIAUGUST had been punched in purple on the ticket together with the price 0.80.
'From the last time I was in Zurich I'm sure you're holding a tram ticket,' Martel explained. 'A tram whose route takes it along Bahnhofstrasse – Rennweg is a side street running off Bahnhofstrasse. Warner travelled about inside the city. Why? Where to? He never wasted time.'
Tweed nodded agreement, unlocked a drawer and brought out a file. From inside he produced a tiny black notebook and thumbed through the pages. Then he waved the key he had used.
'I suppose you know Howard waits until everyone has gone home in the evening and then prowls – hoping to find something he hasn't been told about? He spends more time spying on his own staff than on the opposition. Still, it will help to keep his hand in…'
'You're just about to play your strongest card,' Martel observed. 'You're enjoying the anticipation. Could I now see what you hold in the way of aces?'
'It came with Warner's possessions Stoller flew to me with such commendable speed.' Tweed riffled the pages of the tiny notebook. 'Only I know Warner carried two notebooks -a large one inside his breast pocket, which is missing. Presumably filched by the swine who mutilated him. That was full of meaningless rubbish. This little fellow he kept in a secret pocket Stoller himself found when he flew to Lindau – or the nearest airstrip – when he heard from Dorner of the Water Police.'
'Am I to be allowed to see it?'
'You have a viper's tongue, Mr Martel.' Tweed handed o'er the notebook. The trouble is the jottings in it don't make sense.'
Martel went through the pages. The references seemed disjointed. Hauptbahnhof; Munich… Hauptbahnhof, Zurich… Delta. Centralhof Bregenz. Washington, DC, Clint Loomis… Pullach, BND… Operation Crocodile.
'Charles
They had always called him Charles. Warner was the kind of man they would never dream of calling Charlie; he would have resented it.
'Charles,' Martel repeated, 'seems to have been fixated on the main stations – the Hauptbahnhofs in Munich and Zurich. Why? And if the note sequence means anything Delta is somehow linked with Zurich, which is odd, wouldn't you say?'
'Delta is the official neo-Nazi party with candidates standing in the coming Bavarian state elections,' Tweed remarked. 'But it also works underground. Rumou
r has it Delta cells are operating in north-east Switzerland between St. Gallen and the Austrian border. Ferdy Arnold of Swiss counter-espionage is worried…'
'Enough to give us support?' Martel enquired.
'At arm's length. You know the Swiss policy of neutrality so they feel they have to be careful…'
'With that bunch of thugs? Look what they did to Warner. And who is Clint Loomis – Washington, DC?'
'I can't fathom that reference.' Tweed leaned back and swivelled his chair through small arcs. 'Clint is an old friend of mine. Ex-CIA. Kicked out by Tim O'Meara, now chief of the Secret Service detachment which will protect the US President aboard the Summit Express to Vienna. Makes no sense…'
`Who provides most of the funds for this link-up with the BND if Howard is against it?'
`Erich Stoller of the BND – and he has plenty of money at his disposal. Delta is scaring Bonn…'
`So Charles, being the secretive type he was, could have flown on a quick trip to Washington from Munich without your knowing?'
`Yes, I suppose so.' Tweed sounded dubious. 'I don't see why.'
`But we don't see anything yet, do we? Least of all what Warner found out that provoked his cold-blooded murder.' He checked the notebook again. `Centralhof. That rings a bell.'
Tweed stirred in his chair and the expression behind his spectacles went blank. Which meant, Martel knew from experience, he was going to be told something he wouldn't like. He lit another cigarette and clamped his teeth on the holder.
`You at least have some help on this thing, Keith,' Tweed said cheerfully, `Ferdy Arnold put his best operative at the disposal of Warner and that operative may have more to tell you. Outside of his killers, she may have been the last person to see Warner alive…'
'She?'
'The pronoun denotes a woman. Claire Hofer. Her mother was English, her father Swiss – and one of Ferdy's best men, which is how she came to join the Swiss Service. She lives at Centralhof 45 in Zurich. Hence the reference, I presume…'
'Except that Warner seems to have used his secret notebook for suspect factors…'
`You may need all the help you can get…'
'All the help I can trust..
`She could be a major asset,' Tweed persisted.
'You do realise,' Martel began vehemently, 'that Warner was betrayed by someone who knew he was making the crossing to Switzerland – by someone he trusted. And tell me again why Stoller asked for outside help.'
'Because he thinks the BND may have been infiltrated. You will find an atmosphere of suspicion everywhere you go. And with the Summit Express leaving Paris at 2335 hours on Tuesday June 2 you have exactly seven days to crack this mystery.'
CHAPTER 3
Wednesday May 27
Will Mr Keith Martel bound for Geneva please report immediately to the Swissair reception desk…
Martel was inside Heathrow on his way to the final departure lounge when the message came over the Tannoy. He went back down the stairs slowly and paused where he could see Swissair. Only when two more passengers had called at the reception desk did he wander over.
The Swissair girl told him he was wanted urgently on the phone and left him as he picked up the receiver, fuming. It was Tweed. His voice held that quality of detached control which meant he was alarmed. They went through the identification routine and then Martel quietly exploded.
`What the hell do you mean broadcasting my name so everyone in the bloody terminal can hear…'
'I did change the destination to Geneva. Didn't they…' 'They did. Thank you for that small consideration. I now have ten minutes to board my flight…'
'My office was bugged – while we were talking yesterday. About Delta, the lot…'
'Where are you calling from.'
'A phone booth at Baker Street station, of course. You don't imagine I'm such a damned fool as to call from the building, do you? I found the bloody thing purely by chance. The cleaning woman had left a note that my main light bulb had gone. checked it – the bug was inside the shade…'
'So anyone could have overheard our conversation, could have taped it, could know where I'm going and why?'
'I thought you ought to know – before you boarded the plane.'
Tweed sounded genuinely concerned. Unusual for Tweed to display any emotion.
'Thanks,' Martel said shortly. 'I'll keep my eyes open…' 'Probably it's the Zurich end you should watch. A reception committee could be waiting for you…'
'Thanks a million. I must go now…'
The Swissair flight departed on time at t i to hours. In London it had been 50? F. As they lost height over Switzerland Martel, who had a window seat, watched the saddle-back ridge of the Jura mountains which he felt he could reach down and touch. The plane had come in over Basle and headed east for Zurich.
As the machine tilted the most spectacular of views was framed in a window on the other side of the plane, a sunlit panorama of the snowbound Alps. Martel picked out the savage triangle of the Matterhorn, a shape not unlike Delta's badge. Then they landed.
At Kloten Airport, ten kilometres outside Zurich, a wave of heat enveloped him as he disembarked. 5o? F in London; 75? F in Zurich. After Heathrow it seemed unnaturally quiet and orderly. When he had passed through Customs and Passport Control he started looking for trouble.
He was tempted to take the train from the airport's underground station to the Hauptbahnhof, the second location recorded in Warner's notebook. Instead he took a cab to the Baur au Lac.
He was staying at one of the top three hotels in Switzerland and the room tariff would have caused Howard to have apoplexy. But Howard was not paying the expenses. Before Martel left London a large amount of deutschemarks had been telexed to Tweed for the trip from Erich Stoller.
The Germans are paying, so enjoy yourself,' Tweed had commented. 'They're conscious of the fact that the first man I sent to help is no longer with us…'
'And that I may be next?' Martel had replied. 'Still, it's good cover – to stay at the best place in town rather than some grotty little pension…'
Good cover? He recalled the remark cynically as the cab sped along the two-lane highway into the centrum of Zurich. It had been made in Tweed's office which they now knew had been bugged. He could change his hotel – but if the opposition sought him out at the Baur au Lac it might present him with a golden opportunity.
Just so long as I see them first he thought as he lit a fresh cigarette.
It was good to be back in Zurich, to see the blue trams rumbling along their tracks. The route the driver followed took him down through the underpass, sharp right across the bridge over the river Limmat and into the Bahnhofplatz. Martel stared at the massive bulk of the Hauptbahnhof, wondering again why the place had figured in Warner's notebook.
To his left he caught a glimpse of the tree-lined Bahnhofstrasse, his favourite street in his favourite European city. Here were the great banks with their incredible security systems, their underground vaults stacked with gold bullion. Then they were driving down Talstrasse, the street where the Baur au Lac was situated at the far-end facing the lake.
A heavy grey overcast pressed down on the city and, as was so often the case when the temperature was high, the atmosphere was clammy. The cab turned in under an archway and pulled up at the main entrance. The head porter opened his door and Martel counted five Mercedes and one Rolls Royce parked in the concourse. Beyond the entrance the green lawns of the mini-park stretched away towards the lake.
From the airport to hotel he had not been followed. He was quite certain. The fact somehow did not reassure him as he followed the porter inside. The hotel was almost full. On the phone he had accepted a twin-bedded room overlooking the park. When the porter left he checked bedroom and bathroom for hidden microphones and found nothing. He was still not happy.
He went down the staircase after checking his room – avoiding the lift because lifts could be traps. The atmosphere was luxurious, peaceful and disturbingly normal. He st
rolled over the concourse to where tea and drinks were being served under a canopy near the French Restaurant. He ordered coffee, lit a cigarette and waited, watching the world's elite arrive and depart. He was looking for a shadow.
His appointment with Claire Hofer at her apartment was eight in the evening, an odd hour which he had wondered about. Normally he would have scanned the area in advance but the bugging of Tweed's office changed his tactics. He was good at waiting and he counted on the impatience of the opposition.
By 7.30 he was swimming in coffee and people were starting their evening meal in the nearby restaurant. He suddenly scribbled his signature and room number on the bill, stood up and walked out under the archway. Crossing Talstrasse, he turned left up Bahnhofstrasse away from the lake. He had spotted no one but could not rid himself of a feeling of unease.
Stopping by a machine in the deserted street, he inserted four twenty-centime coins obtained from the Baur au Lac cashier, took his ticket and waited for one of Zurich's 'sacred cows'. These gleaming trams had total right-of-way over all other traffic – hence the Zurichers' irreverent description.
The-ticket gave him a slight twinge. Inside his breast pocket was an envelope which contained the contents of Warner's wallet – including the tram ticket with the destination RENNWEG/AUGUST inscribed. This stop was not far away and the ticket could have been used by Warner when he called on Claire Hofer. A tram glided up the street, streamlined and freshly-painted. Martel climbed aboard and sat down near the exit doors.
From the hotel it would have taken him five minutes to walk to Centralhof 45, Claire Hofer's address. Taking a tram and travelling only one stop he hoped to flush out anyone following him. He played it deviously at the next stop. Standing up, he pressed the black button which would automatically open the double doors when the tram stopped.
The doors opened, he checked his ticket and stared about in a perplexed manner as though uncertain of his destination. People left the tram, came on board. Still he waited. The doors began closing. Martel moved…
