by Colin Forbes
Then it was Erich Stoller's turn and again O'Meara was impressed. The German paused as he reached a certain point on the map and was silent for a short time. Something in his manner heightened the tension inside the airless room as he prodded with his finger.
'Here the express crosses into Bavaria. There is a certain instability in this area. It is unfortunate the state elections take place the day after the train crosses this sector…'
The neo-Nazi business? Delta?' Howard enquired.
`Tofler,' O'Meara said with great conviction. 'His support is growing with each fresh discovery of more Delta arms and uniforms. And Tofler is a near-Communist. His programme includes plans for detaching Bavaria from West Germany and making it a "neutral" province or state like Austria. That would smash NATO and hand Western Europe to the Soviets on a platter…'
'Chancellor Langer is fully aware of the problem,' Stoller said quietly. 'His advisers tell him Tofler will not win…'
Flandres arranged for excellent food and drink to be brought in and they continued going over the route untile late in the evening. The Frenchman sipped at his glass of wine as he looked round at his colleagues, all of whom were now in shirt-sleeves. The evening was warm and clammy. The bombshell fell after he made his remark.
I am beginning to think, gentlemen, that the main requirement for our job is stamina…'
He broke off as an armed guard entered the room and handed him a message. He read it, frowned and looked at Howard. 'This says the British ambassador is outside with an urgent signal which he must pass to you at once.'
The Ambassador?' Howard was shaken but nothing showed in his expression. 'You mean he has sent a messenger…'
'I mean the Ambassador in person,' Flandres said firmly. 'And I understand he wishes to hand you the signal himself while you are present at this meeting.'
'Please ask him to come in,' Howard requested the guard.
A tall distinguished man with a white moustache entered the room holding a folded slip of paper. Everyone stood, brief introductions took place, and Sir Henry Crawford handed the folded slip'to Howard.
'Came direct to me, Anthony – in my personal code. No one except myself knows about it. It was accompanied by a request that I came here myself. Reasonable enough – when you read the contents.' He looked round the room. 'A pleasure to meet you all and now, if you will excuse me…'
Howard had unfolded the slip and read it several times before he sat down and gazed round the table. His expresssion was unfathomable but the atmosphere had changed. The Englishman spoke quietly, without a trace of emotion.
'This signal is from Tweed in London. He makes an assertion – I emphasise he gives no clue as to his source. Only the gravity of the assertion compels me to pass it on to you under such circumstances …'
`If Tweed makes an assertion,' Flandres commented, 'then we can be sure he has grounds for doing so. The more serious the assertion the less likely he is to reveal the source. It might endanger the informant's life…'
`Quite so.' Howard was aware that his armpits were stained with dampness. He cleared his throat, glanced at each man and read out the contents of the signal.
Reliable source has just reported unknown assassin will attempt to eliminate one – rePeat one – of four VIP's aboard Summit Express. No indication yet as to which of four will be target. Tweed.
CHAPTER
Friday May 29
On the morning of the day when the four security chiefs met in Paris for their afternoon conference, Martel's launch headed for a remote landing-stage on the eastern shore of Lake Konstanz.
Werner Hagen, sole survivor of the windsurfer execution squad, lay helpless in the bottom of the launch. His mouth was gagged, wrists, knees and ankles were bound with strong rope and a band of cloth was tied round his eyes. All he could hear was the chugging of the engine, all he could feel was the compression of the ropes and the glow of the sun on his face.
Inside the wheelhouse Martel steered the craft closer to their objective, guided by Claire who stood alongside him. The mist had dispersed, the shoreline was clear, and he slowed down until they were almost drifting as he scanned the deserted stony beach, the crumbling relic of a wooden landing-stage.
'You're sure we won't run into someone – campers, people like that,' he checked as the momentum carried them forward in a glide.
'Stop fussing,' she chided. 'I told you – I know this area. I used to meet Warner here when he came down from Munich. And last night I parked the hired Audi among those trees before I walked to the nearest railway station to catch a train back to Lindau.'
'I don't see the Audi…'
'You're not bloody meant to see it!' she exploded. 'When are you going to give me credit for being able to cope on my own? You know your trouble, Martel?'
'If I don't do a job myself I start worrying about it…'
'Right! So have a little faith. And – before you ask me – I do know the way to that old water-mill I mentioned, which is another place where Warner and I used to meet. Although why we're driving there I don't understand…'
'To interrogate Blond Boy…'
He had carried Werner Hagen to the car and dumped him on the floor in the rear, folding him up like a huge doll so no part of him protruded above window level. Then he had relaxed while Claire took the wheel and drove them some distance to another crumbling relic – the water-mill, located at a remote spot in the Bavarian countryside.
Everything was exactly as Claire had described it. There was no way of guessing the purpose the mill had once served – but the huge wheel still turned ponderously as foaming water from the rapids behind the structure revolved the wheel. Martel studied the wheel, watching the blades dip below the surface before they emerged dripping to commence another revolution.
`Yes,' he decided, 'it will work…'
'What will work?'
'My new version of the old Chinese water torture. Blond Boy has to talk…'
It took their combined strength to manhandle the German into the required position. Before they started Martel told Clair to don her face-mask again. 'To scare the living daylights out of him he has to see- which means removing his blindfold. Tuck your hair up inside the back of your mask. You're wearing the slacks left in the car – he'll think you're a man…'
With her face-mask adjusted she helped Martel as he stood on the platform above the slow-turning wheel. They spread-eagled Hagen over a part of the wheel clear of the water and moved rapidly – whipping more rope round his recently-freed ankles and attaching them to one of the huge blades.
To make it worse, Martel had laid the German with his head downwards so it submerged under the water first while the upper part of his body was still above the surface. It took them ten minutes to secure Hagen's splayed body to the wheel and then the blindfold was removed. He glared with hatred at Martel and then a look of doubt crossed his handsome face as he caught sight of the sinister figure of Claire.
Standing very erect, wearing Martel's jacket to conceal her bosom, she stared through the face-mask at the German with her arms crossed, her pistol in her right hand. She looked the epitome of a professional executioner.
Then the wheel dipped again and Hagen took a deep breath for when he went under the water. The trouble was the slow revolution of the wheel kept him submerged for longer than he could hold his breath. He surfaced spluttering water, his lungs heaving. He knew there was a limit to the period of time he could survive the ordeal.
There was another factor Hagen found increasingly difficult to combat. The circular rotation was disorientating and he was becoming dizzy. His great fear was he would lose consciousness, taking in a great draught of water while submerged.
Martel made a gesture that they retreated from the platform to the river bank. He inserted a cigarette into his holder and lit it as the wheel continued its endless revolutions. Away from the shade of the water-mill the sun beat down on them out of a sky like brass.
'We can talk now without h
im hearing us,' he remarked. 'He is, of course, slowly drowning…'
'Let him,' Claire said calmly, her face-mask eased up clear of her mouth. 'He's probably the one who carved up Charles…' The female of the species…'
'How long are you going to leave him?' she enquired.
'Until I gauge his resistance is broken. When we release him he has to talk immediately. I just hope he knows something…'
They waited until Hagen was on the verge of losing consciousness, until he was swallowing huge quantities of water each time he went under. Claire re-adjusted her face-mask and they ran to the platform. They had the devil of a job freeing Hagen: constant immersion in water had made the ropes impossible to untie. Martel used a knife he kept inside a sheath strapped to his left leg.
When he carried the water-logged man to the river bank Martel had to work on him, kneading his body to eject water. Claire sat on a rock a short distance away, her pistol aimed at the German. The first question Martel fired was an inspired guess.
`Who are you?'
`Reinhard Dietrich's nephew and heir…'
Only the face-mask concealed Claire's astonishment at the reply. They had hit pure gold. She remained still and menacing as Martel continued the interrogation.
`Name?'
'Werner Hagen – you know these things
'Just answer the questions.' He waited while Hagen coughed and cleared his lungs. 'What is the Delta deadline for Operation Crocodile?'
June 3-the day before the election…' He paused and Claire sensed his powers of resistance were returning. She raised her pistol in her right hand, used her left arm as a balance and took deliberate aim.
'Oh God, stop him!' Hagen pleaded with Martel. `I'm answering your questions. I want out of the whole bloody business. Something's wrong. Vinz's…'
'You said June 3. You were going to add something,' Martel prodded.
'The key is the Summit Express will be moving across Bavaria
`Alt this we know,' Martel lied. 'Warner got the information to London.' He puffed at his cigarette to let his statement sink in.
'I simply want confirmation from you about Delta's flashpoint for June 3…'
You know that!' The surprise was apparent in Hagen's tone. He was still in a state of disorientation.
`So why not tell us what is worrying you – something to do with the Summit Express? Yes?'
`One of the four western leaders aboard is going to be assassinated…'
The statement sent Martel into a state of shock although nothing in his expression betrayed the reaction. His teeth clenched on the holder a- fraction tighter and he continued the interrogation.
'Who is the target?'
'I don't know! God in heaven, I really don't know.. 1'
Hagen's shout – caused by Martel's glance towards the revolving wheel – was convincing.
'How do you know any of this? You – a mere lad,' Martel jibed, 'but a murderous thug at that…'
'Because I'm Reinhard Dietrich's nephew!' Hagen flared. 'I'm regarded as his son, the son his wife never provided. He confides in me…'
'You said earlier "I want out of the whole bloody business. Something's wrong." Don't think about it! Tell me quickly – what is wrong?'
'I'm not sure I know,' Hagen replied sulkily. -
'I'm waiting for a reply,' Martel reminded him. The trouble is, I'm not a patient man.'
'My uncle is supposed to take over Bavaria in the coming election. The people are turning to us because they fear the party of Tofler, the Bolshevik.' He was recovering rapidly, sitting with a frown on his face. 'But as soon as we build up a store of uniforms and arms for the militia to be formed when we win, the BND discover them – as though someone is informing the BND
'And who is going to assassinate one of the western leaders?'
Martel threw the question at him. Hagen stood up slowly. 'I have the cramp…' He bent down and massaged the calf of his left leg, then straightened up, flexing his hands.
'I told you I'm not a patient man,' Martel snapped.
`The assassin – again I swear I do not know his identity – is one of the four security chiefs supposed to be guarding the western leaders…'
The reply threw Martel completely off guard for the fraction of a second. It was all Hagen needed. He rushed forward, aiming a blow at Claire which knocked her off the rock she had perched on. She could have pulled the trigger but knew Martel wanted the German alive.
Hagen's headlong rush was intended to carry him to cover behind the water-mill before either captor could react. It carried him forward as he intended but he stumbled over a protruding outcrop of rock close to the water-mill.
He screamed, hands outstretched to save himself. Claire heard the horrid sound of his skull striking one of the descending metal blades and the scream faded to a gurgle. He lay motionless, head and shoulders in the river. A gush of blood welled, mingling with the peaceful sound of tumbling water.
Claire ran forward, steadied herself on the slope and checked Hagen's neck pulse as Martel came up behind her. Standing up she looked at the Englishman, shaking her head.
'He's dead. What do we do now?'
`Get him back to civilisation and contact Stoller or Dorner at once. I have to find a safe phone to call Tweed.'
They reached police headquarters in Lindau with the body concealed in the back of the car under Martel's raincoat. Dorner gave them the news without preamble.
`Erich Stoller left a message strictly for your ears – he flew to Paris for a security conference. 1 will make arrangements about Hagen – Stoller will want him sent by special ambulance to a morgue in Munich. As to making a phone call to London which can't be intercepted, the answer is the Post Office…'
Dorner drove them there himself. They were closing the doors when the German gently pushed them open and escorted his two companions inside.
A few words from Dorner persuaded the switchboard operator to call the London number. Martel first tried the Maida Vale flat and was relieved when he heard Tweed's voice which sounded weary. The voice changed pitch when Tweed realised who was calling. He activated the recording machine, rushed through the identification procedure and spoke before Martel could say any more.
`Operation Crocodile, Keith. You're standing in the middle of it. Look at a map of southern Germany through half-closed eyes – concentrate on the shape of Lake Konstanz. The damned thing is just like a crocodile- jaws open to the west with the two inlets, Uberlingersee and Untersee
'That confirms my data – something is scheduled to happen in Bavaria. Reinhard Dietrich's nephew, Werner Hagen, talked before he left us permanently…
Crouched over the table in his flat Tweed gripped the receiver more tightly. Events were piling on top of each other – always the most delicate and dangerous phase in an operation. He listened as Martel continued.
'One of the four VIP's aboard the Summit Express is scheduled for assassination on the train. Do you read me
'Of course I do.' Tweed's voice and manner had never been calmer. `Give them numbers – starting geographically from west to east. Which number is the target…'
'Informant didn't know…'
'At least we're alerted. Aboard the train – I've got that. Identity of assassin?'
The question Martel was dreading. Would Tweed think he had gone off his rocker? He took a deep breath, thankful that Dorner had stayed with the switchboard operator so no one could overhear this call.
`I'm convinced – and so is my colleague that this next bit of information provided by Hagen is genuine. You have to trust my judgement…'
'Get on with it, man…'
'The killer is one of the four security chiefs who will be guarding the VIP's. And, before you ask, not a damned clue as to who is the rotten apple. I'd better get off the line, hadn't I?'
'1 consider that a sensible suggestion…'
Tweed had the devil of a time, almost the worst few hours he could remember. He found a cab quickly to take him to Park
Crescent, but then his problems were only beginning. That supercilious careerist, Howard, had flown to the security meeting in Paris without telling anyone where the conference was being held. Supercilious careerist? It suddenly occurred to him that Howard was one of the four prime suspects…
Never averse to using unorthodox methods, Tweed was careful to follow protocol on this occasion. He knew Sir Henry Crawford, the British Ambassador in Paris, but his first move was to call a friend at the Foreign Office.
'I have spoken to Sir William Crawford,' he announced when he was seated in an uncomfortable armchair. This statement formed a bridge between the Ambassador in Paris and his contact – across which the contact was compelled to walk.
'What is the message?' the other man in the room enquired.
'It was agreed I should present that in isolation to the cipher clerk on duty. I hope you don't mind?'
Tweed was at his meekest, most concerned with not offending the august institution inside whose portals he had been privileged to enter. This was unusual – for someone outside the Foreign Office to use its private code. Tweed employed the weapon of silence, adjusting his glasses while the other decided whether he could see any way out. He couldn't.
'Come with me,' he said, a chilly note infusing his tone.
Ten minutes later the signal was on its way to Paris. Other than Tweed, the only person who knew its contents was the cipher clerk. He would reveal it to no one. Tweed sighed with relief as he hailed yet another cab in Whitehall, gave the Park Crescent address and sank back into the seat.
Low cunning had won the day. The Ambassador himself would know the contents – should any witness ever be needed that the signal had been sent. And the Ambassador was personally delivering the message to Howard in the conference room. That would force Howard to read out the warning to the other three security chiefs.
'I wish I could be there to study their faces when that message is read out,' Tweed reflected as the cab proceeded up Charing Cross Road. 'One of those four men will be shaken to the core.
