by Colin Forbes
'Bregenz? Then I was right. But we need proof. Where will he board the express?'
'At Munich – he was flying back this morning. I just hope that he makes it…'
– 'He has to make it. The target is Langer. The attempt will be made at Munich. There is a thirteen-minute stop. Langer insists on making a speech outside the Hauptbahnhof – in front of a vast crowd. The assassin has to be identified and exposed before Langer mounts that podium…'
'Which means Martel must be on the platform and ready to board the express instantly…'
'I don't like the split-second timing,' Tweed confessed. 'And now I must go…' He tapped the plastic box, explaining how the device worked. 'Don't forget The Wailer. You see anything wrong, you press the button…'
Alone again in the compartment, Claire was beset with anxiety. What could she possibly hope to see that was wrong?
'For Christ's sake, move faster! I've paid you enough,' Martel rapped at the cab-driver. 'Use the side-streets…'
'The traffic – the one-way system…'
The driver lifted both hands briefly off the wheel to indicate his own frustration. Munich was jammed with cars. People on foot were streaming towards the Hauptbahnhof to hear Langer's speech. And Christine Brack was now safely ensconced in the Hotel Clausen.
They passed the river Isar where it debouched into an intricate system of sluices. Martel remembered the rendezvous a man called Stahl never kept at the Embroidery Museum in St. Gallen. Stoller had later told him of the body found trapped in one of the sluices, a body whose only identification had been a wrist-watch engraved with the word Stahl. Then the memory was gone.
Martel contemplated getting out and running the rest of the way. Then he saw they were passing the Four Seasons Hotel. Too far yet. He would never make swift progress through this mob of Langer supporters.
He checked his watch again in an obvious gesture which the driver saw in his rear-view mirror. It was 9.23 am. The Summit Express was due to arrive at the station in exactly ten minutes' time. The turmoil following the Chancellor's assassination would be appalling. It could easily sway the election into Tofler's hands.
Like Tweed, Martel had worked out that the target was the German leader. And now he knew the identity of the assassin – but only he could confront the killer and prove his identity. He stared in the rear-view mirror and met the driver's eyes.
'Here I can try a side-street,' the man said. 'It could save a few minutes…'
A few minutes. They could make all the difference to the future of western Europe – of the whole of the West.
Manfred's nylon-clad hand lifted the receiver the moment the instrument began ringing. He was aware he was gripping the receiver tightly. His packed case stood by the apartment door.
'Ewald Portz speaking,' a voice said. 'I am in position…'
'Watch your timing – it must be perfect…'
'We have gone over it a score of times,' Portz snapped. 'Then just remember – this is not a rehearsal…'
In a phone booth at Munich Hauptbahnhof Portz, a short, stocky man in his thirties, glared at the phone he was still holding. The line had gone dead. The bastard had rung off.
Inside the apartment Manfred picked up his case and kept on his gloves while he opened the outer door, closed and locked it. Only then did he remove the gloves and stuff them in his pocket. The main thing was that Portz – the decoy – was ready and in position. Armed with a pistol loaded with blanks he had to aim and fire at the Chancellor at the same moment as the real assassin. Then he would run like hell in the confusion, making himself prominent as he disappeared inside the U-Bahn.
This tactic should divert attention from the real assassin who, once he had done the job, would make his way to the adjoining Starnberger Hof, the station for trains to the mountains. Then he would travel only a few stops before he left the train, was met by a waiting car and driven to a nearby airstrip.
Getting behind the wheel of his car parked at the kerb, Manfred adjusted his spectacles and drove off to the underground garage for his final meeting with Reinhard Dietrich.
It was hopeless. The traffic was getting worse the nearer they came to the Hauptbahnhof. Martel rapped on the window, gesturing to the driver to stop. He had the money for the fare- in addition to the earlier tip – ready in his hand as he leapt out.
`You will catch your train?' the driver enquired..
`This is the one train in the world I have to catch…'
Martel disappeared and the driver shook his head. What a statement. The English, they were all mad. Perhaps that was why they had won the war?
Martel barged his way through the crowd, elbowing aside men who shouted after him as he plunged on through the milling mob. He could see the Hauptbahnhof now. It was 9.31 am. Only two more minutes before the Summit Express arrived – before the Chancellor, noted for his briskness, left the train and made his way to the specially-constructed podium Martel could see. He forced a path round the edge of the jostling mass.
Reaching the road in front of the Hauptbahnhof he encountered a fresh problem but he was ready for it. In his left band he held the special pass which allowed him to board the express. The new problem was police guards who held back the crowd. He shouted at the top of his voice.
'Polizei! Make way! Polizei…!'
`Stop…!'
A uniformed policeman drew his Walther from his holster as Martel dashed past him and across the open space. He zigzagged, risking a bullet in the back. The voice called out with greater urgency.
'Halt or I fire…!'
Only at this critical juncture did he have some luck. He recognised a man in civilian clothes as one of Stoller's aides – and the aide recognised Martel. He raised a bullhorn and bellowed the order to the policeman.
'Hold your fire! Let this man through…!'
Martel dashed past him and the station entrance was ahead with more sightseers behind a cordon of police waiting for a glimpse of the Chancellor. Beyond he saw the locomotive of the express just stopping. He ran on…
As the express slowed to a halt Klara Beck was walking through the corridor towards the exit, carrying her tartan-covered suitcase. She did not even glance into Claire Hofer's compartment. Something about the way she moved made Claire study the woman.
Lindau! Claire had seen Beck arrive in the reception hall of the Bayerischer Hof. From the elevated terrace above the harbour she had observed Beck walking rapidly towards the Hauptbahnhof. Klara Beck!
Claire stood up, grabbed The Wailer and left the compartment, following the woman in the trouser suit. When she reached the exit the door was open and Beck stepped down on to the platform.
Half-way along the coach Beck paused, stood the case on the platform, twisted the handle through a one hundred and eighty degree arc and walked on, leaving the case. Alain Flandres had descended from the restaurant car and glanced quickly round as though looking for something suspicious. Then he walked swiftly through the ticket barrier to the side of the station. Chancellor Langer had left the train and waved a hand, acknowledging the crescendo of cheering.
Claire dropped The Wailer on the platform and pressed the button. She nearly jumped out of her shoes as a hellish wailing sound like a police siren blasted out, its high pitch penetrating the cheers. Langer paused uncertainly. Stoller appeared beside him, a gun in his hand, followed by O'Meara. Beck glanced back and recognised Claire.
There was a searing flash of light as the magnesium flares packed inside the paper-thin walls of the tartan-covered case exploded. It was the five-second moment of distraction the assassin was waiting for. Ewald Portz raised his pistol and began firing the blank shots. Martel appeared behind him, the Colt. 45 in his hand. He gripped the butt with both hands and elevated the muzzle.
At the side of the station Alain Flandres aimed his Luger equipped with a silencer point-blank at Langer. Martel swivelled his weapon and snapped off three rapid shots. The bullets missed the Frenchman but ricochetted all round him. He ran f
or the entrance to the Starnberger Hof station and disappeared.
Klara Beck was on the verge of pulling the trigger of her pistol pointed at Claire when Stoller fired once. Beck stooped forward, the pistol falling from her hand, and sagged to the ground.
O'Meara had produced his. 38 Smith amp; Wesson and took deliberate aim at Portz..After firing his blanks the German was fleeing towards the U-Bahn. The American's bullets slammed into his back and he sprawled on the concrete, leaving behind a smear of red as he lay inert.
As Alain Flandres ran on to the platform a train was just leaving the Starnberger Hof. The timing had been vital. He grabbed a door-handle and heaved it open. A train guard shouted at him as Martel came round the corner. Flandres had heaved himself up on to the step and was about to hurl himself inside the compartment. Martel fired twice and both bullets rammed into the target's back.
The train was gathering speed as he hovered, half-inside the compartment and half on the step. He stayed poised like a figure frozen in a tableau. Then his body jack-knifed, toppled backwards into space and hit the platform like a sack of cement. He was dead when Martel reached him.
CHAPTER 30
Wednesday June 3
`The Soviets – using East Germans as proxies – replaced a young French lieutenant in the Army of Occupation in Bregenz with their own man thirty years ago,' Martel said and accepted a cigarette from the German Chancellor who sat opposite him in the restaurant car of the Summit Express.
The train had left Munich and was heading east for Salzburg and Vienna. Martel was not in the least embarrassed by his audience which included his own Prime Minister, the American and French Presidents, together with Tweed, Stoller, O'Meara and Howard. He just felt unutterably weary.
'How did they manage that deception?' Langer asked.
'By a process of elimination, I assume. Everyone has a double. I happen to know you have your own for security reasons – and never use him. They had a man – my guess would be an Armenian – and he looked very much like the real Alain Flandres. They undoubtedly scoured the French forces in the Vorarlberg, the Tyrol and Vienna searching for their double. Poor Alain was made to order.'
`In what way?' Langer pressed. 'And drink some more cognac…'
'The real Flandres was an orphan. No one back in France knew him well. He was being demobilised and planned to join the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire – an outfit where everyone would be a stranger. Damn it, Chancellor – if you don't mind my recalling the episode – Chancellor Willy Brandt was compelled to resign when his chief aide, Guenter Guillaume, turned out to he a KGB agent. An even more difficult plant than Alain Flandres.'
'You're right,' Langer agreed. 'And I an most grateful that you saved my life. But how did you detect Flandres?'
'It's a tragic story. We had a previous agent, Charles Warner, who was murdered. In his notebook was an intriguing reference to Bregenz. I showed Warner's photo round the town and that led me to a cemetery – to a grave still visited by the woman who married the real Flandres just before he was murdered…'
'She knew about the impersonation?' Langer queried.
'The East Germans fooled her, kidded her up with a story so her dead husband was buried under another name. They had to do that if the fake Alain Flandres was going back to France to infiltrate the security services
'We were not very clever,' interjected the French President.
'Every security outfit has been penetrated at some time -even the KGB overlooked Col. Oleg Penkovsky. We worked on a process of elimination…'
'What exactly do you mean by that?' Howard demanded. let Mr Martel continue,' the PM reprimanded Howard sharply.
'It looked like O'Meara at one time,' Martel said, staring at the American. 'When Tweed visited Clint Loomis to check up your background Loomis ended up dead…'
'Hell, I'm not taking that…'
'You are taking that – and whatever else comes,' the President of the U.S. told him mildly.
'As I was saying, Loomis ended up dead. But that was to point us in the wrong direction – Manfred's doing, we suspected. Plus a missing two months when you were in West Berlin and absent from your base.' Martel tactfully omitted to mention, that
O'Meara had spent time with the now-deceased Klara Beck.
'You, sir,' Martel switched his gaze to Howard, 'posed a problem. While attached to the Paris Embassy you spent six weeks' leave in Vienna. You've made no mention of this fact since this operation started – even though Vienna is our destination.'
'Purely personal reasons,' Howard responded stiffly and lapsed into silence.
'Then there was Erich Stoller.' Martel glanced at Tweed. 'You might like to go on…'
'Erich was the obvious suspect,' Tweed began briskly. 'He had spent two years underground inside East Germany. Plenty of time for him to be trained by the state security people in Leipzig or East Berlin. Too obvious. Had he gone over to the other side, after a year or so they'd have faked an imminent exposure which made him dash back across the border. That would have built up a nice credit balance of trust. The fact he was there two years proved he was just damned good at his job.'
'So we came to Main Flandres,' Martel explained. 'Likeable, lively Alain who seemed above suspicion. Until it occurred to us that his early background was the vaguest of all four security chiefs. And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to snatch a little sleep. I'm getting off at Salzburg…'
'I shall also get off there,' said Tweed.
'Well,' Howard broke in boisterously. 'I think you can safely leave security for the rest of the journey in our hands…'
'Now that they have located the assassin,' the PM interjected cuttingly.
Manfred received his first warning when he drove into the underground garage to keep his rendezvous with Reinhard Dietrich. To his surprise he saw Dietrich's Mercedes had already arrived – although it was strictly understood that Manfred would be there first.
He checked his watch. No, he was not late – Dietrich was early. In the deserted cavern Manfred swung his car in a semi-circle and backed rapidly to position his vehicle alongside the six-seater Mercedes. He used one hand on the wheel while the other opened the automatic window and then grasped from the seat beside him a Luger with the silencer screwed on the barrel. When he switched off his motor he realised Dietrich had kept his own engine ticking over.
'You are early,' he called out. 'Another mistake – I trust you do appreciate the whole manoeuvre has failed?'
'Entirely due to you,' the millionaire replied.
Dietrich was sitting in the automatic car with the gear in drive, the hand-brake off – and only his pressure on the foot-brake preventing the ear moving forward. The front passenger window was open, his right hand gripped a Walther pistol, his left hand a metallic sphere, and the passenger door was not closed.
Your meaning?' Manfred asked quietly. 'Because Langer was not assassinated his party will win?'
'That, of course. But it is not pleasant to grasp that I have been tricked from the beginning. You supplied the arms to Delta, I told you every time the location of the dumps. You, alone – and myself – had this information. Stoller must have been delighted as you relayed the locations to him. You are a bloody Bolshevik…'
Both men reacted at almost the same moment. Manfred raised the Luger and fired twice. Phut-phut. Dietrich had used his right foot to kick the door open wide as he leant forward and aimed the Walther. He was too late.
Manfred's bullets thumped into his chest and he slumped sideways over the passenger seat. His hand holding the large sphere lost its grip and, unseen by Manfred, the 'rolling' bomb thumped on to the concrete floor and disappeared beneath Manfred's car.
The new device designed by Dietrich's boffins in the secret research section of his Stuttgart factory was like a massive grenade. The button Dietrich had been holding depressed was released, the device activated and timed to detonate in five seconds. Dietrich's foot slipped from the foot-brake and the Mercedes glided
forward.
Manfred turned on the ignition at the very moment the rolling bomb exploded with tremendous power. Compressed between concrete floor and chassis, the blast soared upwards and elevated the car. The sound was deafening, the ruination total. Afterwards they were never able to find enough of Manfred to make any kind of identification possible. He was literally blown to pieces.
The three of them – Martel, Tweed and Claire Hofer- stood on the platform at Salzburg Hauptbahnhof watching the end of the rear coach grow smaller as the Summit Express headed on the last lap for Vienna.
'I'm flying back home,' Tweed announced. 'I shan't expect you for three weeks, Keith.' He glanced at Claire. 'I expect I can keep Howard at bay until you return
They watched the compact figure of Tweed striding briskly away, his shoulders erect, looking from side to side, still observing all that was going on around him. Martel turned to Claire who spoke first.
'He'd make a marvellous chief of your SIS. He's so amazingly cool under pressure. When he came to give me The Wailer just before the train reached Munich the tension must have been terrific. You would have thought he was on holiday.'
'Talking about holidays, you're going back to Berne to report?'
'Yes…'
'On the other hand there's no rush, surely? I'm going to pick up Christine Brack from the Hotel Clausen to take her back to Bregenz. I want her to know the man who impersonated her husband is dead – psychologically it may close a long, painful chapter in her life. Bregenz is on the way back to St. Gallen. Didn't you find the Metropol a comfortable hotel?'
'I think I'm going to find it even more comfortable this time,' she replied, linking her arm inside his.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-48bbbb-79b1-4b4a-a399-26cf-2456-6414fe
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 04.09.2011
Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
