The Stone Leopard

by Colin Forbes

  The Austrian security service reacted too slowly. On arrival the Czech couple applied for political asylum and were temporarily housed in an apartment off the Karntnerstrasse, which was a mistake because the apartment had been used before and a security official from the Soviet Embassy watching the apartment saw them arrive. He informed Lansky the moment the Czech reached Vienna.

  How Lansky talked his way inside the apartment was always a mystery, but it was known that he spoke fluent German. In the early evening of Sunday an official from the Austrian state security department arrived at the apartment to interrogate the Czech couple. Getting no reply to his repeated knocking, he called the caretaker who forced the locked door. They found the man and the girl in different rooms, both of them hanging from ropes. A note—scribbled in Czech—explained. 'We could no longer face the future. . . .' From then on inside Czech state security circles Lansky was nicknamed the Rope.

  Antonin Lansky was a thin, wiry man of medium height with a lean, bony face and well-shaped hands. Blond-haired, his most arresting feature was his eyes, large-pupilled eyes which moved with disconcerting slowness. Reserved by nature, he had spoken least during the training session at the racetrack outside Tabor, listening while Carel Vanek, ever ready to express himself on any subject, talked non-stop in the evenings before they went to bed. Even Vanek found the quiet, soft-spoken Lansky hard to understand; if a man won't join you in conversation you can't get a grip on him, bring him under your influence. 'You'll have to prattle on a bit more when we go into Germany,' Vanek told him one evening, 'otherwise you'll stand out like raw egg on a bed sheet. Frenchmen are always prattling. . .'

  `That was not my observation when I was in Paris,' Lansky replied quietly. 'I often sat in bistros where the locals were playing piquet and they hardly spoke a word for hours.'

  When I was in Paris . . . Subtly, Lansky had needled Vanek again. The older Czech disliked being reminded that Lansky had succeeded him in the security detachment with the Czech Embassy in Paris, that Lansky, too, knew something about France. The truth was that Antonin Lansky was deeply ambitious, that he looked forward to the day when he would replace a man like Vanek, whom he thought too volatile for the job of leader.

  It was close to midnight on Tuesday, 14 December, when the Russian trainer, Borisov, burst into the concrete cabin where the three members of the Commando were getting ready for bed.

  Lansky was already in his upper bunk, against the wall, while Vanek and Brunner, who had stayed up talking and smoking, were just starting to disrobe. Borisov came in with his coat covered with snow. For several days snow had been falling heavily east of a line between Berlin and Munich; now it had come to Tabor.

  `You will be leaving for the west within forty-eight hours,' he announced. 'A signal has just arrived—everything is changed. Forget Lasalle—you have three other people on the list now—two in France and one in Germany. . . .' He dropped a sheet of paper on the table which Vanek picked up as Brunner peered over his shoulder. 'And you have to complete the job by the night of 22 December,' he added.

  `It's impossible,' was Brunner's immediate reaction. 'Not enough time for planning. . .'

  `Difficult, yes, but not impossible,' Vanek commented as he took the list of names and addresses over to the wall map. `Strasbourg, Colmar and Freiburg are in roughly the same area—on opposite banks of the Rhine. We already have our different sets of French papers, we all speak French. . . In the background Borisov was watching closely, sure now that he had chosen the right man to lead the Commando: Vanek was adaptable in an emergency. 'I think as we're going into France,' Vanek went on, 'each of us should carry a Surete Nationale card—they have some in Kiev and if they get the lead out of their boots they should be able to fly them here by tomorrow night. And a set of French skeleton keys. Then we could leave on Thursday morning. . .'

  Brunner exploded.

  `That gives no time for planning,' he repeated, 'and only seven days to do the whole job. . .

  `Which means we shall have to move fast and not hang about and that's no bad thing,' Vanek replied quietly. 'It gives us the whole of tomorrow to plan schedules and routes—which I will help you with. . . .' The Czech's normal arrogance and cockiness had disappeared as he continued speaking persuasively, building up an atmosphere of confidence, making the other two men see that it really was possible. Borisov, who had not detected this side of Vanek's character before, congratulated himself again on his choice. Vanek, clearly, was going to rise very high in state security when he added a few more years to his experience.

  `And French ski equipment would be useful,' Vanek added.

  `With the snow in the Bavarian and Austrian alps we can travel as tourists just returning from a brief holiday. . .

  `I'll phone Kiev,' Borisov promised. 'There is one more thing When you are in the west you have to phone a certain number in Paris I have been given in case of further developments. . .

  `We have enough on our plate already,' Brunner grumbled as he reached for a western railway timetable off the shelf.

  `You make one phone call each day,' Borisov continued, `using the name Salicetti.'

  Lansky, who had got down from his bunk, looked at the names and addresses on the list.

  Leon Jouvel. Robert Philip. Dieter Wohl.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  `THIS CORRUPT American Republic where the Dollar is God, where police forces supplement their pensions with bribes, where its leading city, New York, is at the mercy of a dozen different racial gangs . . . where terrorism flourishes like the plague. . .'

  `What does Europe want with a continent like this ? Or should we seal ourselves off from this corrupt and corrupting State with a moral and physical quarantine? Goodbye, America, and may you never return to infest our shores. . .

  Guy Florian made the new speech at Lille, only eight days after his vicious outburst against the Americans at Dijon, and it seemed to his audience that he was stepping up the tempo, `muck-spreading with a bulldozer', as Main Blanc expressed it to Marc Grelle in Paris later that evening.

  The police prefect arrived at his office early in the morning of that day, Wednesday, 15 December, and again called his deputy and told him to lock the door. Two closed suitcases lay on his desk. `Boisseau, it's possible this Leopard business could be very serious, something which might well endanger both our careers if we carry on with it. You should now consider your position very carefully—and remember, you have a family. . .

  `What are your orders ?' Boisseau asked simply.

  `First, to put two top cabinet ministers under close and highly secret surveillance—Roger Danchin and Alain Blanc. Do you still wish to be involved ?'

  Boisseau took out his pipe and clenched it between his teeth without lighting it. 'I'll have to form a special team,' he said, `and I'll spin them a story so they won't get nervous. Is there anything else? Incidentally, this surveillance, I presume, is to see whether either man—Danchin or Blanc—is having contact with a Soviet link ?'

  `Exactly. And yes, there is something else, something rather punishing.' Grelle pointed to the two suitcases. 'Late last night I collected a whole bunch of wartime files from Surete records. You take one case, I'll take the other. Somewhere in those files I think we will find out where both Danchin and Blanc were during the war—because the solution to this Leopard affair lies a long time ago in the past. If either of these men can be positively located during 1944 in an area far from the Lozere—where the Leopard was operating—then we can eliminate him. . .'

  Taking a suitcase back to his own office, Boisseau then set up a secret conference. Certain reliable detectives of the Police Judiciaire were detailed to work in relays, to follow Roger Danchin and Alain Blanc whenever they left their ministries. Boisseau himself briefed the chosen men. 'You work in absolute secrecy, reporting back to me alone. We have reason to believe there may be a plot to kill one of these two ministers. It could be connected with a recent event,' he confided mysteriously.

  'We may have to
prevent another assassination attempt ?' one of the detectives inquired.

  `It goes deeper than that,' Boisseau explained. 'The plot may involve someone close to January or August. . . .' From now on, he had stressed, real names must never be used, so code- names were invented: January for Danchin and August for Blanc. 'So,' Boisseau continued, 'we need a record of everyone these two men meet outside their places of work. One of their so-called friends may be the man—or woman—we are after. . By raid-afternoon the surveillance operation was under way.

  Grelle himself later approved the measures Boisseau had taken.

  `We are,' he remarked wryly, 'in danger of becoming conspirators ourselves, but there is no other way.'

  `Could you not confidentially inform the president of what we are doing—and why ?' Boisseau suggested.

  `And risk going the way of Lasalle ? Surely you have not forgotten that the colonel was dismissed for exceeding his powers ? The trouble is, Florian has so much confidence in his own judgement that he will never believe someone close to him could be a traitor. . .

  Shortly after he made this remark, what later became known in Paris circles as `L'Affaire Lasalle' exploded. Grelle's first warning that a potential disaster was imminent was when Roger Danchin summoned him to a secret meeting at the Ministry of the Interior.

  It was late in the morning of 15 December—the day after Danchin had asked Grelle whether he believed Col Lasalle was in touch with the Americans—when the prefect was called urgently to the Place Beauvau. Grelle was the last to arrive. On either side of a long table sat all the key security officials including, the prefect noted as he entered the room, Commissioner Suchet of counter-intelligence, a man whose methods and personality he intensely disliked. Large and gross, with a plump face where the eyes almost vanished under pouches of fat, Daniel Suchet was a bon vivant who made no bones about it. 'I eat well, drink well and seduce well,' he once confided to Grelle.

  Presiding at the head of the table, Danchin waved the new arrival to a vacant chair. 'Everything said at this meeting is absolutely confidential,' he instructed in his best ministerial manner. 'Not to be discussed with personal assistants unless necessary in the execution of the operation. . .

  `What operation ?' Grelle asked.

  'You are not involved,' Danchin informed him. `Suchet will be in charge. But we need you to give us information about Col Lasalle's daily habits and routines—since you have the link with Hugon.'

  `Minister, why do you need this information ?' Grelle inquired.

  `Just give us the information, please, Mr Prefect. . . .' It was Suchet who intervened, clasping his plump hands on the table and leaning forward aggressively. 'I do not wish to be discourteous, but there is a question of security. The fewer people who are involved—you know what I mean. . .'

  `I have no idea what you mean. Unless I know what you are up to I cannot possibly help—I shall probably leave out a vital piece of information. . .'

  `I'll be the judge of that,' Suchet rapped back.

  `Please, gentlemen,' Danchin interjected. 'We are all here to help one another. . .

  `Thai let him tell me what he is up to,' Grelle repeated. `We have decided to arrest Col Lasalle.'

  There was a silence and, knowing his reputation, every head round the table turned to stare at the prefect. Grelle requested permission to smoke and Danchin, who was already smoking, nodded impatiently. The prefect took his time lighting the cigarette, staring hard at Suchet whose eyes flickered and looked away. 'Is this Commissioner Suchet's mad idea ?' he inquired.

  `No, it is mine,' Danchin said quietly.

  `You are going to kidnap Lasalle. . .'

  "Arrest" was the word he used,' Danchin snapped.

  `You cannot arrest a man on foreign soil,' Grelle said in a monotone. 'You can only kidnap him and drag him over the border by brute force. How can we expect the public to respect the police, to obey the law, when the law itself is acting like the Mafia. . .

  `Careful,' Danchin warned. 'Perhaps you would prefer to withdraw from the meeting. . .

  `Like the Mafia,' Grelle repeated. 'Horrible little thugs in plain-clothes breaking into a man's house at dead of night, grabbing him. . .'

  `Lasalle is a traitor. . .'

  `Lasalle is living in Germany. There would be an international outcry.'

  `We've thought of that. . . Danchin adopted a more conciliatory tone. 'It would be announced that Lasalle had secretly entered France of his own free will, that he had been seen and then arrested on French soil. . .'

  `De Gaulle got away with it with Col Argoud,' Suchet said.

  `It's not good enough!' The prefect's fist crashed down on the table. 'If you insist on going ahead with this bizarre operation I shall inform the president of my objections. . .

  `The president is aware that this meeting is taking place.' Danchin informed him.

  'How close is this operation, Minister ?' Grelle asked. `We may act tomorrow night.'

  `Then I must act now.' Grelle stood up. 'You invited me to withdraw. May I accept your invitation now ?'

  The interview with Florian was tense, so tense that Kassim the Alsatian, feeling the tension between the two men he regarded as his friends, slunk away under a couch. Beyond the tall windows of the president's study snowflakes drifted down into the Elysee garden, snow which melted as it landed. On the desk between the two men a sheet of paper lay with the telephones and the lamp. Grelle's hastily penned letter of resignation. Florian slid the sheet across the desk so it dropped over the edge into the prefect's lap.

  `I won't be involved in this thing if that's what is worrying you,' he stated icily. `Danchin, from what I hear, plans to repeat the Col Argoud abduction technique. Lasalle will be brought from Germany and left a prisoner somewhere in Paris. You will receive a phone call—you will then find Lasalle tied up in a van in a back street. It will be your duty to arrest him.'

  `It is an illegal act, Mr President. . .

  `Neither of us will be directly involved. . .'

  `But both of us will know. President Nixon once tried to play a dubious game—look what happened. . .

  `You are frightened it will not work ?' Florian demanded. `I am frightened it will work. . .'

  Florian's expression changed suddenly. Leaning back in his embroidered chair he steepled his hands and stared hard at Grelle, frowning. The desk lamp was on and against a wall Florian's shadow was distorted and huge. 'I think you're right,' he said quietly. 'I'm too much surrounded by politicians. Shall I tear up that piece of paper or will you ?'

  Within three minutes of Grelle leaving the room, Florian picked up the phone and cancelled the operation.

  Grelle left the Elysee in a stunned frame of mind When he first heard of the plot to kidnap Lasalle he felt sure it was the brainchild of the devious Suchet; then he thought it must be a brainstorm on the part of Roger Danchin. The realization that Guy Florian himself had sanctioned the plan had astounded the prefect. It seemed so alien in character, or had he all along misjudged the president's character? On an impulse, when he had got into his car, he drove in a circle round the high wall which encloses the Elysee garden—following the one-way system—and this brought him back to the rue des Saussaies. Going inside the Surete, he collected two more dusty files from the records department.

  In the German city of Mainz, Alan Lennox was waiting impatiently at the Hotel Central to collect his French papers from Peter Lanz. At eleven in the morning he phoned Lanz at the Frankfurt number the BND chief had given him and the German came on the line immediately. He was apologetic. 'I doubt whether the documents we are talking about will be ready before tomorrow,' he explained. 'If you like to call me again at four this afternoon I may have more news. . .

  `What's keeping the old boy ?'

  `He's a craftsman. He wants the product to be right—and so do you. . .'

  `He's not producing the Mona Lisa. . .'

  `But a portrait which we hope will be equally convincing, Alan, trust me. . .'
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br />   Lanz put down the receiver and pursed his lips. He was unhappy about deceiving the Englishman; he even doubted his success in so doing. He felt sure that Lennox knew the BND had ways of collecting blank French identity cards, which they had, and that probably they possessed a store of such blanks, which they did. The papers made out in the name of Jean Bouvier, reporter, were in fact inside a drawer in Lanz's desk as he spoke to Lennox. What Lanz was waiting for was final approval from the Palais Schaumburg for the Englishman to proceed into France.

  Chancellor Franz Hauser, whom Lanz had seen once before he met Lennox on the previous day, and once since the meeting, was still unsure about the wisdom of probing into the affairs of his most important ally. 'If this Englishman is caught —and talks—we shall be keelhauled by Paris,' Hauser had remarked to Lanz. 'Give me a few hours to think it over—I will take a positive decision tomorrow night. Maybe something will happen to decide me. . .'

  It was in the evening of the night when Franz Hauser took his decision that Guy Florian made his violent onslaught on America in his speech at Lille.

  As they had done on the previous Saturday night, Grelle and Boisseau spent the evening in the prefect's apartment, but this time instead of checking the Leopard's file they were studying the wartime files on Roger Danchin and Alain Blanc. It was close to midnight before they completed their reading.

  `At least we know a little more,' Boisseau suggested.

  `Do we ?' Grelle queried dubiously.

  `Alain Blanc was officially studying at a remote farmhouse in Provence,' Boisseau stated as Grelle poured more black coffee. It had been agreed that Boisseau should concentrate on Blanc. `He was sent there by his father to stop him getting mixed up with the Resistance.'