by Colin Forbes
'No. From what I've heard of Gavin, a married man, no less, he'll ask you for your home phone number. I'm going now.'
Lord Barford was sitting in his study in the manor. From the windows he could see the sweep of the rolling Downs, the sun reflecting off a quarry face. He had unlocked a drawer in his desk and was studying a ticket he had bought at Heathrow the previous evening. Yet another journey into Europe loomed. He shoved it quickly inside a large leather wallet as his younger son, Aubrey, came in. 'Well, Pater, I was early to meet you at Heathrow last night,' Aubrey remarked as he sat down and languidly crossed his legs.
'What's that red mark round your forehead?' Barford growled. 'You haven't been tearing around on that motorcycle with a filly on the pillion, I hope.'
'Given up the old motorbike. That red mark is a riding cap I wore which was too small for me.'
'So you say. How can I believe one bloody word you say? Incidentally, I'm off again on business tomorrow. An early start. Not sure how long I'll be away.'
'Can I drive you up to Heathrow, Pater?'
'No. The chopper will get me there.' Barford made sure the drawer containing the leather wallet was locked. 'I'm off to bathe . . .'
When Lord Barford had gone, Aubrey began poking round the study. For the second time he picked up the French newspaper which had arrived a week ago. His father had several foreign papers delivered to him by air mail.
Settling himself comfortably, after raiding his father's cocktail cabinet and helping himself to a double Scotch, he reread the item. It reported the return of Louis Lospin to Paris after conferring with the police in Corsica about the bandit problem on the island.
Inside the control room of his house, Eagle's Nest, below the quarry on the Downs, Rondel pressed the lever that elevated the apparatus up the chimney-like tower. Then he went outside into the warm night and watched and listened.
The device rose smoothly, noiselessly appeared out of the chimney's mouth, continued to rise until its targeting apparatus focused above the rim of the Downs. Satisfied, Rondel returned to the control room, pressed another lever which withdrew the system down and inside the chimney.
'Is you ready for dinner, sir?' Mrs Grimwood asked when he walked into the spacious dining room. 'Cook has roasted a nice chicken for you. She left you to choose the wine, as usual.'
'Good. I shall be going abroad tomorrow. May be absent for quite a while. Phone you when I'm returning.'
'My. You do travel, sir. I'd be tired out if I had to travel as much as you do. All those trips by airplane.'
'That's modern business. And I think I'm ready for a meal.'
When he was away Mrs Grimwood often used one of his older cars in the evening to drive to a pub in Alfriston. She loved the gossip. 'Was it true Mildred was expectin'? And 'er not married . . .'
There were times when a friend would ask her where Rondel had gone to this time. Always seemed to be gallivantin' off, the friend would comment hopefully. Then Mrs Grimwood, after taking another sip at her strong gin, would look mysterious.
'Now, Elsie, you know I can't talk about me employer. Not right 'an 'e 'as secrets. Mum's the word.'
The truth was that Mrs Grimwood hadn't an idea on earth where Rondel disappeared to.
CHAPTER 14
The junior civil servant seated behind his desk in the entrance hall of the Ministry of Armaments stared stiffly at Tweed. His attitude suggested some sacred protocol had been abused.
'The Minister cannot possibly see anyone who has not made an appointment.'
'Tell him my name. He will see me.'
'I have to tell you that is impossible. Without an—'
'Look at this.' Tweed produced his SIS folder, opened and closed it before it was possible to see what was inside. 'Now, if you want to keep your job, stop wasting my time and get on with it. You will find yourself in a most difficult position if I report your obstruction.'
Tweed's manner was autocratic, a pose he rarely adopted. He did, however, know how to deal with government officials full of their own self-importance. He twirled the rolled umbrella he rarely carried. His whole aura suggested someone who was a high-ranking member of the Establishment.
I'll see what I can do,' the arrogant young man said, getting up slowly from behind his desk. 'Tweed, you said the name was?'
'Didn't you hear me the first time?' Tweed snapped.
Thoroughly cowed now and uneasy, the young man hurried up the large staircase Tweed had mounted on his earlier visit. When he glanced down from the first floor, Tweed was making a ceremony of checking his watch.
A minute later, Tweed was ushered into the Minister's large office. He came forward from behind his massive desk, hand extended.
'My dear Tweed, how good to see you. Do sit down. Coffee - or something stronger?'
'No, thank you, Gavin.'
'You're here, I'm sure,' Thunder said, sitting on a couch facing his visitor, 'to tell me whether you're still investigating the case of the unfortunate Jeremy Mordaunt. I know you asked Superintendent Buchanan to attend the coroner's inquest.'
'I was called away on a very urgent matter.'
Thunder was in his most amiable mood. He had a habit of stroking people he wished to use, stroking them verbally.
'Of course. You have so much responsibility. As you wanted, Buchanan asked for - and obtained - an adjournment, pending further investigation. Or have you now decided it was suicide and therefore the case is closed?'
'No. And it wasn't suicide. It was murder.' Was it Tweed's imagination or had he detected a flicker of disappointment in Thunder's large dark eyes? 'In fact,' he continued, 'I suspect Mordaunt's murder was part of a far larger picture which may well have international implications.'
'International?' Thunder's long foxy face went blank. 'How do you make that out?'
'Because the same man who killed Mordaunt had earlier murdered Jason Schulz in Washington. Now we hear Louis Lospin has been assassinated in Paris.'
'I see.' Thunder took out a gold cigarette case, lit a menthol. 'This is so startling I can hardly believe it.'
'You'd better,' Tweed went on relentlessly. 'Exactly the same modus operandi was used in all the murders.
I won't bore you with the details. Take my word for it.'
'Of course, if you say so.'
There was a long pause. Then Tweed continued.
'Furthermore, another strange matter I'm investigating has led me to think it could be linked with the three murders.'
'And . . . ?' Thunder reached for a crystal ashtray, stubbed out his cigarette. '. . . Can you give me a hint of what you referred to as another strange matter?'
'Only when I have solved the whole mystery. Then I will be able to give you a full report.'
'I see . . .' The gold case appeared again, another menthol was lit. 'Have you any idea when that will be?'
'You never can tell. But I expect you'll be here if it is solved quickly.'
'I could be away.' Thunder was choosing his words carefully. 'Not for more than a week, I expect. A visit to a country interested in negotiating a big arms deal with us. A lot of money could be at stake for Britain. If that happened I'd call you when I got back.'
He was stubbing out his second cigarette, hardly smoked, as though the interview was nearing its conclusion.
'Are you prepared for the second - and much more dangerous - outbreak of riots?' Tweed asked suddenly.
Thunder's right hand went towards the pocket containing the gold cigarette case. He changed his mind, relaxed, folded both hands behind his neck.
'You really think this is on the cards?'
'Don't you?'
'I was going to tell you, Tweed. When we had those riots weeks and weeks ago I had a small SAS team ready. We did not need to call on their services.' He smiled. 'It was based not five hundred yards from where we're sitting.'
It would be, Tweed thought, so it could protect Downing Street and the Ministries, including your own. He looked at his watch.
> 'I think I should go now. Thank you for your time.' 'And you will keep me informed of your investigationinto what you called another strange matter?' Thunder said as he followed Tweed to the door, opened it for him. 'Only when I have solved a very complex mystery . . .' As Tweed left the building he was satisfied that he had left behind a thoroughly rattled Gavin Thunder.
'Bad news, Tweed. I'm furious.'
The phone call from Roy Buchanan had come through within five minutes of Tweed returning to Park Crescent.
'What is it, Roy?' Tweed enquired. 'You do sound livid.'
'I am. You recall those two thugs who were going to kill Helga Trent's sister, Lisa? Barton and Panko?'
'Yes.'
'Well, they've escaped from custody already and they're on the loose. I had given strict instructions they were to be held in a top-security prison, Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight. Some idiot ignored my orders, sent them to a certain prison in London noted for its insecurity.'
'When did this happen? How did they manage it?'
'Last night. They put a warder in hospital — seriously injured and recovery unlikely. How? The old trick - they smuggled themselves inside the laundry truck just before it was leaving. The driver ran into traffic, had to stop several times, so obviously they left the truck during one of those stops and vanished. I have put out an alert - armed and dangerous.'
'Armed with what, Roy?'
'A knife. They stabbed the warder seventeen times. Some of the thrusts were because they enjoyed it, I suspect.'
'We're leaving the country tomorrow. I'd sooner not say where at the moment. May phone you from abroad,' Tweed suggested.
'Care to tell me how many of you are going?'
'Sooner not, if you don't mind.'
'Secret is the appropriate word for your lot. You take care. Are you still feeling all right?' Buchanan asked.
'Fresh as a daisy.'
'Take good care of Daisy . . .'
No one in Tweed's team who had encountered Delgado would have dreamt of his living conditions. On the fourth floor of one of the old warehouses in Reefers Wharf his living room was expensively furnished with tasteful sofas and armchairs. The old floorboards were covered with a pearl grey wall-to-wall fitted carpet. A large TV set was hidden inside a mahogany cabinet.
His kitchen was equipped with the latest dishwasher, a modern oven and cupboards. A large American fridge stood against one wall. His bedroom was lavishly furnished, as was his bathroom.
And no one in Tweed's team would have easily recognized the giant. Clad in a lightweight suit from Aquascutum, he gave the impression of being a successful businessman. He had visited a barber he had never patronized before, remarking he had just returned from a safari in Africa. Hence his long greasy hair. The barber had transformed his appearance. His hair was now trimmed neat and short.
He had also purchased a rubber-tipped stick and practised stooping when he walked, which made him seem a shorter man. It was the following day when he received the expected phone call from Heathrow at lunchtime.
'Donau here. I can tell you where they're going - flying from Heathrow.'
Donau, the German name for Danube, was the code name Delgado had given him. A short man, thirty years old and frisky in his movements, Donau had watched Park Crescent with a pair of field glasses while he crouched in a shrubbery on the edge of Regent's Park.
Seeing the cars leave before eleven in the morning, with Tweed inside one of them, he had jumped into his car parked nearby at a meter. He had followed them to the long-stay car park at Heathrow.
Carrying his case, which contained nothing but a selection of his clothes, Donau followed Tweed and his team with his frisky walk. Arriving in the concourse, he had bought a ticket to Paris because there were no passengers at the Air France counter. He had told the check-in girl he would carry his small case onto the plane.
Walking more slowly - you always changed your way of walking when tailing a target - he was just in time to see Tweed's team moving through the formalities. It was holiday time so when he held up his passport in the name of Donaldson he was waved through.
His only discomfort was the heat. The sun had glared down on him all the time he'd hidden behind the shrubbery. He was sweating profusely when eventually he followed his target to the departure gate. Hamburg.
He retreated immediately the way he had come. In a toilet cubicle he smeared white chalk over his face. He was trudging when he explained to officials near the exit that he was feeling very ill, had decided to go home. A ghastly stomach upset, but he had eaten lobster which had tasted odd late the previous evening. After checking his suitcase and searching him thoroughly, the officials allowed him to depart, after making a note of data on his passport.
Once outside, he had walked slowly to a phone — in case he was under observation. He had then called Delgado.
'So where the hell are they flying to?' Delgado had snapped.
'Hamburg. I saw them enter the departure lounge.'
'This is good. You do well. Stay there and I arrive. We catch later flight to Hamburg. Moment - I check airline table
Delgado had a collection of international rail and airline timetables. After a few minutes he gave Donau instructions where to wait. Then he called Oscar Vernon. Pink Shirt answered immediately.
'I will come with you,' Oscar said. 'Now I have the time and number of the flight I will phone Heathrow to book three tickets to be kept for collection. The instruction is the same. Kill Lisa, kill Tweed . . .'
'Lisa left clinic. We lose her . . .'
'Where Tweed goes, so does Lisa. We will find them.'
'B and P have made it,' Delgado informed his boss. He was referring to Barton and Panko escaping from prison. 'I tell them go express train Newcastle. From Newcastle ferry go to Hamburg. I give address Hotel Renaissance, Grosse Bleichen.'
Unlike his fractured English, Delgado spoke fluent German. It was a talent he shared with Oscar, but the latter had been careful not to let Delgado know this - he might later hear Delgado say something in German he didn't wish Oscar to understand. Also, the Renaissance was where Oscar would stay when he arrived.
'You have done well,' he said.
'We have no defenders,' Delgado protested.
'Defenders' was the code word they used when phoning each other for weapons.
'I have a friend in Bremen,' Oscar assured him. 'I will phone him, tell him to bring defenders to Hamburg main rail station. Bremen is close to Hamburg. I must go now.'
Oscar did not think it wise to explain that at Bremen, being a port, weapons were smuggled in from arriving freighters. He kept to a minimum vital data passed on to subordinates.
Delgado put down the phone, went into the bathroom, looked at himself in the mirror. He did now look like a successful businessman. Once again he wondered who was the man Oscar took his orders from.
CHAPTER 15
Hamburg.
Tweed and Paula walked out of the Fuhlsbuttl Airport and the heat hit them like walking into a brick wall. The limo from the Four Seasons was waiting for them. The young chauffeur was pleasant, welcoming them with a warm smile. Soon they were well inside the great city and Paula stared out, admiring the stately villas as they drove down Rothenbaum-chaussee.
Despite the fact that it was late June the plane had been more than half empty so they had been able to talk without any fear of being overheard.
'We were followed at Heathrow,' Paula commented. 'Right up to the departure lounge.'
'I know,' Tweed replied. 'A small man carrying a small case. Quite professional. He varied his walk - sometimes bouncing along and then walking slowly. We could have a reception party waiting for us in Hamburg.'
'Have you any idea yet who is behind all this?'
'None at all . . .'
Mark Wendover had wandered down the aisle from behind them and jogged the tray of Tweed, sitting in the aisle seat.
'I'm so sorry, sir,' he apologized.
'That's all right. Been
a smooth flight so far.'
'I spent hours, days at Reefers Wharf watching for Delgado to return - so I could identify where he lived.
He never reappeared. Mentioned this to Harry and he said I should have checked the street at the back of the warehouse. The backs have fire escapes — so he thinks Delgado spotted me and used the fire escape from then on. Enjoy the flight . . .'
They were driving down the Neuer Jungfernstieg when Paula caught her first glimpse of the Binnenalster, the smaller of two lakes in the centre of the city. She glowed with delight and excitement as she gazed at the blue water, rippling and glittering in the sunlight. Single-decker ferries were shuttling back and forth, some heading back for the landing stage at Jungfernstieg.
'We're just about there,' said Tweed.
As they alighted on the pavement in front of the Four Seasons hotel a motorcyclist, who had trailed behind them since they left the airport, sped past and disappeared. Tweed shrugged as they entered the spacious reception hall and they registered.
'It's a long time since we've had the pleasure of seeing you, Mr Tweed,' the receptionist greeted him.
'We both have suites on the third floor,' Tweed told Paula. He lowered his voice. 'Let's take a quick look round. For generations this hotel was run by the same family. It's been taken over by a foreign chain. I just want to see if they've had the sense to preserve its wonderful character.'