Rhinoceros

by Colin Forbes

  Then it became a melee as the foreign thugs rushed forward. Marler appeared behind them. Earlier, seconds before they parked, he'd seen an old metal railing sagging away from the pavement, probably hit by a car. His gloved hand had tugged at a rail, twisted it, forced it free. Running up behind the thugs, he stooped, swung the iron rail at the back of the legs of one thug, hitting him behind the knees. The thug screamed, sagged, wriggled on the pavement. Marler administered the same treatment to another thug.

  A ferocious-looking bandit was wielding a vicious machete. He swung it behind him for the blow which would have taken Mark's head off his shoulders. Mark's knuckleduster smashed into his exposed face, broke his nose, a cheekbone. Blood streamed from his face. Mark hadn't finished - he hammered the knuckleduster into his jaw, broke that. Pete Nield had jumped out of the other side of the car, plunged into the gang. Two stood close together for protection, their backs to him. He took a swift, firm hold of them by their hair, jerked them apart, jerked them together, the heads colliding with tremendous force. Both men sank to the pavement.

  Another bandit, holding a knife, had come up behind Newman, was preparing to drive the knife into his back. Marler hoisted his iron bar, brought it down, hitting the elbow of the thug, breaking it. There was a scream of pain, the knife clattered on the pavement. Newman swung round, hit the thug in the face. He staggered back, his right arm limp. Newman followed him, hit him again, then once more. He toppled over backwards.

  The first bandit Marler had dealt with was still screaming, wriggling on the pavement.

  'You're making too much noise, buddy,' Mark told him.

  Stooping, he hit the culprit on the side of his head with the knuckleduster. The wriggling stopped, the bandit lay motionless, silent.

  Newman rubbed his hands together, looked all round. No more. And there was not a single pedestrian in sight. He remembered reading in a magazine in the hotel lounge that an erotic exhibition was being held. One day only. This day. He pictured long crocodile queues waiting for ever to get into the place.

  'Clearance time. Anyone know where they parked the BMWs?'

  'Just round the corner,' Marler said. 'Follow me.*

  'Harry,' Newman called out. 'Gloves. We're fetching the ambulances.'

  Harry held up his hands, covered with latex gloves. He followed Marler and Newman. The cars were parked only a few yards out of sight. And in each they'd left the ignition keys. For a quick getaway, Newman guessed.

  They worked quickly. The moment they had parked the BMWs a few yards behind their own cars, leaving the pavement side doors open, Operation Clearance began. The bodies, all alive but unconscious, were tumbled inside the BMWs without ceremony. The doors were closed. Butler suggested a refinement. Together with Pete, he picked up the sledgehammers that were then used to batter in the windscreens.

  'Job's done,' Newman announced.

  Gazing down from the cafe windows way up in the Turm, Lisa and Paula had watched, fearfully at first, then with astonishment, the scene below.

  'Reefers Wharf was a children's party compared to that,' Lisa commented.

  Tweed had been aiming his binoculars at Fat-Face, Pink Shirt, watching the debacle with his arms folded. As it ended he straightened his jacket, wandered out of sight. It was his expression that intrigued Tweed. Rage? No. Disappointment? No.

  'We'd better get down,' Paula said. 'Newman's waving at us.'

  'We'll go down and away from here as fast we as we can . . .'

  When they arrived back at the hotel, Newman asked the porter to garage their cars. Tweed ran up the steps with Paula close behind him. He had checked his watch. Keith Kent stood in the hall, waiting for them.

  'Welcome, Keith. I'll get the material out of the hotel safe.'

  Then he noticed the man sitting at the back of the hall, facing the staircase up to the security room. The Brig sat erect in his chair, motionless as a graven image, observing their return.

  'I've changed my mind,' he said suddenly. 'We'll go up to my suite . . .'

  Newman had joined them in the elevator and Lisa slipped in just before the doors closed. Kent carried a dispatch case, explained he'd occupied his room a few minutes before seeing Tweed arrive.

  'That chap,' he continued as they walked to the suite, 'by himself in the lounge area. Surely it was Lord Barford?'

  'It was.' Tweed turned to Lisa who said she was going to her room. 'Could I see you in about ten minutes? I'll call you in your room.'

  'Can't wait. . .'

  'She strikes me as excessively intelligent,' Kent remarked inside the suite. 'Quite a personality. Attractive, too.'

  'Keep off the grass,' Newman said amiably, nudging him in the ribs.

  'Lord Barford,' Tweed began.

  'Hold on,' chided Paula. 'What would you like to drink, Keith? The management have put another bottle of champagne in a fresh bucket of ice. Care for a glass?'

  'Nice of you. Just one glass, please.' He accepted Tweed's invitation to sit down, then raised the glass Paula handed him. 'Here's to success to your present enterprised - and damnation to the villains.'

  'Had some of that last bit this morning,' Newman commented.

  'Lord Barford,' Tweed began again. 'Sounded as though you know him.'

  'Know about him,' Kent replied. 'Like me he's a member of a very select organization, the Institute of Corporate Security. Membership confined to twenty at anyone time - and you're vetted first. Can't imagine why they asked me.'

  'Have you talked to Barford? We call him the Brig.'

  'A bit - at meetings of the ICS. He puts up a front as the pukka Brigadier, a purely military type. But there's a lot more to him. He has a vast knowledge of what's going on in the world. Has some very top contacts back home, in Europe and in the States. I've heard he's consulted when there's a major crisis. Travels all over the place.'

  'Shall I pop down and see if the coast's clear?' Newman suggested.

  'If you would, Bob,' Tweed agreed.

  Newman was back in no time. He gave the thumbs-up signal.

  'He's vanished. Probably gone to lunch.'

  'Then I'll be back in a minute . . .'

  'Keith,' Paula said thoughtfully, 'I've just remembered an incident when Tweed and I met Gavin Thunder at a club in Pall Mall. As the meeting ended and we were leaving the library I glanced back. Thunder was collecting his coat and his jacket wasn't fitting him properly. So his right lapel was turned and I could see the inner side. Clasped to it was a metal symbol I thought at first was Greek - but on reflection I don't think it was. It was like a capital letter "E" - but turned the wrong way round . . .'

  'Could you draw it for me?'

  Kent's normal relaxed and easy manner had changed. He had stiffened, was leaning forward. His expression had become very serious, concerned. Newman came closer -he had noticed the transformation in Kent. Paula took a pad, thought for a moment and drew the symbol.

  'My God!' Kent exclaimed. 'He's a member of the Elite Club

  Tweed returned shortly afterwards, holding a large white envelope containing the Kefler papers and the blue leather-bound book Mark had stolen. He was immediately aware of the strange atmosphere. Kent looked shocked. Paula had a puzzled expression. Newman waved his hands, as though to say 'I haven't a clue what's going on.'

  'Something wrong?' Tweed asked quietly, sitting down so he faced Kent. 'You look as though a bomb had dropped on you.'

  'It has. Paula, would you first tell Tweed what you told me?'

  She began with when they were leaving the library of the Pall Mall club. She recalled how she had glanced back at Thunder, what she had seen, that she had forgotten to tell Tweed in her haste to meet the drunken Aubrey at Martino's. She showed Tweed the pad with the symbol she had drawn, quoted Kent's explosive reaction.

  'What does it mean?' Tweed asked Kent. 'What is the Elite Club? Never heard of it.'

  'Few people have,' Kent replied grimly. 'I only heard of it by pure accident when someone had drunk too much -the late
Jeremy Mordaunt.'

  'Like a glass of water, Keith?' Paula suggested. 'They have left a carafe on ice. You've lost your colour.'

  'Yes, please.'

  They waited while Kent sipped water, then drank the whole glass, held it out for a refill.

  'This is terribly dangerous,' he said.

  'Why?' Tweed pressed. 'What is the Elite Club?'

  'A very small club.' Kent's glass trembled as he replaced it on the table. 'I gather it has either four or five members selected from the most powerful men in the world. Men who will stop at nothing to gain whatever they want. Evil men. If they knew what has just been said in this room I'm sure none of us would stay alive for more than twenty-four hours.'

  There was a long silence. Kent waved aside an offer from Paula of more champagne, a curt gesture. He sat with both hands clasped, his fingers moving. Tweed realized they were seeing a Keith Kent they had never seen before. A very frightened man. Tweed spoke quietly.

  'Take your time, Keith.'

  'My only thought now is that I want to wake up tomorrow morning as usual. Alive.'

  Tweed took out a packet of cigarettes. He projected one out of the packet, took from his pocket the jewelled lighter Paula had once given him when he recovered from having a bullet taken out of his chest.

  'I know you rarely smoke, Keith.' he said in the same quiet tone.

  Kent looked up at him. He took the cigarette and Tweed lit it for him. He took a small drag, expelled smoke, looked again at Tweed.

  'You must think me a coward.'

  'Nonsense. Only a fool doesn't fear great danger.'

  'Thanks.' He licked his lips. 'I had no idea that this business involved that lot. Shook me up a bit.' He was speaking more normally now and the colour was coming back into his face. 'I've never told you about them before, Tweed, because there never seemed to be a reason to.'

  'Who are "them"?'

  'No idea. Except obviously Gavin Thunder is one of the group. Mordaunt was really in his cups that night. One remark he did make. The members of the Elite Club are not necessarily Presidents or Prime Ministers. They are the strong men. I quote his exact words. A few minutes later he blacked out. I think he was an alcoholic.'

  'Embarrassing situation for you, Keith,' Tweed remarked.

  'In my world you run into these situations. I called a cab, got him into it with the help of the barman, took him to his flat in Eaton Square. Of course, he couldn't find his key, so as there were lights on inside I rang the bell. A statuesque blonde with the brains of a peanut let us in. Between us we got him into bed, fully clothed. She said she'd undress him later.'

  'Was probably used to doing that,' said Newman.

  'Next thing I knew,' Kent continued, 'the blonde says she feels like some fun and who was I? I said just a friend. What was my name? Morrison, I said and I had to leave to meet a businessman coming in from abroad. Heaved a sigh of relief when I got out of the place.'

  'So that was it?'

  'Not quite,' Kent grimaced. 'Next day phone rings at my office. It's Mordaunt - phoning from a call box. Was my phone secure?'

  'I said yes, it was, and what did he want? He thought he had maybe blacked out the previous night. Couldn't remember a word he'd said. What had he said? I told him the truth - that he'd nattered on trying to get stock market tips out of me. That I'd told him I never touched it and didn't want to know about it. Then he'd collapsed. He seemed relieved, put the phone down suddenly - he was like that.'

  'And how did you first get to know Jeremy Mordaunt originally?'

  'The night before at a party.' Kent smiled. 'A short acquaintance. Fool who introduced me to him called me a financial genius, so he latched on to me. Arranged to see me the following evening at this upmarket bar. A pretty quiet place. I went because at the party he'd told me he was Under-Secretary at the MoA. Thought I might pick up something. Instead, he detonated his bomb.'

  'Ever heard of the Elite Club before then?' Tweed asked.

  'Once. Brief reference to it from an informant I've never trusted. So I dismissed it as hot air. But Mordaunt . . .' Kent shuddered. 'He is — or was - close to the inner circle. I believed him.' He looked at Tweed. 'I'll take those papers now, go back to my room, start working on them.'

  'Here they are.' Tweed handed him the envelope. 'Don't let anyone see the blue book. Not staff. Not anyone. And don't leave this hotel under any circumstances. If the phone rings pick it up, say you're in conference, slam it down.'

  'Don't worry.' Kent stood up. 'And I'll get a safety deposit box for this stuff while I'm downstairs eating.'

  'I'll come with you to your room,' Newman said.

  'You don't have to . . .'

  He didn't sound at all convincing. When he'd taken the envelope perspiration from his hands had stained the outside. He was still shaky.

  'I'm calling Kuhlmann,' Tweed said when they had gone. 'Pink Shirt worried me - the way he reacted to the collapse of his attack at the Turm. You're good at describing people. I may put you on . . .'

  'Morning, Tweed . . .' Kuhlmann's strong voice came down the line. 'I was going to call you. Visited the Turm today? A witness who has a flat nearby watched one hell of a fight in the street just before noon. You wouldn't know anything about that?'

  'Yes. I was in die cafe with Paula. We watched from a mile up. One lot - foreigners - took a beating.'

  'Your people wouldn't have been involved?'

  'What a question, Otto. Now you're on the phone, we did see a strange individual standing clear of it - as though he was the boss. We had binoculars. Paula can describe him better than I would. Here she is . . .'

  Paula spoke for several minutes. Tweed poured himself a glass of water, stared out of the window. The sun streamed in, the lake looked as though it were boiling. The heatwave was intensifying. Paula called to him.

  'He wants to speak to you again.'

  'Here, Otto . . .'

  'That Paula is something else again. She paints a perfect picture of a man. So much so, it struck a chord with me. Oskar Vernon. Oskar with a "k". Very distinctive appearance. Known to us, as we say.'

  'In what way?'

  'Bit of a mystery man. Loads of cash, dresses in an outlandish way, but very expensively. Suspected of being the mastermind behind an international money-laundering operation. Also of smuggling refugees in a big way. We have two million Turks in Germany. Two, I wouldn't mind, but two million . . .'

  'Arrest him.'

  'No chance. No evidence. Works through a chain of men which runs down a long way from him. Powerful, ruthless, smart.'

  'Works on his own?'

  'Don't think so, but could be wrong on that. He travels the world, knows a lot of powerful men. Don't ask me for names. Haven't got any. If I had a photo I would be certain this is Oskar Vernon. Spends a lot of time in Britain and in the States.'

  'Nationality?'

  'Travels on a British passport but I'm damned sure he's not English. Could have come from anywhere.'

  'Otto, I might just be able to get you a photo of him.'

  'That would decide it. Tweed, if you're up against him be very careful. Several agents who tracked him ended up in hospital.'

  'Going back to the Turm. What we saw was a real dogfight. A lot of bodies. Lying on the pavement. Injured, I'd say. I suppose you've got them?' Tweed asked.

  'Like hell I have. By the time we arrived there was blood on the pavement - and nothing else. If you're right about Vemon he'd have foreseen that might happen, would have organized transport to move the evidence fast. Very fast.'

  'He did.'

  'You watch not only your back, but your front and both sides. Don't make one mistake about Oskar. One is all he needs . . .'

  Tweed put the phone down. He relayed everything Kuhlmann had said. Paula looked thoughtful.

  'Could he possibly be Rhinoceros?' she suggested.

  'Go along and see Newman. Explain the situation. If Oskar is still at the Renaissance Harry might get a photo of him. But he'll need
your camera. Then please stay in Newman's room until I call you. I have to interview Lisa,' Tweed said.

  'You'd better be careful with her too. She's clever.'

  'Maybe too clever by half. . .'

  Tweed checked his watch after Paula had left. Lisa was due in two minutes. Sure enough, she arrived on the dot. Tweed asked her to sit down, offered a glass of champagne.

  'Yes, please.' She smiled warmly. 'I won't drink too much. I think there's nothing more disgusting than a woman who is drunk.'

  She wore the same clothes but had put her hair up. Round her forehead she wore a green bandanna, had added lipstick and a touch of mascara. Seated in an armchair, she stretched her bare arms along the sides. Newman would have said she looked very sexy. It was water off a duck's back to Tweed, who was in a grim mood. He sat facing her across a small table.

  'Lisa, there are some questions I have to ask. About your background. That is, if you want to stay with us.'

  'I do...'

  'Where were you educated?'

  'I won a scholarship to Roedean. I did make friends but I found the atmosphere too rarefied. Then later I won another scholarship, this time to Oxford . . .'