Rhinoceros

by Colin Forbes

  'Studying?'

  'Languages. French and German. I was the odd one out - I didn't mix much. I concentrated on work. Too many of the others fooled around. I got a Double First.'

  'Impressive.' Tweed smiled, his manner deliberately becoming more relaxed to gain her confidence. 'When you left Oxford?'

  'Became an air hostess, so I could travel. If you obey the rules, keep to your schedule, you see damn-all. I missed several return flights so I could explore places. New York, Singapore, Paris, here - Hamburg. They put up with my missing flights back for a while because I was good at the job. Then they chucked me out. That covered about two years.'

  'After that?'

  'Went to New York, joined a security agency for a couple of years.'

  'Doing what?'

  'Tailing businessmen suspected of embezzlement. I learned quite a bit about accountancy to do the job properly - studied in my apartment at night.'

  'Did you know Mark Wendover before you met him in London?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'I said, did you know Mark Wendover before you met him at my office in Park Crescent?'

  'No.'

  Tweed was sure that if she'd been attached to a polygraph - a lie detector - the machine's needle would have jumped. For the first time he felt she had told a lie. Nothing in his expression changed. He went on switching the questions' subject matter.

  'What was your father's job?'

  'He was in the Intelligence Corps. Shortly after he was transferred to Cyprus he was shot in the back. My mother flew with him on their way home. The plane crashed and my father was killed. My mother survived, later remarried.'

  'Must have been a terrible shock for you.'

  'Yes.' She paused. 'It was. But by then I was an air hostess, so I was reasonably mature, had been around, had learned to fend off unwanted attentions from men. I carried on with the job for a few months before they threw me out.'

  'Where were you born?' Tweed asked quietly.

  'Place called Pinner in Middlesex. Lived there for a long time. Until I went to Roedean. Address - Shoals Cottage, Orchard Tree Road.'

  Tweed smiled. She had anticipated his next question. He was taking no notes. Writing things down inhibited the subject he was interrogating.

  'You got on well with Helga, your late sister?'

  'I did not. We fought like cat and dog. Since she was older she thought she could boss me about. To be fair, I think it was simply her temperament. My mother had married a German professor in Freiburg, went to live with him there. Don't know why she did that.'

  'So,' Tweed smiled warmly, 'we got through that without a tantrum.'

  'I really am sorry about that. I occasionally get worked up. Usually when I'm tense. But not in an emergency.'

  'And you can handle a Beretta,' he said casually.

  'Well.' She chuckled. 'I don't shoot myself in the foot with it.' She reached for the glass of champagne Tweed had poured for her earlier. 'And I'm familiar with the Walther and the Browning.'

  'Wi'ere did you learn all this?'

  'By chance. Had a boyfriend who was mad keen. He took me to a shooting club in London, showed me what he could do - which was no more than passable. Gave me a Beretta. I scored six bull's-eyes and three inners. He said it was a fluke. We went back the following day. I scored five bull's-eyes and an inner. He said beginner's luck. So I tried again. Six bull's-eyes. We went back to my flat off Ebury Street, had the emperor of a row, which he started. Couldn't stand a girl beating him at anything. End of friendship. Some men are like that.'

  'And now you're working for Rhinoceros?'

  She chuckled again, re-crossed her legs, sipped more of her drink.

  'In an interrogation always save the heavyweight punch for the end.' She stared at him, her eyes fixed on his. 'For your information, Mr Tweed, I've no idea who I'm working for. But the money is good. And I think it's in a worthwhile cause.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'I'm sure there are two powerful forces confronting each other. One good, one very bad. I'm on the side of the angels, as they say.'

  Tweed lit one of his rare cigarettes. This was the first indication that his theory of two opposing forces had been confirmed. He looked at Lisa and she leaned well forward, much closer to him, arms folded, waiting.

  'Ever heard of Rhinoceros?' he eventually asked.

  'Overheard a reference to him, which I wasn't supposed to hear at the time. No idea who he is, where he lives.'

  'How are you instructed? Paid?'

  'A typed note is slipped under my door inside an envelope - it started like that in my flat off Ebury Street in London. At the time given I have to be standing inside a certain phone box. At Waterloo in London, when it was quiet. Here at the main railway station. He uses the name Olaf, speaks slowly, enunciating eve:,y word carefully. Sometimes in German, sometimes in English.'

  'I wonder . . .' Tweed blew a smoke ring. "... how he came to know about you?'

  'No idea. Oxford, Double First in two languages, air hostess, my stint with the security agency in New York. Thought I'd be highly suitable for the job.'

  'And,' Tweed stood up, clapped his hands, 'I'm sure he was right. Thank you for being so patient.'

  She stood up, plumped up the cushion she'd leant back against, walked to the door which he unlocked. She put a hand on his shoulder to make him pause.

  'Now.' She smiled very warmly. 'You have the data to check up on me. I'm going out shopping now. Need some better shoes. You can let me out, sir . . .'

  Tweed stood by the closed door when she had gone. He had almost a dazed look. You have the data to check up on me. Which was exactly what he was going to do.

  Oskar Vernon stood in the ward of the out-of-the-way clinic where he paid the doctor a lot of money to keep his mouth shut. Delgado, clean-shaven, hair smartly trimmed, wearing a good business suit, half-listened as Vernon talked to the doctor.

  Barton sat on the edge of the bed. Delgado had earlier dragged him out of it. He was tenderly feeling a bandage between his legs under his pyjamas. Another bandage swathed his forehead where it had been slammed against the Mercedes. Panko, fully dressed, was trudging slowly down the large ward they occupied. Round his neck was a collar where the karate chop had felled him.

  'I want these men fit by tomorrow morning,' Vernon snapped. 'Fit for anything.'

  ;That asks for a a miracle,' the doctor protested.

  'That's why I pay you all the money I do. For miracles.'

  They were speaking to each other in English. The doctor, a small fat man with greedy eyes, wore a white coat, had a stethoscope dangling over his ample chest. Delgado felt it was time to stir the pot. He went up to Barton.

  'What are you moaning about? Kick in crotch? Nothing. I've had it - killed the man who did it.'

  'My head . . .'

  'Kissed the car. Headache? We all get headache. So start walking, damn you. Now!'

  Barton heaved himself up, took a few steps, stooped, stopped. Delgado grabbed his arm, forced him to walk.

  Panko grinned savagely. He straightened himself up, began pacing round the ward, adjusted his collar.

  'Leave me with them,' Vernon ordered the doctor. 'They're leaving tomorrow. Fit as fiddles.'

  The doctor nodded, took the sheaf of banknotes thrust into his hand, shoved them into a pocket, left the ward with a glum expression.

  'Now!' Vernon said in a savage voice. 'You listen. Listen good. When we can lure Tweed and his team into the country we kill them all. I have ten tough men who came off the ferry from Newcastle.'

  'They walk off?' Delgado asked incredulously. 'They walk off. No trouble? How that?'

  'How you think?' Vernon's thick lips puckered. 'Come ashore as seamen. This time of year ferry full of passengers from Newcastle and a big crew.'

  'Only refugee toughs?'

  'You'll never do what I done.' Vernon lit a cigar despite the 'No Smoking' sign, blew out a cloud. 'They been trained in secret camps - Slovakia. Wh
en we come to kill them, you, Barton and Panko, lead. Attack force in three sections, each of you leading one section.'

  'So how we get them into country?'

  'I'm moving into Hotel Atlantic. You three stay Hotel Renaissance. I visit you. You no come to me.'

  'So how we get Tweed team into country?' Delgado persisted.

  'How?' Vernon's smile was sinister. 'We use Lisa's gambit.'

  CHAPTER 21

  Tweed was alone in his suite. About ten minutes earlier Lisa had left 'to go shopping'. He picked up the phone, rang Mark Wendover's room. No reply, even though he kept on the phone for several minutes - plenty of time for him to get out of a shower. He gave it up.

  Settling himself in his chair, he lit another cigarette. So, Lisa was out 'shopping'. And Mark was not in his room.

  'I wonder,' he said, half aloud.

  He stood up again, took his doodle pad out of a drawer, went back to the phone, called Monica. He phrased his wording carefully, as though 'Trent' had applied for a job and he wanted Monica to check references.

  'I'll get on it right away,' Monica responded. 'Call you back.- .'

  Then he decided he'd go out for a stroll. Walking helped him to think. He had almost reached the landing stage when an Opel, with Pete Nield at the wheel, parked in a slot a woman had just left. Nield hustled after him, drew alongside Tweed.

  'You shouldn't be out on your own. This city is dynamite.'

  'You make me feel like royalty,' Tweed grumbled. 'What have you been up to?'

  'Touring the city, keeping my eyes open for hostile forces. I know Hamburg backwards by now. Could be useful. What's the next move?'

  Tweed was heading towards the Zurcher Kredit Bank. 'I have an appointment for drinks with the Brig at six this evening. At 1800 hours. On the dot.' He had imitated the Brig's manner. Nield grinned. Few people knew that Tweed was a first-rate mimic. 'Then at 8.30 p.m. Paula and Bob are coming with me for dinner with the mysterious Rondel - except we aren't having dinner with him. He's booked a table for us but he's dining at another one with his partner.'

  'Curious idea.' Nield flicked a speck off his smart suit. 'I don't get it.'

  'Neither do I. We'll just have to see.'

  Tweed had paused, was staring up at the nearby Zurcher Kredit Bank. Behind a balustrade on the first floor was a very well concealed camera, covering the front entrance.

  'Mark broke in to that bank at night,' he recalled. 'Opened every security box, may have found gold in one of them - a book of ciphers which may help Keith Kent, ensconced in a room at the Four Seasons — to crack the papers Dr Kefler handed me.'

  'Harry told me about the Kefler murder down at tho docks. I'd have thought Mark took a big risk, breaking in there.'

  'He killed the alarms, blotted out the internal cpmeras. His CIA training must have helped. I'm just hoping that he spotted that camera on the balustrade up there. In daytime it's not easy to spot, but at night . . .'

  They had reached the entrance to a side street, the Grosse Bleichen. Glancing down it, since it led to the Renaissance Hotel, Tweed froze. Instinctively Nield stood very still. Further down the street a single shaft of sunlight illuminated the outside of the hotel. Standing in the sunlight, arms folded, was Oskar Vernon. Paula stood close by.

  He appeared to be gazing up at the building opposite while waiting for something — or somebody. What had caused Tweed to freeze, his nerves to tense, was the scene taking place. Vernon lowered his eyes, watched as a short wide-shouldered man scrabbled in a dustbin. Harry Butler was clad in a shabby jacket, torn denims, a tramp searching for treasure.

  Tweed held his breath. Paula, wearing a straw hat pulled well down, was using a camera to photograph Vernon while Butler attracted his attention. Vernon had only to glance to his left to see her.

  'Paula, you're taking too long. He's bound to turn and see you,' Tweed said to himself.

  He sighed with relief as Paula vanished down an alley. At the same moment a porter came out of the Renaissance as a cab pulled up. Vernon climbed inside, gestured for the porter to give him the bag.

  The next development was the appearance of a well-built man emerging from an arcade, just below the hotel on the opposite side of the street. He too wore a straw hat, wrapround dark glasses. Only the way he walked told Tweed it was Newman - so he'd escorted Paula on her mission as protection.

  Tweed backed away from the corner as the taxi drove slowly towards them, edging its way past parked trucks and cars. Harry shoved an empty cigarette packet retrieved from the bin in his pocket, ambled rapidly up the street towards the landing stage.

  'Pete,' Tweed said urgently, 'could you follow the cab coming up Grosse Bleichen?'

  'Piece of cake . . .'

  Nield streaked across the road where traffic was held up by a red light. He kept running until he was behind the wheel of his Opel. Which was when the cab with Vernon inside emerged, turned left past the landing stage, then right up Neuer Jungfernstieg and past the Four Seasons. Nield performed an illegal U-turn when a small white van drove behind the cab, masking him. Then he followed van and cab.

  Tweed saw all this from inside the department store he had slipped into. He faced the street, appearing to study the window display. Once Nield's car had disappeared he went outside, turned down Grosse Bleichen, just in time to meet Paula hurrying towards him. Behind her Newman followed and Butler had stopped on the far side.

  'You took one hell of a chance,' he chided her.

  'Oh, shut up.' She was triumphant. 'I've got six shots of the bastard. Decided to use the small Polaroid-like camera the boffins at Park Crescent developed. Look at these.'

  Tweed nipped through the six prints she handed him. His eyebrows rose. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek.

  'I expected more,' she said with a grin.

  He leaned forward, kissed her on the other cheek. He gave Newman three of the prints, then gestured to Harry to come over. Butler had removed his disgusting jacket, rolled it up, tucked it under his arm. He now wore a linen jacket and, despite the torn denims, looked reasonably respectable.

  'Harry, there's a police station on the far side of the Rathaus. Not easy to see . . .'

  'I've seen it. While Pete's toured a bigger area in his car I've walked my feet off. Why the police station?'

  'Because I want you to give these to Otto Kuhlmann.' He handed him two prints. Paula fiddled in her shoulder bag, brought out an envelope, took the prints, slipped them inside, wrote 'Otto Kuhlmann' on the outside, gave them back. 'No,' said Tweed, 'you hand them personally to Otto.'

  'Heard you the first time.'

  'You might have difficulty barging past inferiors.'

  'Me?' Harry was indignant. 'You're joking. I'll trample over them . . .'

  Then he was gone, walking very fast towards the Rathaus.

  As the three of them walked back towards the hotel Tweed held Paula's arm, squeezed it.

  'You're brilliant.'

  'I know. But it's nice to be told . . .'

  They had walked slowly along the edge of the Alster. Tweed talked fast, bringing them up to speed on his interrogation of Lisa, then his phone call to Monica.

  'I just wonder about Lisa,' he ruminated as they neared the hotel. 'Going out shopping . . .'

  'I suppose she's allowed to do that,' Paula said indignantly.

  'You remember I've just told you the one factor where I felt sure she was lying? When I asked her if she knew Mark before she came to us? Well, after she'd gone out I called Mark for about five minutes. He wasn't there.'

  'Oh, I see. Casts a doubt over her. Can't we trust anyone? No. You warned us earlier. We can only trust the team. I told Bob about Oskar Vernon, what Kuhlmann said.'

  'So now,' Newman remarked as they reached the hotel steps, 'Pink Shirt becomes Oskar Vernon. Which spells "Danger" - with a capital "D".'

  At the top of the steps the Brig appeared, obviously on his way to the coffee lounge.

  '1800 hours,' Tweed called out. 'On t
he dot.'

  The Brig paused, glared, opened his mouth, closed it again, as though uncertain how to reply to this sally. He nodded, proceeded towards the lounge.

  'So whose side is he on?' Newman mused.

  'No idea. Yet.'

  The phone was ringing when they entered Tweed's suite. He grabbed hold of it.

  'Otto here. Want to say a thousand thanks for the pics -the first we've ever had of him.'

  'Thank Paula sometime. She took them under risky circumstances.'

  'Give her my love . . .'

  'Oh, there's one other thing,' Newman reported. 'When I took Kent along to his room he glanced at the papers and the blue book. Said it could take up to a week to sort out the financial position - and that the book would be a great help.'

  Paula poured three glasses of water from a fresh carafe that had been put in the suite. She sat down, drank the whole of her glass.

  'This heat is getting ferocious. The forecast says it will continue, but get hotter. I'm off to my room in a minute for a shower.'

  'So what is the next move?' Newman enquired.

  'I think I can read Oskar Vernon now,' said Tweed, pacing between the balcony and his desk. 'I got a good look at his face when we were up in the Turm. Saw his reaction to his men being bashed about. I think he'll try and get us well outside the city to wipe us out.'