Rhinoceros tac-18

by Colin Forbes

  Chesil Beach was a quite unique phenomenon. Instead of sand, six miles or more of a great bank of pebbles extended from Weymouth westward. Marler knew the area, knew that near Weymouth the 'pebbles' were almost the size of small boulders, gradually diminishing in size as the bank stretched to the west where eventually they were truly pebbles in size. He also knew that fishermen, coming ashore in a fog, could tell where they were by checking the size of the pebbles.

  It had been night for several hours and outside the air was a bitter cold. He was far enough back and above Chesil to keep his heater on. He had eaten sandwiches purchased from a roadside cafe on his way down from London, and occasionally drunk mineral water from a litre bottle.

  Marler, the most deadly marksman in Western Europe, was blessed with an infinite patience. It was ten o'clock, very dark, when he saw something blazing out at sea, east of Weymouth. He focused his glasses, saw a small fishing boat on fire. No sign of a crew.

  'The decoy,' he said to himself. 'To keep coastguards away from this area. They're coming and someone is well organized.'

  A few minutes later he swore. He had just spotted a launch, a large vessel, packed to the gunwales with men, heading for the end of Chesil Beach near what was known as the Swannery. Then he saw the fog rolling in from the sea, blotting out the launch. He waited.

  A few minutes later an old tourist-type bus, what his father would have called a charabanc, appeared from the direction of Bridport. It stopped, performed a two-point turn until it faced the way it had come. The vehicle was then parked near a point where Marler estimated the launch would beach. It carried the legend Topsy Tours. The fog swallowed up the bus.

  Marler lowered his window, put his hand out. A few minutes later he felt a breeze. He closed the window, sat up erect, holding his glasses. The fog swirled, evaporated. The bus came back into view, so did the large launch as its bow hit Chesil. He focused on it.

  A big man clad in waders, an oilskin, a sou'wester hat came ashore, bent down, picked up a pebble with one hand. In the other he was holding something Marler couldn't identify. Then the big man climbed the steep bank, saw the bus. He returned to the launch, lifted a megaphone to his mouth, called out instructions in as quiet a voice as possible.

  Marler couldn't hear what he said but he could see the big man helping to unload his cargo, grabbing men by the arm, shoving them up the bank towards the bus. Marler studied their strange faces, agreed with his contact that this was a right bunch of villains.

  Most looked foreign, out of the Balkans. What impressed – and worried – Marler was the military way they filed one behind the other up to the bus, carrying floppy bags. He took out his mobile, pressed the numbers of the police HQ in Dorchester, numbers he'd earlier memorized from a directory in an isolated phone box.

  'Police 'ere,' a bored voice said.

  'I'm reporting that a gang of illegal refugees are being smuggled ashore at the Swannery end of Chesil Beach. Send patrol cars…'

  'Might I have your particulars, sir?' the bored voice asked.

  'You'll lose them if you don't move fast. Put me on to a senior officer now.'

  'Hold on a minute, sir. Maybe the sergeant will have a word…'

  'You'll lose them,' Marler fumed, but there was no one on the line.

  He waited, watching a whole column leaving the launch, climbing aboard the bus. He counted twenty men. Once aboard their transport, the bus moved off towards Bridport. Marler saw the big man was still waiting at the edge of Chesil Beach. Then a second tourist bus appeared, performed the same two-point turn, parked so it was also facing Bridport. The fog had cleared off the water and Marler heard the muffled sound of engines. Two large outboards, crowded with men, were approaching the shore where the big man had flashed a torch twice.

  'Can I help you, sir? Sergeant Haskins here. What seems to be the trouble?'

  'The trouble is you have at this moment a very large gang of illegal refugees being brought ashore at the Swannery end of Chesil Beach. They're being taken away towards Bridport in old tourist buses with the name Topsy Tours.'

  'Did I hear you aright, sir? You did say "Topsy"?'

  'Yes.'

  'Funny name…'

  'For God's sake, get patrol cars to intercept the buses. I said they're on their way towards Bridport…'

  'I heard that, sir. Might I ask exactly where you're speaking from?'

  'Send patrol cars or I'll report this lack of action to the Chief Constable

  Marler had had enough. The motorized dinghies had emptied their passengers with astonishing speed. They had scrambled up the bank, were already aboard the second bus. The big man had returned to the launch, was already steering it out to sea where presumably a freighter was standing to until it could winch the launch aboard. Then the freighter might well return to its pick-up point to take aboard another assortment of talent and bring it back to Britain.

  Marler had switched off his mobile, feeling it was hopeless. The only thing he could do was to track the buses to their destination. He manoeuvred his car back down the track on to the road leading to Bridport. He rammed his foot down to catch them up.

  A few minutes later a patrol car came towards him. Heavens, they had reacted. Then he saw the car was flashing its lights, waving him down. He had reduced speed when he'd seen it was a patrol car and now he stopped. The patrol car swung over to the wrong side of the deserted road, parked its front bumper inches from Marler's. A very young policeman got out, arrived as he lowered his window. Marler sat very still.

  'Pushin' it a bit, weren't we, sir?'

  'It isn't a built-up area.'

  A second, equally young policeman arrived, a portly man who had the look of a man conscious of his importance. He was holding something, bent down to peer in at Marler.

  'I'd like you to switch off your engine.'

  Marler did so. Then he sat with his arms folded and tried to look expressionless.

  'Been drinkin', 'ave we, sir?'

  'Yes, this. And only this.'

  Marler reached down for the bottle of mineral water. He held it up for the portly policeman to get a good look.

  'Would you object to being breathalysed? The alternative is to accompany us to the station.'

  Marler took a deep breath, reached out, took the nozzle. He blew into it with all his strength. Portly took out the breathalyser, studied it. The meter registered nothing.

  'Thank you, sir. You can proceed now, when we've moved our car.'

  'May I suggest,' Marler said politely, 'that you get in touch urgently with your Dorchester HQ?'

  'Good night, sir…'

  It was 3 a.m. when Marler arrived back at Park Crescent. He wondered where the time had gone. He was also surprised to find everyone waiting for him in Tweed's office. Paula, Newman, Butler, Nield and Mark were drinking coffee. Marler accepted a cup gratefully from Monica.

  'You've done a good job,' Tweed began. 'Thank you for calling me on your way back. You must have found the police down there frustrating.'

  'I could have strangled them.'

  'Don't worry. As soon as you went off the line I phoned Roy Buchanan at the Yard, passed to him all your information. He's phoning the Chief Constable down there – has done – and called me back. They've sent up a helicopter to comb the area you mentioned in search of those two buses.'

  'Doubt if they'll find them. From Bridport there are three or four different routes they could have taken.'

  'I agree. If you can stand it I'll tell you what's been happening up here while you were down there…'

  Marler listened, adopting his usual stance of leaning against a wall. After he'd drunk his coffee he lit a king-size.

  'This is developing into an international conflagration. All over Europe and now it's started in the States.'

  'We watched a bit on TV,' Monica interjected. 'The pics were frightful and Washington thinks there are other cities targeted. They're trying to guess which ones.'

  'I have Keith Kent coming in any
moment,' Tweed told her. 'You remember Keith, the brilliant analyst of movements of large sums of money, often secretly. It occurred to me all this is being financed by a fortune, a huge one. Thugs like to be paid for their dirty work. Never mind the slogans "Down With Capitalism". Then there's the transport to move them over long distances. What Marler has told us shows that is going on. So who is paying out these vast sums? And why?'

  The phone rang. Monica told Tweed that Keith Kent had arrived and he asked her to tell him to come up right away.

  'Poor devil,' commented Mark. 'It's the middle of the night.'

  'He's an owl,' Tweed said. 'Works best through the early hours.. .'

  Keith Kent walked in. Of medium height, he was slim and clad in an expensive business suit. In his late thirties, he was clean-shaven, had thick dark hair and grey eyes which concentrated on the person he was talking to. Tweed introduced him to Mark, then asked him who could be financing the carnage.

  'My best bet,' Kent replied, sitting down, crossing his legs, 'is the Zurcher Kredit Bank.'

  'What?' Tweed was taken aback. 'It's a Swiss bank.' 'Used to be. Thank you, Monica,' he said as she handedhim a cup of coffee. 'I'll need this. I happen to have spent a lot of time scrutinizing that bank. I have a strange story to tell you.'

  Going back to the late 1790s, Mayer Amschel Rothschild was establishing the banking business, which was to grow into a colossus, in the Frankfurt Judengasse.

  The Judengasse was the ghetto Jews were confined to and operated from. Enter Salomon Frankenheim, in his teens. Not a Jew, he had studied the Jewish faith, their rituals, their way of life. He then applied to Mayer for a job. Mayer put him through his paces, realized Frankenheim was a mathematical genius, took him on.

  Frankenheim learned every trick of the Rothschild technique of trading. He was not thirty when he left Rothschild, slipped out of the Judengasse, formed what was to become the Frankenheim Dynasty in Paris.

  Time passed. Frankenheim married, produced three sons. After their father's death they were running Frankenheim banks in Paris, Vienna and Rome, all of which were prospering.

  More time passed until after several generations 1925 arrived. All the Frankenheims were long-lived but by then the head of the dynasty, Joseph, had no sons. Who was to take over, this highly successful, all-powerful and very secretive organization?

  After so many generations history repeated itself. Joseph adopted a son, name and origin unrecorded, who proved later to be a mathematical genius like the founder, Salomon. When he was old enough to take control, still a young man, he followed the policies that had made the Frankenheims so rich.

  Then, recently, he obtained control of the Zurcher Kredit Bank and changed the name from Frankenheim. What had been for so long the Frankenheim Dynasty now became the Zurcher Kredit. The present head was only known to a few – as Rhinoceros.

  'That was a lot for you to absorb,' Keith Kent commented and gratefully accepted another cup of coffee from Monica.

  'Why "Rhinoceros"?' Tweed asked.

  'Because one of the earlier Frankenheims liked going on safari in Africa. On one trip he shot a rhinoceros. The symbol of the Frankenheim banks then became the head of a rhinoceros, with an engraved plate of the animal outside every branch of the bank.'

  'I don't understand this,' Tweed objected. 'How could he possibly take over a Swiss bank? The Swiss make a point that none of their banks can be controlled by anyone except a Swiss.'

  'Rhinoceros was clever. He persuaded the Zurcher Kredit directors to invest larger and larger sums in valuable property outside Switzerland. They did not realize he was using his own lawyers – to put the properties secretly in companies he controlled – outside Switzerland. When he had eighty per cent of the capital he began selling the properties – at a profit, being Rhinoceros -and then he re-formed the Zurcher Kredit to replace his Frankenheim banks. In Hamburg, in Paris, Vienna, Rome, Berlin and also Brussels. He has branches in other major cities.'

  'How did the Swiss react?' Tweed wondered.

  'Rhinoceros treated the original Zurcher Kredit directors very generously. Made them all millionaires. Result? The directors used the remaining twenty per cent still in their bank to buy more properties abroad, properties which Rhinoceros suggested. This kept them inside Swiss banking law. In due course these remaining properties were sold and the proceeds absorbed by Zurcher Kredit, now totally controlled by Rhinoceros.'

  'I find this intriguing,' commented Tweed. 'What I would like to know is who is Rhinoceros, where does he live, what is his nationality?'

  'I don't know and I can't find out.'

  The phone rang. Monica looked surprised as she indicated the call was for Tweed.

  'It's a Mr Rondel.'

  'Tweed here. I don't think I know you…'

  'You don't. Not yet.' The voice was warm, buoyant. 'Is this a safe phone?'

  'It is.'

  'I do my homework. I know quite a lot about you. I'm not referring to that smokescreen you put up – a negotiator in an insurance company specializing in covering wealthy people against the contingency of their being kidnapped. You are the Deputy Director of the SIS.'

  'If you say so.'

  'Mr Tweed, I'd like us to meet. At a convenient – to you – destination on the Continent. At a time convenient to you.'

  'Before I considered agreeing I'd have to know the subject you propose discussing.'

  'Of course.' The voice chuckled. 'I can see why you hold the position you do. The subject is what steps we can take to prevent the collapse of the West. I refer to the recent riots aimed at destabilizing the present system. I want to find out who is organizing them, who is paying a lot of money to finance this very dangerous onslaught on our way of life.'

  'Can you give me a number where I can call you?'

  'Ah!' Another chuckle. 'The trouble is, I travel about a lot. Sometimes I don't know where I shall be myself tomorrow! May I call you again soon?'

  'Please do. And thank you for contacting me…'

  Tweed put down his phone, looked at Keith Kent who was drinking a third cup of coffee.

  'Ever heard of a man called Rondel?'

  'No, I haven't.'

  'Was that really him on the phone?' Paula asked.

  'It was.'

  'What did he sound like?'

  'Able, quick-witted, humorous, very pleasant. I'd say he has a very strong personality.' He transferred his gaze back to Kent. 'You were telling us about Rhinoceros. How does he operate?'

  'In great secrecy. He lives somewhere in a secluded base

  – its location unknown.'

  'You mean like Howard Hughes, the American millionaire who stayed locked up and guarded away from the world. A hermit?'

  'Not at all. He travels about a lot. Always using a pseudonym – a different one each time. He uses commercial flights a lot, sometimes travelling Club Class, sometimes Economy. Never First Class. I've picked up that much about his habits and no more.'

  'Is Rhinoceros honest? I did ask you how he operates.'

  'He operates just like the Frankenheims of long ago- as the Rothschilds sometimes did. He rarely gives a loan. Very rich people trust his bank. They deposit huge sums of money there, knowing it will be safe. He charges a stiff fee but they don't care. They pay for peace of mind. Is he honest? He's the most trustworthy banker in the world. Which is why I'm staggered at what I've discovered.'

  'Which is?'

  'Huge amounts of laundered money, source unknown, are passing through the Zurcher Kredit. I can't believe it, but it is so.'

  'Doesn't sound like the portrait of Rhinoceros you painted.'

  'It goes against all his principles. Clever accountancy is covering up what's happening. I stumbled on it. That's all I know.'

  'And as regards who is financing these worldwide riots?'

  'Can't help you. I'll keep looking.'

  'One more question. How much is the Zurcher Kredit worth?'

  'Eighy billion dollars. More than Microsoft…' />
  CHAPTER 11

  'M. Bleu', as he was known to a small circle of French security, already responsible for the murders of Jason Schulz in Washington and Jeremy Mordaunt at Alfriston, fiddled with his motorcycle, perched by the kerb a short distance from the Elysee in Paris.

  He gave the impression he was repairing his high-powered machine. Tall and slim, he appeared to be more heavily built, clad in black leather trousers and jacket, his crash helmet pulled well down over his head. From under his visor he kept glancing at the exit from the Elysee, official residence of the French President.

  He was waiting for the appearance of Louis Lospin, chief aide to the Prime Minister and his most confidential adviser. Walking towards him was a Frenchman, a mechanic by trade. He stopped by the motorcyclist, offered to help.

  'Merdel' Bleu snarled the insulting response.

  The mechanic shrugged, resumed his stroll. You couldn't even offer to help some people. Behind him M. Bleu glanced up as a car emerged from the Elysee courtyard. He noted the number plate. It was Louis Lospin's car. He pulled his visor down further, straddled his machine which started as soon as he turned the key. He began to follow the car at a discreet distance.

  Lospin's car followed the same route it had taken the previous day. When it eventually pulled up in front of an apartment building in the select district of Neuilly, the motorcyclist stopped, parked by the kerb, watched.

  In his left hand he held a stopwatch. He was checking the exact time it took Lospin to emerge from his car, climb the steps to the front door. He also noticed the chauffeur who had driven the car moved off quickly, as he had done before. Lospin was taking out his key to open the front door when the car vanished at speed round a bend. The same routine as yesterday.

  M. Bleu was infinitely thorough in his preparations, tracking his target day by day, looking for a pattern, a routine. It was only when he had discovered one, had checked the timing by his stopwatch, located an escape route, that he decided he could approach his victim, do what had to be done quickly, then vanish.

  What he didn't know was that at Interpol, situated inside a fortress building in a city a long way from Paris, there was a file on M. Bleu. In his tiny office inside the building Pierre Marin was examining his copy of the file. The French embassies in Washington and London had wired data on their subject to Interpol.