Rhinoceros tac-18

by Colin Forbes

  There were very large five-storey buildings with the fifth storey in the sloping roof. The buildings furthest away had a modern look, renovated by a so-called architect in a feeble attempt to preserve the original warehouses' appearance. They had large opaque blue-glass windows you couldn't see through. They reminded Wendover vaguely of a miniature version of Park Avenue in New York.

  The buildings closest to him had not been touched. They were still the warehouses that had stood there for heaven knew how many years. Their walls of slatted wood had a decrepit look, as though uninhabited. The dormer windows perched on the sloping fifth floor looked as though at any moment they might slide into the street.

  He walked a short distance down the street, paused. The sun had come out, was a blinding glare on the buildings, but on his side of the street were dark shadows, alleys leading off, very narrow, cobbled and twisting. Then he saw Delgado.

  The giant, holding a bottle in one hand by its neck, was walking unsteadily towards him on the sunny side. Wendover slipped into the shadows of an alley, peered out. Delgado had passed the renovated buildings, which Wendover could now see were occupied by companies, was strolling past the old warehouses.

  A single-decker bus came crawling along the street, hiding Delgado from view. When it was near the top of the street Mark could no longer see Delgado. He had vanished into one of the old warehouses. But which one? It could have been any one of four. He went back to The Hangman's Noose, told Herb what had happened.

  'I'll have to hang around here until I spot him again. Maybe for days. Know anywhere I can get get a room?'

  'Here. Upstairs. The one I gave Lisa, the attractive girl I saw you with during the riots. A taxi arrived this morning to collect her case.' Herb looked at the American. Tall, fair-haired, with a large body to match. But it was the clothes Herb was looking at. 'Hope you don't mind me sayin' so – but you're too smartly dressed to mooch around here for days. You stand out from the crowd. There's a shop just down the road called Wingers. They'd have the kit you need.'

  'Thanks. I'll go there now…'

  He returned later, holding a carrier bag with his new suit inside. Herb looked at his new get-up approvingly. Mark was clad in a shabby camouflage jacket, well-worn denims, a Para's discarded red beret on his head.

  'You'll do. I'll show you the room…'

  Marler had found the flat where Helga Trent had been murdered. It had not been difficult. Police tape still cordoned off the building and on the first floor he noted two bullet holes in a window.

  Earlier, carrying a hold-all, he had found a 'hotel' – no more than a boarding house – but it had a small bar. It also had a vacant room which he'd taken.

  Now, just before dusk, he stepped over the tape, rang the bell of the flat. A middle-aged woman with a disagreeable expression and suspicious eyes opened the door, stood in the entrance like a guardian, beefy arms folded.

  'Are you the landlady?' Marler enquired.

  'I'm the owner, if that's anything to do with you.'

  'I'm a friend of the late Helga Trent.' Marler smiled and when he did so the opposite sex usually took to him. 'I would very much appreciate it if we could have a few minutes' chat about her…'

  'You're another bloody reporter. I can smell them a mile off.'

  'No, I'm not. Just a few minutes of-'

  'Go jump off Beachy Head.'

  She slammed the door in his face. He heard her bolt and lock it. Marler decided he wasn't going to get far with this paragon of the female species. He went back to his hotel and into the bar. Officially he was a solar-energy salesman. He didn't think he would run into anyone else in that line of business.

  A peroxide blonde wearing a miniskirt sat on a stool next to him. She lit a cigarette, looked him up and down.

  'Care to buy me a drink, darling?'

  'You live round here?'

  'I might.'

  'I don't think you do.'

  'Bloody well drink on your own.'

  She got off her stool, walked away swinging her hips, then out of the front door. Marler was trying to contact someone who knew the area.

  He had to wait five days before he struck lucky. It was dark outside when a big man in a shabby suit walked in as though he owned the place, sat on a stool. He shouted his order at the girl behind the bar.

  'Double Scotch. Neat. No muckin' about.'

  'Coming up now, Mr Barton.'

  'You seen anythin' of that girl with the long red hair I asked you about last night? Slim, good figure, a real looker.'

  'No,' the girl said as she served the drink. 'She hasn't come in here.'

  I'll pay for that drink,' Marler said suddenly.

  He moved to the stool next to Mr Barton, noticed he had very large hands with hair growing on their backs. Lifting his glass, Barton turned to study Marler with hostile eyes. The girl had moved to the far end of the counter, now Marler had given her the money for the drink.

  'An attractive girl with long red hair,' Marler whispered. I'm looking for her too. I'll pay for information. What do you know about her?'

  'Let's go outside,' the big man suggested. 'Walls 'ave ears 'ere. ..'

  It seemed very dark outside. The street was ill-lit. They came to a corner, walked round it. Barton was gradually dropping behind Marler. Out of nowhere a youth on a skateboard was speeding towards them. Marler felt something hard and round rammed into his back.

  'This is a gun,' Barton growled menacingly. 'So you tell me what you know about the red-haired tart…'

  A car backfired. The youth glanced back over his shoulder, wasn't looking where he was going, cannoned into Marler who twisted his body as he was hurled back against Barton. He stamped his foot down with great force on Barton's foot. The big man dropped his gun, limped, groaned. Marler stooped swiftly, picked up the gun. It was a. 455 Colt automatic. From its weight Marler knew it was loaded, with seven rounds probably. Charming. Barton, still limping, yelled out the words.

  'Come an' 'elp me, Skinny…'

  Marler slammed his attacker across the jaw with the barrel of the Colt. Off balance, the big man tumbled down the steps into an area below street level, hit his skull against a brick wall, sagged down, moaning. Marler switched his gaze to the small lean streak of a thug charging across from the opposite side of the street. In his right hand he gripped a flick knife, the murderous blade exposed. Marler waited until he was close, on the pavement, looked behind him, called out.

  'Take him, Larry…'

  The oldest trick in the world but it worked. As Skinny looked back Marler used the barrel of the Colt again, but this time he aimed it at the side of Skinny's head. It was a businesslike blow and threw Skinny hurtling down the steps after Barton. He remained still at the bottom. Marler checked the street. Empty. Skateboard had long since vanished round a corner. Marler went down the steps.

  He checked Skinny's pulse, which was beating steadily, but he was unconscious. Lifting him out of the way, Marler dumped him in a far corner, returned to Barton, still moaning. He bent down, aimed the Colt.

  'What were you going to do to the red-haired lady?'

  'Rough her up…'

  'Open your mouth or I'll blow your head off.'

  Terrified, Barton flopped open his mouth as blood dripped from his jaw. Marler shoved the muzzle of the Colt inside the open mouth. Barton's eyes nearly popped out.

  'Again,' said Marler, his tone steely. 'What were you going to do with her? Three seconds and I'll pull the trigger.'

  He removed the muzzle from the big man's mouth so he could speak. It took him half a minute to get the words out and then they were a mumble.

  'We was goin' to kill her.'

  'Right. Who paid you to do it?'

  'For Gawd's sake. Mister… don't know. One like us… wore dark glasses. Paid cash…'

  Marler was convinced Barton didn't know. In any case, the man who had instructed him, who had paid the cash, would be only part of a chain, extending back who knew where. He looked carefully at B
arton. The big man was lying motionless, his eyes half closed, a real mess. And Skinny was out for die count.

  Climbing back up the steps, he walked a short distance away, took out his mobile, called Buchanan's private line. The Superintendent answered at once.

  'Yes?'

  'Marler here.' He had already noted the street name, the number of the house above the area. He gave them to Buchanan. 'In the area at that address you'll find two criminals, knocked about a bit, waiting for your collection by a patrol car…'

  'Hang on.'

  Marler knew Buchanan was already dispatching the patrol car. He spoke quickly so he could get away before the police arrived.

  'The big fellow is Barton, if that's his real name. The other one has the nickname Skinny. Barton admitted they tried to kill a certain girl, muffed it…'

  'Knocked about a bit, you said. Your work?'

  'Have to go now. Run out of coins…'

  He hurried back to the hotel, went up to his room, locked the door. About five minutes later he heard the sound of a police siren. Taking out his mobile, he called Newman at Park Crescent, explained what had happened.

  'I can't keep out of trouble, can I? Now, how is Tweed?'

  'Bearing up, I gather. Not the easiest patient in the world.'

  'Good for him. And Lisa?'

  'Still at the clinic. The consultant doesn't seem worried, but like Tweed it could be a slow recovery.'

  'OK. By the way, when I spoke to Buchanan I didn't let slip we even knew Lisa, didn't mention her name.'

  'That's the way Tweed would want it, I'm sure. Go out and find some more thugs you can chat to…'

  'I'm sorry I'm late relieving Monica,' Paula said as she sat down by Tweed's bedside. 'How are you feeling?'

  'Better.' Tweed was perched up against a pillow. 'I think the first antibiotic Master gave me is doing the trick. I won't need the second one.'

  'Yes, you will. Master says that's the vital one. Behave yourself.'

  'You've been up to something. You're an hour late. You're never late except for a very good reason. Tell me,' Tweed snapped.

  'All right. I thought you'd get it out of me. Since Monica took over this afternoon I've been trawling London – in the hope I'd see something – or someone – which would tell us what is going on. Partly walking, partly moving from area to area by taxi. I may have struck gold this evening,' Paula ruminated.

  'Get to the point.'

  'A taxi dropped me near Santorini's, that expensive restaurant with a platform projecting over the river. I saw the Brig. – Lord Barford – and his disgusting son, Aubrey. The one I had lunch with. They had just got out of a taxi and Aubrey was carrying a large suitcase plastered with labels. The sort of thing you collect travelling abroad…'

  'I know,' Tweed said impatiently.

  'I got the distinct impression they'd just got back from Heathrow – because of the suitcase. Which one made the trip to somewhere I don't know – Aubrey could have been carrying his father's suitcase. They went into Santorini's.'

  'And?'

  'I had a mad idea,' Paula informed him. 'I followed them in a few minutes later. They'd be in the restaurant by then. I looked at the hat-check girl's cubbyhole and saw the Brig.'s suitcase with the labels showing. Went up to her and told her Mr Swanton had sent me because he owed them ten pounds on his dinner bill. Held out my hand, full of ten pound coins, reached over the counter, pretended to drop them by mistake on her floor. She bent down to scoop them up and I took a pic of the suitcase with my non-flash camera, then took a taxi back to Park Crescent where they developed the print.'

  'Which you've got with you.'

  'Yes. I really think this can wait…'

  'Give.'

  She handed over the print, took a magnifying glass out of her shoulder bag, handed that to Tweed. He studied the print.

  'Hotels in Brussels, Berlin, Paris and Stockholm. Those were the places Aubrey, while drunk in Martino's, told you his father visited.'

  'Exactly.'

  'But it looks as though one label has been removed.'

  'It has,' Paula agreed. 'And it must have been recently. Those labels stick like the devil if they're left for a while.'

  'The missing label must show where he has flown back from. Today. Why the secrecy?'

  'I wondered that.' She watched as he placed the print in the drawer of his bedside table. 'You haven't been working on your pad, I hope?'

  'Added one name. Rhinoceros.'

  M. Bleu had left France. Following the car with his target, Louis Lospin, at the wheel, he had been surprised when the car headed in a different direction, eventually arriving at the airport.

  After parking his car in a crowded multi-storey, Lospin had, carrying his bag, checked in for a flight to Corsica. Bleu had shrugged, realizing Lospin was taking a holiday. Air travel did not appeal to him this time – the airport swarmed with security men. The President was due in on a flight. Bleu had left his motorcycle in the multi-storey, had taken a taxi to the Gare du Nord.

  From there he caught an express to Amsterdam. He would have been very difficult to detect, let alone to follow. And he had not even considered waiting in Paris for Lospin to return. He could have become conspicuous, been intercepted by French security.

  Arriving in Amsterdam, he took a taxi to a hotel near Schiphol Airport. Registering under one of the several names in his collection of different passports, he went up to his room, phoned the airport for flights to Britain the following day. To his surprise he found he could catch an early evening flight to Heathrow if he left the hotel immediately. He did so.

  CHAPTER 13

  Weeks sped by. Tweed had a relapse, then staged a steady recovery. In the clinic, Lisa endured a slow return to normal. All his team had been summoned to Park Crescent on the morning Tweed roared in. It was now late June. He sat erect behind his desk, gazed round.

  'Welcome back,' said Paula.

  'Hear, hear.' called out Newman.

  'Enough of that, I have a clearer picture of what is happening. Still vague, but clearer. We must get moving…'

  He broke off as the door opened and Lisa walked in. Newman, Paula, Mark Wendover, Harry and Pete, Monica and Marler all stared at her. The colour had come back to her face, she was the picture of vibrant health. No one had heard that she had left the clinic. She looked at Tweed.

  'I discharged myself.'

  'Was that wise?'

  '.' know when I'm fit. I have to go somewhere at once.'

  'No point in asking you where?' Tweed said.

  'None at all.' She bent down, kissed him on both cheeks and headed for the door. 'Goodbye, everyone. For the moment. Thank you for all you've done for me.'

  'Not even a hint?' pressed Tweed.

  'You know where I'm going.' She opened the door. 'I told you. Tweed, you're a bit thick.'

  Then she was gone. Tweed reached into his pocket, took out the doodle pad, extracted a page. He again gazed round the room.

  'I am a bit thick. It was staring at me all the time. Those words she managed to utter when she arrived at the clinic. "Ham… Dan

  … 4S.' Hamburg. The famous Four Seasons Hotel, which I know. That's where we're all going.' He looked at Monica. 'Book Club seats for all of us – on a flight for tomorrow. And pack light clothes, now this heatwave has hit us.'

  The heatwave had started two days earlier, not predicted by the forecasters, of course. Not only Britain was affected. It was scorching the whole of northern Europe. Tweed was wearing a fawn linen suit. He had already taken off his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair.

  'Thick is the word for me,' Tweed continued. 'Buchanan confirmed it when he told me Lisa's murdered sister was called Helga.'

  The phone rang. Monica answered, told Tweed Keith Kent was calling.

  'On the phone?'

  'No, he's turned up downstairs, most unusual behaviour for him.. .'

  'Wheel him up.'

  Keith Kent walked in. He smiled at Paula, pulled a funny f
ace at Newman, sat down, refused the offer of coffee from Monica.

  'Can't stay long. Thought of another contact who could be helpful with information about Rhinoceros. Should have thought of him weeks ago.' He passed a sheet of paper to Tweed. 'Name is Dr Kefler. That's his phone number and address. He's lived in Hamburg all his life. Regarded in Germany as a financial genius. Rightly so.'

  'We're off to Hamburg tomorrow, as it happens, Keith. I'd prefer to call on him.'

  'Oh. Then be careful. That address is down by the docks, overlooks the river Elbe. A tricky place at night.

  You can bump into some pretty rough characters. Wish I was coming with you. I like Hamburg.'

  'Come, then. Join us. We'll be at the Four Seasons Hotel.'

  'Now you're making my mouth water. Can't make it tomorrow. Might – just might – fly over there in a few days' time.'

  'What sort of a man is this Dr Kefler? His personality?'

  'Shrewd as a barrel of monkeys. Personality? Reminds me of a chuckling teddy bear. I must go now. Enjoy the holiday.'

  'I suspect it may be anything but a holiday.'

  'See you all…'

  Kent was gone as swiftly as he had arrived. Tweed held up the sheet of paper Kent had left him.

  'There we go. Further confirmation. Germany. Before you scuttle off to buy new clothes, which I expect some of you will need to, I'll summarize the state of war up to now – my thinking when I was lying in bed for ever. I can't explain why, but I'm convinced we're involved with two very powerful forces battling with each other. I can't yet work out which character we've met – there are plenty of them – belongs to one force and which to the other. Lisa could be on the good side – but she could also be on the bad one. And this is very big. It involves governments, power. Two top aides to powerful men have been murdered – Jeremy Mordaunt, and Jason Schulz in Washington…'

  'Pause for breath,' Newman called out. 'Permission to speak.'

  'Well, get on with it. What is it?'

  'I don't think you've read the newspapers today.' Newman held up a copy of the Daily Nation. 'Yesterday, in Paris, the closest man to the Prime Minister, a certain Louis Lospin, was murdered on his front doorstep.'