by Colin Forbes
`I have a car outside. That chap can't follow you any more. I hope you approve,' he said as they walked to the outside world, 'but I don't trust a hotel. You'll be safer in Newman's flat in South Ken. It's quite a nice place.'
`Will Bob mind?' Diana asked as Tweed led the way into the lobby of Newman's flat and placed her case on top of a chest of drawers in a large bedroom at the back. 'Mind my being here?'
`Why should he?'
And to hell with him if he does, Tweed thought. He's dumped Diana in my lap without so much as a by-your-leave. Tweed had obtained the key to the flat from Monica before leaving for the airport: she had agreed to keep an eye on the place while Newman was in Germany.
He showed her the bathroom, the large sitting-room at the front with bay windows overlooking the street, the compact kitchen which was like a ship's galley set back inside an alcove with two steps leading up to it from the sitting- room.
Diana walked into the sitting-room and stopped. She gazed up at the high ceiling where the original cornices with a design of bunches of grapes and intertwined vine leaves had been left intact.
`What a lovely spacious room. This is like the England I used to know.'
`An old Victorian house converted into flats by a developer,' Tweed remarked. 'The value has soared since Newman bought the place two or three years ago. This year the value has gone up like a rocket. You'll be all right here?'
`I love the place. I'll be just a few minutes unpacking in the bedroom…'
Tweed used the opportunity of being on his own to call Park Crescent. He dialled his private number and Monica answered at once.
`Did you collect the package safely?' she asked.
`Yes. Good job I went myself. There's another package I want examining urgently. It's being held by Corcoran of Airport Security. Rush someone down there. Harry Butler or Pete Nield…'
`Harry is with me now. I'll send him at once. You'd like to speak to him?'
`Let's waste no time. I want the origin of the package, where it was despatched from. Who sent it. That's it. Expect me in an hour.'
He put down the phone, went into the kitchen and opened cupboards. Time for a chat with Diana over a cup of tea. It would have to be powdered milk, but he wanted to tell her where the local shops were, that he'd be back later to take her out for dinner, to settle her in. Over dinner he could explain how she could help him.
`Harry Butler has reported back,' Monica informed Tweed as he entered his office.
`That was quick.' Tweed sat in the swivel chair behind his desk and felt the tension drain out of his system. He had half-expected to find Diana was not aboard the flight. He was surprised to realize how much he had worried about her.
`Tell me,' he said.
`Harry waved the Official Secrets Act at the Newman look- alike, threatened him with God knows what. He's a German. One of ours. Walther Prohl. Fully paid-up member of the BND from Pullach…'
`Oh, God!' Tweed doodled a German eagle on his pad. 'That I didn't expect. I thought he was opposition.'
`So the news is good…'
`No, it simply could be worse. How did the BND get in on the act?'
'Prohl doesn't know too much. He was ordered to impersonate Newman and fly from Hamburg to Heathrow, wait there, then catch the next flight back. He's pukkah – he was carrying identification proving he is BND. But he travelled on a forged passport under the name Robert Newman, which means it appears on the passenger manifest.'
`That thought had already occurred to me. I don't like any of it. Did Prohl give any clue as to why he was ordered to do this?'
`None at all. Harry is convinced he doesn't know. He received his instructions from Peter Toll…'
`This is getting worse.' Tweed took off his glasses and started polishing them as he continued. 'Toll is the youngest man ever to be promoted to Deputy Director – or the equivalent – of the BND. I rate him as Al for detailed planning, but he's ambitious and that makes him reckless. He's a gambler for high stakes.'
`Not a man you'd choose as sector chief?'
`Only after a period of retraining – with emphasis on obedience to orders from me…'
`And in some way he's in touch with Newman?'
`Sounds horribly like it. That might explain…' Tweed stopped. 'Oh, never mind. What about the trace you put out on the mysterious Portman Paula Grey referred to in her diary?'
`You really shouldn't have done that,' Monica chided, 'read her personal diary…'
`Ethics I can dispense with when lives are at stake – when four girls have been horribly murdered. To say nothing of tracking down the odd man out who sat in at my conference this morning…'
`You really think there's a connection?'
`What about Portman?' Tweed repeated irritably.
`Samuel Portman, I think. Portman Private Investigations. He has a grotty little office in Dean Street, Soho. He's the only Portman known in the business. I checked with the Association.
Discreetly through a friend. The address and phone number are on that folded sheet of paper under your blotter.'
Tweed glanced at the sheet, refolded it and slipped it inside his wallet. 'I'll have to pay Mr Samuel Portman a visit in the near future.'
`Surely it's obvious what's bothering Paula?' Monica protested. 'She thinks Hugh is playing around with some other woman. Maybe she just wants to know – some women are like that…'
`You really think that sounds like Hugh Grey?'
`Not really. Now…' Her expression became dreamy. 'If it were Harry Masterson, I'd believe anything. He's capable of having three on the go at once – and concealing from each the existence of the others. But then his wife did walk away.'
`Which reminds me, where are they all now? Gone back to their burrows for their week's leave?'
`Harry is down at his country cottage near Apfield in Sussex. I don't think anyone is with him – he's painting. In oils. And playing classical records.' She paused with a puckish look, waiting for Tweed to ask her how she knew. He remained stolidly silent. 'I know that,' she said, a trifle piqued, 'because I phoned him with an excuse to check. I guessed you'd want to know where they all were.'
`I'm listening.'
`Guy Dalby is down at Woking in that Georgian estate house he lived in with Renee before she hopped it to France. He's painting, too – the walls of his house. That's two out of four whose wives walked,' she mused. 'The divorce rate is climbing. One out of three for the country in general, one out of two for service personnel…' She flushed suddenly. She had been thinking aloud. God! She'd clean forgotten for the moment that Tweed was separated, that his wife was living it up with some Greek millionaire in Rio. Unless by now she'd moved on. She began talking rapidly.
`Erich Lindemann is at his flat in Chelsea. Doing what, I've no idea. Not the communicative type. Did you notice he'd cut himself shaving? He had a bit of sticking plaster on his face – not like him to be careless. Last on the list, Hugh Grey. He's at his flat in Cheyne Walk…'
`I'd have expected him to have gone to that farmhouse in Norfolk. Paula's out there most of the time – that pottery keeps her there…'
`He said he'd be going up there in a couple of days. He has work to catch up on. He is a workaholic. How is Diana Chadwick getting on?' she asked suddenly. 'You like her, don't you?'
`She's one of the pieces on a huge board. Try and get Peter Toll on the phone at Pullach for me.'
Monica realized as she dialled that Tweed had been engaging in a mental exercise most people found impossible. Conversing about one topic while his mind concentrated on something quite different. She spoke in German briefly, then put down the receiver.
`Peter Toll is not at Pullach. No information as to when he will return. Nothing.'
`And that,' Tweed said grimly, 'could be very bad news for Newman.'
Twenty-One
In response to Newman's call from Room 104 at the Movenpick, Kuhlmann arrived in ten minutes. He had driven like hell from Lubeck-Sud where Newman had cau
ght him on the verge of leaving.
Newman hung a Do Not Disturb notice from the outside handle of the door after admitting the Federal policeman. He didn't want Peter Toll turning up while he was talking with Kuhlmann. He had also hidden his dark glasses and the Tyrolean hat.
`Why move to this place from the Jensen?' Kuhlmann asked as he sat down.
`I thought I was being followed. It's also more complicated. Diana Chadwick is no longer in Lubeck. She's in a safe place.'
`Don't tell me where.' Kuhlmann held up a warning hand. 'I am glad to hear of your action. I wish to God I could move all young attractive blonde girls out of the area…'
`And Kurt Franck?'
`I brought a team of men. They are searching the hotel. Do you think he recognized you? He must have done, I imagine.'
`I'm not sure,' Newman replied candidly, without referring to his disguise. 'He was looking in a different direction.'
`Well, we will soon know.' Kuhlmann put a cigar between his thick lips without lighting it. He chewed on it for a moment. `Where is Tweed? In another room here?'
`No. He has left Lubeck temporarily to check something.. `If he is still in Germany I must know. I have strict orders from Bonn to keep an eye on him.'
`He is outside the Federal Republic, but I am certain he will be returning…'
He broke off as the phone rang, Kuhlmann said that would be for him and he stood listening, saying `Ja', and 'Nein', several times. When he put down the phone he spread his hands.
`The bird has flown again. He checked out of his room about ten minutes ago. He must have recognized you. He left on a motor-bike. Road-blocks are being set up, but this is a complex area. I think we've lost him again.'
`At least he's on the run.'
Newman was appalled at the news. Unless Kuhlmann caught Kurt Franck he was pretty sure the blond German would report sighting him to the East. That was if, as he suspected, Franck was from The Zone.
`You say,' Kuhlmann remarked as he stood up to go, 'Tweed will be back. I predict that on his second coming all hell will break loose.'
`Why do you think that?'
`I know Tweed. On the surface mild and cautious. This time I sensed something different in him. A thrust of steel…'
`You cross the border tonight,' Toll announced when Newman had let him inside 104. 'Why hang out the Do Not Disturb notice? I came back twice before you'd removed the sign.'
`Kuhlmann was here…'
`Jesus! How did he find you?'
`I called him…'
Newman explained the sequence of events since his arrival at the Movenpick. Toll listened in silence, pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and clasped his hands.
`Describe this Kurt Franck,' he said at last.
He listened again while Newman gave him a concise description. He showed no reaction when Newman finished. Then he shook his head after a brief pause.
`Doesn't ring any bells.'
`In that case, cancel the border crossing.'
Newman's tone was hard and tough. He stood up, lit a cigarette and walked to stare out of the window. Behind him Toll flexed his long fingers and frowned before speaking.
`What's gone wrong, Bob?'
`You have.' Newman swung round to face the BND man. `There's no polite way to put this. I'm a reporter by profession. Lord knows how many people I've interviewed, but one thing I've learned – to spot when someone is lying. You're lying in your teeth when you say my description of Franck means nothing.'
`I can't be sure…'
`Be unsure then – or walk out of that door and don't come back.'
`Could be Erwin Munzel.'
`Who is?'
`Markus Wolf's top professional assassin. Specializes in making murder look like an accident.'
`Charming. How very encouraging.'
`I said I can't be sure,' Toll protested. 'How many blond Germans over six feet tall do you think there are?'
`Weight, height, age – I gave you them all, plus appearance – and manner. Manner identifies a man. His arrogant insolence with women. Does it sound like Munzel?'
`Yes, it does,' Toll admitted. `Do you think he recognized you down in the lobby?'
`Looks like it. Otherwise, why run? How long do you think it will be before he reports my miraculous reappearance here to Wolf?'
`Quite several hours.' Toll was very positive. 'They've stopped using hidden radio transmitters for the moment. We have too many detector units flooding the area. We're pretty sure they communicate with the East by routing the message through several phone numbers over here. Then someone calls their contact inside West Berlin. The contact walks through one of the checkpoints and reports the signal verbally. That way it's untraceable. We just haven't found that West Berlin contact. Yet.'
`Several hours?'
The fact gave Newman an idea. He said he'd have to think over whether he'd go ahead with the crossing. Would Toll kindly push off and leave him alone while he did think? The German agreed reluctantly, gave a deadline of nine that night for a decision.
`I'll come back here and see you then,' he said and left.
Newman opened the door to make sure Toll had gone. The corridor was deserted. He closed and locked the door. Sitting down, he called Lubeck-Sud. Again he was lucky – Kuhlmann was at the police HQ.
`Otto, can you do me a favour? Without asking questions?' `Name it.'
`Is it possible to put such pressure on our mutual associate, Franck, that he won't be able to make a call from a public phone box?'
`I will try.' Kuhlmann paused. 'Don't let your work take too great a toll on your energy.'
Breaking the connection, at Lubeck-Sud Kuhlmann dialled a number. His instructions were simple and given with vehemence. 'Karl, I want that manhunt stepped up. Call back everyone off duty. Flood Lubeck and Travemunde with men on foot and inside patrol cars. Show a very active presence. Check the identity of all blond men whether they conform to the description or not. Special target, public phone boxes. Don't overlook the railway stations. The whole district must know there's a big dragnet out. What? So, it upsets the tourists. Who gives a sod for them?'
After leaving the Movenpick Kurt Franck headed towards Travemunde on his motor-cycle. Outwardly he was a typical holidaymaker enjoying himself. But inwardly he was churning with anxiety.
He had three specific worries. The police could be looking for him again. After the abortive attempt to kill Tweed on the Kolk below the church, he had gone to earth. Normal procedure.
Catching a train from Lubeck for Copenhagen, he had left the train at Puttgarden. From there he caught the local bus to the tiny town of Burg on the remote island of Fehmarn. He had stayed for several weeks inside a small cottage on the outskirts of the town, a cottage owned by a Martin Vollmer of Altona.
Returning to Lubeck, he had again taken a room at the Movenpick, reasoning that this was the last place the police would look for him now. Again, routine procedure. Once the dogs have inspected a foxhole, they rarely revisit it.
He raced along the open road, keeping just inside the speed limit. The suburbs of Lubeck were now fading behind him and he was in open country. His second worry was Robert Newman Had he really seen him entering the lobby of the Movenpick? Franck simply couldn't make up his mind.
He concentrated on the road ahead, staring through his goggles for the turn-off point, the track leading to the river. His third worry was reporting his possible sighting of Newman to Leipzig. He had to find a public call box so he could phone Vollmer.
He slowed down, glanced again in his wing mirror, saw the road behind was deserted and swung down the cinder track between the fields on either side. The track was overgrown with weeds, had been superseded by a metalled road further along the highway.
He switched off the engine, pushing the machine the last few metres to the water's edge. Here reeds grew high and there was no sign of human life. He still paused to listen. No sound except for the occasional cry of a sea-bird, the distant moa
n of a ship's siren arriving – or leaving – Skandinaviankai. Pushing the machine to the edge of the baked mud bank, he grasped the handles firmly and shoved with all his strength. The motor-cycle sailed forward, hit the water with a splash and sank out of sight. He waited until bubbles rising from the submerged machine had ceased to ripple the water's surface and set off to walk along the river's edge, carrying the case he had unstrapped from the rear of the motor-cycle when he had switched off the engine.
Franck had survived in the West by following his training and never taking a chance. In an emergency, always assume the worst. It had been a favourite maxim of his Russian instructor. Franck was now in the process of changing his image before he re-entered a built-up area.
He reached the Small power cruiser moored to the isolated landing stage, boarded the vessel. Once inside the tiny cabin, he opened his case, transferred the contents to a backpack he hauled out of a locker. The case was easily disposed of. He dropped a heavy length of chain inside it, snapped the catches shut and threw it overboard. Then he started the engine.
Half an hour later he moored the vessel to another quiet landing stage, hoisted the backpack on to his broad shoulders and started to hoof it along the nearby highway. Within ten minutes he was hiking into the outskirts of Travemunde near the ferry crossing to Priwall Island. He was looking for a public phone booth. He stopped suddenly, mingling with the evening crowd of holidaymakers.
Two uniformed policemen on foot had stopped a man with blond hair and were obviously asking for his papers. That shook him. The man was at least fifteen years older than Franck – but he had blond hair.
A patrol car cruised slowly along the front, the two policemen inside scanning the faces of the crowd. Franck forced himself to walk slowly away towards the waterfront. A phone booth stood empty on the far side of the road. He'd call Vollmer from there.
He was standing on the edge of the kerb, waiting for a gap in the traffic so he could cross, when he saw the uniformed policeman who had taken up a position a few metres from the booth. A dark-haired youth in jeans and a T-shirt entered the booth. The policeman's head turned, studied the youth, then looked away.