by Colin Forbes
Martel liked him. Tweed said he had the most acute brain in the Swiss police and security system – and Intelligence had one foot in both camps. Nagel came straight to the point – as he – always did.
'You didn't fill in a form before you came up here, I hope?' He looked worried as he asked the question, and Nagel rarely showed anxiety no matter how critical the situation. 'You were dressed like that?' the Swiss continued, speaking rapidly. `And not using that blasted cigarette holder…'
`No to all your, questions – and yes I was wearing these glasses.' Martel removed a pair of horn-rimmed glasses fitted with plain lenses. 'I had to give my bloody name to get through to you. Are you going to nag about that…'
`Please, please, Keith.:.!' Nagel held up a restraining hand in a pacific gesture. 'But from your point of view your whereabouts might be best left unknown. Ferdy Arnold's security mob is moving heaven and earth to locate you.'
Martel lit a cigarette and indulged himself in the luxury of. employing his holder. He knew that Nagel disliked Arnold, that he had once told Tweed it 'was purely a political appointment'. The Swiss continued talking.
'Your name doesn't matter. When you have gone I shall tell the man at reception you are one of my key informants, that you used a code-name – that officially you never entered these premises. With no written record you will be safe from Arnold's hard men.'
'That's reassuring at any rate…' Martel was about to refer to the debacle in Bahnhofstrasse when Nagel again went on speaking.
'I have a number here you must phone urgently. She called me only ten minutes ago – knowing we are good friends. Despite my reservations about her chief, I like and trust Claire Hofer…'
Martel felt himself spinning, the whirlpool whipping him round. Faster.
CHAPTER 6
Wednesday May 27
Stunned, Martel's teeth clenched tight on the cigarette-holder. To mask his reaction he took the holder out of his mouth and readjusted the position of cigarette in holder. She called me only ten minutes ago.
What the hell was wrong with the timing? Thirty minutes earlier Arnold had told him on the phone that 'less than half an hour ago' her body had been found in the Limmat. That meant Hofer had been found about one hour from this moment. And now Nagel – the most precise Swiss – had clearly stated the call from Claire Hofer had come through 'ten minutes ago'. On the scrap of paper Nagel had handed to him was written a St Gallen phone number.
Nagel would know the girl's voice well. Being Nagel he would have wanted proof of the identity of his caller. Irrevocable proof. Martel began to consider whether he could be going out of his mind.
'Something wrong?' Nagel enquired softly.
'Yes, I'm tired.' Martel folded the scrap of paper and put it in his wallet. 'What sort of a night are you having?'
'Routine so far.'
Again Martel was stunned. David Nagel, chief of. police Intelligence, had no knowledge of the traumatic event which had taken place in Bahnhofstrasse. There was no reason for him to conceal such knowledge – Martel felt certain of this. He had to tread damned carefully.
'Why do you mistrust Ferdy Arnold?' he asked.
'It was a political appointment – not a professional one…' 'And why does Claire Hofer-who works for Arnold -call you when she has a message for me?'
'Because she knows you and I are close friends.' The Swiss paused. 'I also employed her before she transferred to counterespionage…'
'You said you've had a routine night so far,' Martel probed.
'Except for the explosion aboard some tourist's launch out on the lake. Some poor idiot who obviously knew nothing about engines or boats – so he had an accident and lost his life. We did hear the faint boom of the detonation…' He pointed towards the open windows behind curtains which hung motionless in the airless night. The sound came up the Limmat from the lake…'
No, it didn't, Martel thought. It came straight up the funnel of Bahnhofstrasse and then down Uraniastrasse, the side street leading towards police headquarters. He was watching Nagel and the extraordinary thing was he was convinced the Intelligence man was not lying. Someone was trying to cover up the incident, to pretend it had never happened.
'Good to see you, David,' Martel said and stood up. 'And I'll call Claire Hofer soon but there's something I have to attend to, and you don't want to know about it…'
'That is a direct line which bypasses the switchboard,' Nagel suggested, pointing to one of three phones on his desk. 'I can leave you on your own…'
'It isn't that, David. I'm just short of time.'
'Enjoy yourself while you're in Zurich…'
It was 2310 hours when Martel left police headquarters. He had half an hour to catch the 2339 train to St. Gallen, but he still had things to deal with. He walked past a patrol car parked outside, a cream Volvo with a red trim. Two uniformed men sat in the front with the windows open. Where the devil had they been when all hell broke loose in nearby Bahnhofstrasse?
And he had lied to Nagel he recalled as he hurried back to the Hauptbahnhof. He felt certain he could rely on the Swiss but he had mistrusted the offered phone which passed through no switchboard. He was now gripped by a feeling of insecurity and determined to take no chances.
'Maybe I'm getting paranoid,' he told himself as he slipped inside one of the empty phone booths in the station. These were safe. Again he remembered the dead Warner who apparently had also haunted Hauptbahnhofs. As he dialled the number Nagel had given him he began to sympathise with Charles Warner. Martel himself felt hunted.
The receptionist at the Hotel Hecht in St. Gallen confirmed that Claire Hofer was staying with them. She asked him to hold while she tried her room. A girl's voice came on the line – decisive, sharp and wary.
'Who is this?'
'Our mutual friend, Nagel, passed on your message and I want you to take certain action very fast. Can you get to an outside payphone? Good. Get there immediately and call me at this number.' He read out the booth number from the dial. 'It's Zurich code,' he added tersely. 'I'm very short of time…'
'Goodbye!'
Martel found he was sweating. The atmosphere inside the booth was oppressive. He felt both exposed and trapped in the confined space. The phone rang in an astonishingly short time.
He snatched up the receiver. The same voice asked the question crisply.
'Is that…? Please confirm name of our mutual friend… 'Nagel. David Nagel…'
'Claire Hofer speaking…'
'Again do what I tell you without questioning my judgement – as fast as you can. Pay your bill at the Hotel Hecht – make up some plausible reason why you have to…'
'All right, I'm not stupid! What then?'
'Book in at another hotel in St. Gallen. Reserve a room for me. Warn them I'll arrive about one o'clock in the morning…'. 'You need parking space for a car?'
'No. I'm coming in by train…'
'I'll call back in minutes. I have to find accommodation and tell you where to come. Goodbye!'
Martel was left staring at a dead receiver. More precious time was being consumed. But she sounded good, damned good. He had to give her that. The whirlpool was gyrating faster. He felt he had been talking to a ghost. Claire Hofer had just been dragged out of the Limmat – according to Arnold…
Despite the growing heat inside the kiosk he inserted a cigarette into his holder, cursed, removed the cigarette and placed it between his lips minus holder. While talking he had turned round with his back to the coin box so he could watch the deserted concourse. He took several deep drags and the phone was ringing a second time. Her voice…
'Is that…? Good. Our mutual friend…'
'Nagel. Martel here…'
'I got lucky. Two twin-bedded rooms on the first floor. Hotel Metropol. Faces the station exit. Staring at you as you come out. I'll leave a note at the desk with just my room number inside the envelope.
O.K.?'
'Very…'
'Goodbye!'
In the next few minut
es Martel moved very fast. He bought his rail ticket for St. Gallen. At the Hotel Schweizerhof he paid for the room he no longer needed. He did his best, to make the cancellation seem normal.
`I'm a consultant – medical – and I'm urgently needed in Basle by a patient…' Consultant was the word he had filled in on the 'occupation' section of the registration form when he had arrived. The term was impressive and totally vague.
He had not unpacked his bag a precaution he always took when arriving at a fresh destination – so all he had to do was to shove his shaving kit and toothbrush inside and snap the catches. Running down the stairs – the night clerk would see nothing odd now in his speedy departure – he hurried across to the first of the taxis waiting outside the station.
`I want you to take me to Paradeplatz. Can you then wait a few minutes by the tram stop while I deliver something? Then drive me straight back here?'
`Please get in…'
He was using up his last few minutes before the St. Gallen train departed but – knowing Zurich and the quietness of the streets at this hour-he believed he could just manage it. Because he had to check the state of Bahnhofstrasse where shots had been fired, blood spilt all over the sidewalk, and a bomb detonated against a bank.
He began chatting to the driver. All over the world cabbies are plugged in to a city's grapevine.
`Did you hear that terrific explosion not so long ago? Sounded like a bomb going off.'
'I heard it.' The driver paused as though picking his words with care. `Rumour is some fool of a tourist blew himself and his boat up on the lake…'
`It sounded closer…'
Martel left the query mark hanging in the air, wondering why the driver sounded so cautious. They were near Paradeplatz: soon all conversation would cease.
`Sounded closer to me,' the driver agreed. 'I was with a fare in Talstrasse and that was one hell of a bang. Now it could have come up the street from the lake…' He paused again. `Anyway, that's what the police told us.'
The police?'
'A patrol car stopped at the Hauptbahnhof rank. The driver got out to chat. He told us about this fool tourist blowing himself up on the lake.'
`Someone you knew? The policeman?' Martel asked casually.
'Funny you should say that.' Their eyes met in the rear-view mirror. 'I thought I knew every patrol car policeman in the city. I've been driving this cab for twenty years – but I never met him before …'
'Probably a new recruit fresh out of training school.'
'He was fifty if he was a day. All right if I wait here?'
It suited Martel admirably. The cabbie had parked well inside Paradeplatz – which meant he wouldn't be able to see where Martel went after he turned down Bahnhofstrasse. He lit a fresh cigarette and walked quickly. He was going to catch – or lose – the train by a matter of seconds.
The street was deserted and the only sound was that of his own footfalls on the flagstones. He crossed over to the other side and then stopped in sheer bewilderment. The whirlpool was spinning again.
There was no sign of the bloody incident Martel had witnessed and participated in two hours earlier. And there was no mistaking the location. He could see the archway where he and the girl had come through into Bahnhofstrasse. And there was a large and important bank in just the right position – opposite where the tram had been stopped, a bank with double plate- glass doors. But the glass was intact.
There was not a sliver of shattered glass in the roadway that Martel could see. The Swiss were good at clearing up messes, at keeping their country neat and tidy – but this was completely insane.
Now he was checking the sidewalk for blood, the blood he had slipped in, the dried blood still staining the soles of his shoes. The sidewalk was spotless. He had almost given up when he saw it. The fresh scar marks where bark had been torn and burnt by explosive from a tree. Even the Swiss couldn't grow a new tree in two hours.
CHAPTER 7
Thursday May 28
It was just after midnight at the remote schloss in the Allgau district of Bavaria. Reinhard Dietrich stood by a window in his library, looking out at the lights reflected in the moat. In one hand he held a glass of Napoleon brandy, in the other a Havana cigar. A buzzer began ringing persistently.
Sitting down behind a huge desk he unlocked a drawer, took out the telephone concealed inside and lifted the receiver. His tone was curt when Erwin Vinz identified himself.
`Blau here,' Dietrich barked. 'Any news?'
'The Englishman has left Zurich. He caught a train departing at 2339 hours from the Hauptbahnhof.' The wording was precise, the voice hoarse. 'Our people just missed getting on board after he jumped inside a compartment…'
'Left Ziirich! What the hell do you mean? What happened at the Centralhof apartment?'
'The operation was not a complete success…' Vinz was nervous. Dietrich's mouth tightened. Something had gone wildly wrong.
'Tell me exactly what happened,' he said coldly.
'The girl has taken a permanent holiday and she was unable to tell us anything about her job. We gained the impression she had no information to pass on. You don't have to worry about her…'
'But I do have to worry about Martel! Goddamnit, where is he now? Which train?'
'Its final destination was St. Gallen…'
Dietrich gripped the receiver more firmly, his expression choleric. In clipped, terse sentences he issued instructions, slammed down the receiver and replaced the instrument inside the drawer. He emptied his glass and pressed a bell.
A hunchback padded into the room. His pointed ears were flat against the side of his head so they almost merged with his skull. He wore a green beize overall and smelt of cleaning fluid. His master handed him the glass.
'More brandy! Oscar, Vinz and his special cell bungled the job. It looks as though Martel has arrived in St. Gallen, for God's sake…'
'We dealt with the previous English,' Oscar reminded him.
Reinhard Dietrich, a man of sixty, had a thatch of thick silver hair and a matching moustache. Six feet tall, he was well-built without an ounce of excess fat. He was dressed in the outfit he preferred when at his country schloss – a London-tailored leather jacket and cavalry twill jodphurs tucked inside hand-tooled riding boots. Dietrich looked every inch the man he was as he stood savouring the Havana – one of post-war Germany's richest and most powerful industrialists.
He had entered the electronics field in its infancy, shrewdly judging this to be the product with the greatest development potential. His headquarters was in Stuttgart and he had a second large factory complex at Phoenix, Arizona. He sipped at his refilled glass, watching Oscar's unblinking eyes.
'We shall certainly deal with this fresh meddler from London. Vinz is flooding St. Gallen with our people. Martel will be tracked down by nightfall. They have eliminated that Swiss bitch, Claire Hofer.' His voice rose, his florid face reddened. 'Nothing must interfere with Operation Crocodile! On June 3 the Summit Express will be crossing Germany. On June 4 the Bavarian state elections will be held – Delta will sweep into power!'
'And Martel…'
'The order is – kill him!'
Martel left the night train at St. Gallen confident that no one had followed him. At Zurich he had caught the train seconds before it departed. Once abroad he had waited by the window to see if there were any other last-minute passengers. No one appeared and he made his way through an almost-empty train to a first-class compartment. With an overwhelming sense of relief he sank into a corner seat.
At St. Gallen he took his time getting off the train. As he carried his suitcase slowly towards the exit the platform was deserted. There is no more depressing place than a station in the early hours. As Claire Hofer had told him, the Hotel Metropol faced the station.
The night porter confirmed his reservation and Martel asked him the room rate. He counted out banknotes, talking as he did so to distract the man, adding a generous tip to keep him distracted.
'That's
payment for two nights this is for you. I'm so tired I can hardly stand up. I'll register in the morning. Are there any messages for me?' he asked quickly.
Just this envelope…'
It had worked – the delay in filling in the registration form which is obligatory for a guest to complete on arrival at any Swiss hostelry. The form is in triplicate. During the night the police tour the hotels to collect their copy. By not filling in the form immediately Martel had delayed knowledge of his presence in St. Gallen by twenty-four hours.
Inside his twin-bedded room he opened the sealed envelope. In a neat feminine script were written the words 'Room 12'. It was the room next to his own. He knocked very lightly on the door and she opened it immediately. She didn't say a word until she had closed and locked it. Over her right hand was draped a towel.
`The mutual friend?'
`David Nagel, for God's sake…'
'I saw you from my window which looks across to the station – but you can't blame me for checking…'
'I'm sorry. I want you to be careful. It's just that I last ate before noon on the plane. I'm tired..
'You look exhausted.' She removed the towel, exposing a 9-mm pistol she had been concealing and which she slipped under her pillow. 'You must be thirsty. It's a hot night. I'm afraid I only have Perrier water…'
'I'll take it from the bottle.'
He sank on to the bed furthest from the window and forced himself to study her as he drank. She was the right height, correct weight, and her dark hair was cut with a heavy fringe over her forehead and shoulder length at the back. In the glow from a bedside light her eyes were a deep blue. 'You'll want proof of my identity…' He hauled out his passport, gave it to her and finished off the Perrier.
She tried to show him her own identity card but he was so weary he waved it aside. What bloody difference did it make? Delta had put in a substitute – Gisela Zobel – in Zurich. He had rescued another girl – whose description also matched – trussed up in a cupboard at the Centralhof apartment. The whirlpool began spinning in his head again …