Double Jeopardy tac-1

by Colin Forbes

  'Delta very active inside Switzerland… agents wear businessmen suits… Delta symbol openly displayed in lapels… strange lack of cooperation from locals.. dummy Claire waiting Centralhof tried to kill me… arrested by fake Arnold… imprisoned Hofer waiting Lisbeth Hofer… Claire's twin-like sitter… Lisbeth kidnapped during bloodbath in Bahnhofstrasse… repeat in Bahnhofstrasse… Ferdy Arnold later reported her body found in Limmat… Nagel denied all knowledge events in Bahnhofstrasse… now with genuine Claire Hofer St. Gallen… leaving immediately with her to investigate scene Warner murder… Claire reports Warner made three mentions Operation Crocodile… something phoney about Delta neo-Nazis… must go…'

  'Wait!' Tweed's tone was urgent. 'Bayreuth reports Manfred has crossed the border near Hof into West Germany. Manfred – got it?'

  `Christ!'

  Martel had slammed down the receiver, grabbed his suitcase and-run across the platform to the compartment door Claire had left open. Boarding the express, he hauled the door closed behind him as the train began moving east, dumped his case on a seat and sat down.

  Even in the early afternoon the third-floor apartment in the sombre Munich apartment block was so dim the occupant had turned on the shaded desk-lamp. He had entered the apartment to find the phone ringing. His gloved hand lifted the receiver.

  `Vinz – calling from Lindau

  'We are here,' Manfred replied in his soft, calm voice. 'You arc calling to confirm that a successful deal was concluded in St. Gallen?'

  'Regrettably it was not possible to conclude the deal…' Erwin Vinz forced himself to go on. 'Kohler has reported from there…'

  'And why was the deal not concluded?'

  `The opposition's negotiator proved uncooperative…' Vinz was sweating, his armpits felt damp. 'And the services of two of our people were terminated…'

  'T-e-r-m-i-n-a-t-e-d?'

  Manfred repeated the word with great deliberation as though he were sure he had misheard. There was a pause and the light from the desk-lamp was reflected in the lenses of the large dark-tinted glasses Manfred wore. In Lindau Vinz made the effort to continue.

  `The Englishman is now aboard an express bound for Munich. It is due here in about half an hour…'

  `So,' Manfred interjected smoothly, 'you have made all preparations to board the express at Lindau to continue negotiations with this gentleman.' Now it was Manfred's turn to pause. 'You do, of course, realise it is imperative you conclude the deal with him before the train reaches Munich?'

  'Everything has been arranged by me personally. I just thought I should check with you…'

  'Always check with me, Vinz. Always. Then, as a matter of courtesy, you keep Mr Reinhard Dietrich informed…'

  'I will report progress…'

  'Passengers have been known to fall out of trains,' Manfred purred. 'You will report success.

  Cooped up inside his payphone on the Bavarian mainland Erwin Vinz realised the connection had been broken. Swearing, he pushed open the door and hurried away through a drift of grey mist.

  The medieval town of Lindau – once an Imperial city – was blotted out in the fog coming in off the lake. The Old Town is a network of cobbled streets and alleyways which at night only the most intrepid venture down. Not that there is normally any danger – Lindau is a most law-abiding place.

  Shortly after Manfred received his phone call three cars proceeded over the road bridge and headed for the Hauptbahnhof. The station is another curious feature of Lindau. Main-line expresses on their way from Zurich to Munich make a diversion at this point. The line takes them across the embankment to the west on to the island. They stop at the Hauptbahnhof next to the harbour.

  If you alight from an express at Lindau you pass through Zoll – the customs and passport control post – because you have crossed the border from Austria into Germany. But boarding a train at Lindau for Munich you do not pass through Zoll – since you are already in Germany.

  This factor was important to the eight men led by Vinz alighting from the three cars at the Hauptbahnhof. The drivers took the cars away immediately. Dressed like businessmen, two of the eight passengers carried suitcases containing uniforms. These would be donned aboard the Munich express as soon as it began moving out of Lindau.

  The uniforms were those of a German State Railways ticket inspector and a German Passport Control official. It was the latter – travelling rapidly through the train and explaining there was a double-check on passports – who expected to locate Keith Martel. The plan was simple. Erwin Vinz, thirty-eight years old, small, thin and with hooded eyelids, was in charge of the execution squad.

  Vinz would wear the Passport Control uniform. Vinz would locate the target. If Martel were travelling alone in a compartment it would be invaded when the express was travelling at speed by four men. The outer door would be opened and the Englishman would be hurled from the train. The whole operation, Vinz calculated, would take less than twenty seconds.

  If Martel had fellow-passengers in his compartment Vinz would ask him to accompany him because there was a query on his passport. He would be guided to an empty compartment and the same procedure would be followed. Vinz knew that this particular express was always half-empty on this day of the week.

  The platform marked for the arrival of the express was deserted as the eight men arrived separately from the concourse. The fog created a hushed atmosphere and the men moved in it like ghosts. Vinz checked his watch. They were in good time. The express was due in twenty minutes.

  CHAPTER 10

  Thursday May 28

  'You'll like Lindau, Keith,' Claire said as Martel peered out of the window from the fast-moving express. 'It is one of the most beautiful old towns in Germany…'

  'I know it.' He had his mind on something else. 'I shall want to contact Erich Stoller of the BND as soon as we can – to let him have a look at this…'

  Unlocking his case, he produced something rolled up in a handkerchief. A blue, shiny cylinder like a large felt-tip pen. There were two press-buttons: one on the casing, the second at the base.

  'I rescued this little Delta toy from the floor of the Embroidery Museum where the killer dropped it. This button half-way along the casing ejects and retracts the needle. I imagine the one at the base injects the poison. Ingenious – you can use the full force of the palm of your hand to operate the injection mechanism. Stoller's forensic people will tell us what fluid it contains…'

  'That woman I shot outside the Hecht…'

  'Was going to use the duplicate of this. Intriguing that Reinhard Dietrich runs an electronics complex -which involves fine instrumentation…'

  `You mean he manufactures that horrible thing?'

  'Damned sure of it.' He replaced the weapon inside his case and looked again out of the window. Up to now the view had been one of green cultivated fields and rolling hills – one of the most attractive and least-known parts of Switzerland. Well clear of the tourist belt.

  The landscape was changing. They were crossing flatlands dimly visible in swirling mist which hid nearby Lake Konstanz. They saw few signs of human habitation and there was something desolate in the atmosphere. Martel concentrated on the view as though he might miss something important.

  `This is the Rhine delta, isn't it?' he queried.

  `Yes. We cross the river soon just before it runs into the lake.'

  Delta. Was there significance in this geographical curiosity at the extreme eastern end of the lake? The southern shore was Swiss except for a weird enclave of land occupied by the German town of Konstanz away to the west. The northern shore was German. But at this eastern tip a few miles of lake frontage was Austrian.

  Martel adjusted the horn-rimmed spectacles with plain glass he wore to change his appearance. He lit a fresh cigarette, being careful not to use his holder. He seemed to have relapsed into a dream.

  'We shall soon be in Lindau,' Claire said exuberantly, trying to drag him out of his dark mood. 'Surely we must find something – it was
/>
  …' Her voice wavered and then she had herself under control. 'It was the last place Warner was seen alive.'

  `Except that we are getting off at the stop before – Bregenz in Austria.'

  'Why?'

  `Bregenz could be important. And it will be the last place Delta will expect us to leave the train…'

  Hauptbahnhof, Munich… Hauptbahnhof, Zurich… Delta… Centralhof…Bregenz. Washington, DC, Clint Loomis… Pullach, BND… Operation Crocodile.

  These were the references the dead Charles Warner had written in the tiny black notebook hidden in a secret pocket, the notebook Erich Stoller of the BND had discovered on the body and flown to Tweed in London.

  Bregenz.

  As the express slowed down Claire caught a glimpse of Lake Konstanz through the corridor windows – a sheet of calm grey water. The express stopped and when Martel opened the door at the end of the coach he found no platform – they stepped down on to the track. He dumped his suitcase, took Claire's and held her elbow while she descended the steep drop. She shivered as she picked up her case and they made their way across rail tracks to the station, an old single-storey building.

  `You shivered…'

  It's the mist,' she said shortly.

  A cold clammy dampness moistened her face and she felt it penetrating her light raincoat. She had lied. It was the mist partly – but mainly it was the atmosphere created by the drifts of greyish vapour. You saw things, then they were gone.

  Behind Bregenz looms the massive heights of the Pfdnder, a ridge whose sides are densely forested. As they crossed to the station Claire saw a gap appear in the mist pall exposing the dripping wall of limestone, then it too was gone. There was no ticket barrier to pass through – tickets had been checked aboard the express. They depogited their cases in the self-locking metal compartments for luggage and walked into Bregenz.

  The place seemed deserted, as though it were a Sunday. A line of old block-like buildings faced the station. Martel paused, puffing his cigarette as he glanced round searching for anything out of place. Claire gazed at him.

  `Those glasses make you look studious – they change your whole personality. And you're walking more ponderously. You're just like a chameleon. Incidentally, what are we going to do here?'

  He extracted two photos of Charles Warner obtained from Tweed before leaving Park Crescent and handed her one of the prints. She looked at the picture of the man she had worked with for over six months, the man who had been brutally murdered on the lake behind them – only a short distance from where they stood.

  `The story is we're looking for a friend – Warner,' Martel told her. 'His wife is seriously ill and we think he's somewhere here. We'll buy a street map,, divide up the place into sections – then meet up at an agreed place in two hours' time…'

  `It sounds a hopeless task,' she commented when they were studying a street plan bought at a kiosk.

  `Warner was here – he made a reference to the place in his notebook. Concentrate on anywhere selling cigarettes – he smoked like a chimney. He had a strong personality, made an impression on anyone he talked to. Now, we'll decide which district each of us is going to tackle. Half this job is legwork…'

  In the Munich apartment the phone began ringing and Manfred, who was expecting the call, picked up the receiver with his gloved hand. It was Erwin Vinz. Manfred, a teetotaller, poured Perrier water as he listened intently.

  'I am speaking from Munich Hauptbahnhof,' Vinz began after giving the identification code. 'I got off the train a few minutes ago

  Manfred knew immediately something was wrong. Vinz was rambling, reluctant to come to the point. Manfred introduced into the conversation his often-used ploy.

  'Excellent! We assume all went well. Appointment kept and deal concluded!'

  'The Englishman was not on the train. There is no doubt – I can vouch for the fact personally. If he got aboard at St. Gallen he must have got off at Romanshorn or St. Margarethen in Switzerland.'

  'Kohler saw him closing the compartment door after he boarded the express at St. Gallen…'

  Manfred's voice was gentle and delicate, concealing his livid rage. Vinz's insolence in emphasising If cast doubt on Kohler's competence. Not that Manfred cared a damn about Kohler – but Vinz was trying to shift the blame and that he would not tolerate.

  'Kohler would have known,' Manfred continued, 'if our friend left the train while it was moving through Switzerland…' Manfred saw no reason to explain that Kohler would have had men with a clear description of Keith Martel waiting at each Swiss stop. He continued to make Vinz sweat.

  'Your sector began at the Swiss border. You got on the train at Lindau

  'The bastard must have got off at Bregenz,' Vinz interjected. 'It was the only place left uncovered…'

  'Left uncovered by you…'

  Bregenz! Manfred's hand gripped the receiver tightly. The one town he did not want Martel poking around in was Bregenz. He felt like screaming at Vinz, but the sensitivity of the situation must at all costs be hidden.

  'I can have a team in Bregenz in one hour,' Vinz volunteered, disturbed by the silence at the other end of the line.

  'We would like your team to keep its appointment with the client in half an hour. I hold you personally responsible for bringing about a successful conclusion to this transaction…'

  Inside the payphone at Munich Hauptbahnhof Vinz swore again. Once more Manfred had abruptly terminated the conversation. And now he had to fly his bloody team back from Munich to the airstrip nearest Bregenz. This time they had to eliminate the Englishman.

  In London Tweed had left his office for his flat in Maida Vale after receiving the St. Gallen call from Martel. Mason, Howard's new deputy, had tried to delay him. Looking leaner and hungrier than ever, he arrived as Tweed was leaving.

  'The chief would like to see you in his office, sir. He says it is extremely urgent…'

  'It always is – to him. I'll see him when I get back.'

  Tweed took a cab to the flat. He also took Miss McNeil and she carried the Martel tape concealed in a hold-all. While in the cab he asked his question.

  'That new recruit, Mason. Is he any good at anything?'

  'He'd make a good bodyguard,' McNeil replied in her crisp Scots accent. 'He's an expert at judo, karate. A marksman with handguns. Special Branch were happy for Howard to take him.'

  'Why?'

  McNeil had a finely-tuned ear on the grapevine. Probably due to her gift for listening with attentive concentration and unlimited patience.

  'He was too physical – always resorted to heavy handling of any suspect at the drop of a hat. A lot of hats – and clangers – were dropped, I gather.'

  At the flat McNeil played back the tape of Martel's conversation on the machine kept there permanently, making notes in neat loops and curls. She had offered to make the tea but Tweed insisted only he could make it the way he liked it. You would imagine he had been a lifetime bachelor, McNeil thought, as she went on making her notes. Tweed arrived with theiray of tea as the tape came to the end of the recording.

  The block of flats Tweed lived in was self-service. He had a Sicilian woman who came in to clean the place and often complained she was 'illiterate in three languages'. There was a restaurant on the ground floor. Here Tweed, now on his own, led a self-contained existence. He poured the tea as he asked the question.

  `Anything strike you about Martel's data?'

  `Two things. Delta seems to be acting in a frenzy – as though they're working against a deadline. Bloodbath. That's strong language from Martel in a report. And another reference – something phoney about Delta neo-Nazis. I don't understand what he's driving at…'

  'McNeil, you're a treasure. You always spot the salient facts. Makes me feel redundant. I'm pretty sure the deadline is June 2 when the Summit Express leaves Paris – because by morning it will be crossing Bavaria…'

  `You're thinking about the Bavarian state elections?'

  `Exactly. Three main
parties are competing for power – to take over the state government. Dietrich's Delta- the neo-Nazis – the government party under Chancellor Kurt Langer, and the left-wing lot under Tofler, the alleged ex-Communist. If something dramatic happens on June 3, the day before the election, it might swing the election result-into Toiler's hands. For the West it would be a major disaster.'

  `What dramatic event could happen?'

  'I only wish I knew.' Tweed sipped his tea. 'I'm convinced Delta has some secret plan – hence the frenzy to eliminate anyone digging into their affairs.'

  'What about the reference to something phoney?'

  McNeil sat quite still, watching Tweed gazing owlishly through his spectacles into the distance. He was, she knew, capable of sudden flashes of intuition – a leap into the future he divined from just the sort of ragbag of facts Martel had provided.

  'It has the feel of a separate cell operating secretly inside Delta,' Tweed said slowly. 'That's the only explanation for some of their actions which seem to be designed to ensure they lose the election…'

  'Now you've lost me,' McNeil commented tartly.

  'Where have you two been?'

  Howard was waiting for them when McNeil and Tweed returned to the latter's office. Standing stiff-backed he had the window behind him -so his own face was in shadow while the new arrivals were caught in the full glare of the light from the curved window. He clasped his hands over his stomach which was decorated with the double loop of a gold watch-chain.

  Very militant in mood as well as stance, Tweed observed as he sat behind his desk. He knew the type only too well. An inferiority complex as large as Everest – so they compensated by periodic assertions of authority, just to make sure they still held it.

  'Went for a walk in Regent's Park,' Tweed lied blandly. 'You're working on a problem?' Howard pounced.

  The SIS chief was in a nervous state of mind, McNeil decided. She was carrying the empty hold-all inside which she had smuggled out Martel's tape to the flat in Maida Vale.

  'What's inside that hold-all?' Howard demanded.

  'Cheese sandwiches – Cheddar, if you must know,' Tweed interjected. 'k's better than the Cheshire – more flavour..