Double Jeopardy tac-1

by Colin Forbes

  The watcher waiting inside the Hauptbahnhof had heard nothing, he was convinced. But even in the mist he could have seen Martel's silhouette outlined for a few seconds against the glow of lights in the lounge as he left the hotel.

  He stood motionless in a shadowed area and the whispering stopped. Somewhere behind him his follower realised that Martel had also paused. The trouble was the bastards probably knew every inch of Lindau. Their problem was they could not be sure of his destination.

  He started walking again suddenly, sensing there were several men somewhere in the mist. There would be several: Delta operated in strength. He had not forgotten Zurich where men had poured out of the two cars. He had been counting side-turnings and came to a street light, a milky globe supported by a wall-bracket. Krummgasse.

  Martel had no option. To reach the main street, Maximilianstrasse, he had to leave the dubious safety of the narrow Ludwigstrasse and make his way along the even narrower alley of Krummgasse. Moving away from the blurred glow of the light he stared into the well of darkness. Once he negotiated Krummgasse he was within shouting distance of the police station.

  Behind him he heard again the slither of sleeve against cloth. They were moving in. Reinhard Dietrich would be miles away – his previous presence totally unlinked with the murder of a second Englishman in the Lindau area. Martel went inside Krummgasse – taking longer strides to confuse the man behind him, accustomed to his earlier, slower pace.

  Martel's vision was exceptional and he was peering ahead. For the moment he had out-distanced the follower behind. He stopped again and heard no whispering slither. His tactic was to get to the more open Maximilianstrasse and then sprint for police headquarters. Ahead of him he heard the squeak of a shoe.

  The mouse in the trap. Himself. A man – men? – coming up behind. And the enemy also in front just when he was close to the end of Krummgasse. Delta had planned well. The moment he entered Ludwigstrasse they had guessed his destination – or assumed the one place he must never be allowed to reach. The police station.

  So at the end of each alley leading from Ludwigstrasse to the parallel street, Maximilianstrasse, they had positioned a soldier. The squeaking shoe suggested the man in front was advancing down Krummgasse towards him, closing the pincer movement. Martel darted into the shadowed recess of a doorway and prayed that Squeaky Shoe would arrive quickly.

  Something solid emerged from the swirling mist, right hand projected forward like a fencer about to lunge. With his left hand Martel extracted a Swiss five-franc coin from his pocket and tossed it across the street. Clunk!

  In the hushed silence the sound was surprisingly loud and the man, who seemed familiar – something about his marionette-like movements – stopped next to the Englishman's doorway, glancing the other way. There was still no repetition of the slither – so the follower behind was a distance away. Martel moved.

  The man sensed danger, turned and held his right hand ready to ram it forward. The barrel of Martel's Colt crashed down on the would-be assassin's head with tremendous force. Martel felt the barrel hammer through a hat, strike the skull and reverberate off it. The attacker slumped and lay in a twisted heap on the cobbles like a pile of old clothes.

  Martel ran. Reaching the end of the alley he turned right and by the glow of a street lantern read the legend Stadtpolizei on a wall-plate. The entrance was round the corner in Bismarckplatz. He shoved open the door and stopped in front of a counter behind which a startled policeman gazed at him.

  He slammed down a piece of plastic like a credit card on to the counter and slipped the Colt back inside its holster as the policeman surreptitiously unbuttoned his hip holster. Still short of breath, he gasped out the words.

  'Sergeant Dorner! And bloody quick! If he's at home get him out of bed. There's my identification. And send a couple of men to Krummgasse. There should be a body for them to trip over…'

  'We've had an alert out for you, Martel – they should have seen you when you crossed the Bavarian border…'

  Martel was impressed by Sergeant Dorner. A short, burly man in his early forties, he had sandy hair, shrewd grey eyes with a hint of humour, and a general air of a man who knew what he was doing, a man not frightened to take decisions.

  Martel was seated across a table from the police officer on the second floor of the building overlooking Bismarckplatz, drinking a cup of strong coffee. It was very good coffee.

  They had found the body lying in Krummgasse, the body Martel had identified as Rolf Gross, the second man who had arrived late at the Bayerischer Hof. They had found more than that. Underneath the corpse – Martel's powerful blow had split Gross's skull – was lying what Dorner called a 'flick hypodermic'. He held up the weapon with the needle projecting inside a plastic bag.

  'You were lucky,' Dorner commented. 'And this clears you. The fingerprint boys checked Gross's against those on the handle. It must look like a felt-tip pen before this button is pressed and the needle shoots out. Forensic were dragged out of bed to tell me what it contains…'

  `And what is inside it?'

  'Potassium cyanide in solution. It's the kind of weapon you'd expect the Soviets to have dreamt up…'

  `Maybe they did…'

  But these people are Delta – neo-Nazis. I've never seen any weapon like it before…'

  'I have. It's a Delta special,' Martel replied with grim humour. `So how do you account for the fact that neo-Nazis are using it?'

  'I don't,' Dorner admitted. 'Nothing makes sense about what is going on. We're finding the caches of their weapons and uniforms with Delta badges too easily…'

  'Too easily?'

  `Yes. Erich Stoller of the BND is on his way here. I got him out of bed, too…' Dorner lowered his voice. 'When Stoller flew here after Warner's body was found he told me he has an informant who regularly passes on the location of these arms dumps. Always in an uninhabited place – an abandoned farm building, an empty villa.'

  'In other words you get the arms, the uniforms – the news in the press – but you never grab a single person?'

  'Weird, isn't it?' Dorner stood up and lit a cheroot, staring out of the window he had closed against the mist. 'We get no individual, no record of a property owner we can trace. Just as we've been unable to locate any colleague of Gross's…'

  'I told you Erwin Vinz is staying at the Bayerischer Hof…'

  'Paid for his room and left ten minutes before my men got there. Said an urgent business message had called him away. I've put my best man on guard outside Claire Hofer's room – dressed as a porter, he's whiling away the night cleaning shoes.'

  `Thanks.' Martel, almost dropping from lack of sleep, was beginning to approve of Sergeant Dorner more and more. `And as I told you, Reinhard Dietrich was staying at the same hotel…'

  'Not staying,' Dorner corrected him. 'He arrives in that bloody great Mercedes, has a leisurely dinner, a chat with you – and then leaves. What do I charge him with? Eating too large a dinner and smoking Havana cigars?' He eased his large buttock on to the edge of his desk. 'Bloody frustrating…'

  `So we set a trap – make them an offer they can't refuse.' Dorner took the cheroot out of his mouth and frowned. 'Just what are you proposing?'

  It took Martel one hour, the arrival of Erich Stoller, eight cups of coffee and four cheroots to obtain their backing for his plan.

  CHAPTER 15

  Friday May 29

  Claire reports Warner made three mentions Operation Crocodile…

  While Martel was finally catching up on his sleep at the Bayerischer Hof after the key meeting with Stoller and Dorner, Tweed – in his Maida Vale flat – was playing the same section of the tape-recording of Martel's report from St. Gallen over and over. It was the fifth time he had listened to the recording, he was alone and tired.

  During the day there had been another row with Howard who was about to fly to Paris. There he was attending a meeting of the four security chiefs responsible for the security of the VIP's who – in only five
days' time -would start their journey from Paris aboard the Summit Express bound for Vienna.

  The British Prime Minister would fly to Charles de Gaulle Airport and from there would be driven direct to the Gare de l'Est. At about the same time the French President's motorcade would be on its way to the same destination.

  The head of the French Secret Service in control of security for his President was Alain Flandres, an old friend of Tweed's. And the American President, flying the Atlantic direct to Orly Airport in Air Force One, would be driven from there at high speed to join the others.

  The security chief – head of the American Secret Service – responsible for his chief of state was Tim O'Meara, a man Tweed had met only once. It was a recent appointment. The fourth VIP – Chancellor Kurt Langer of West Germany – was scheduled to board the express the following morning at Munich. Erich Stoller of the BND would lose sleep watching over his master.

  `Why this bloody train lark?' Tweed had asked Howard during the confrontation in his office. 'They could all fly direct to Vienna to meet the Soviet First Secretary. It would be a damned sight safer…'

  'The French President,' Howard had explained tersely. 'Hates flying. The excuse given is they'll all take the opportunity to coordinate policy at leisure before the train reaches Vienna. I do need every man possible and Martel…'

  'What's the route?'

  'The direct one,' Howard had replied stiffly. He implied Tweed's knowledge of geography was limited. 'Paris to Strasbourg…'

  'Ulm, Stuttgart, Munich, Salzburg – then Vienna…' 'Then why ask?' Howard rasped.

  'To check no diversion is planned…'

  'Why the hell should there be one?'

  'You tell me,' Tweed had replied, watching with some satisfaction as Howard stormed out of the office.

  But Howard had cause to worry, Tweed thought later in the early hours in his flat. The Times atlas was open in front of him with the double-page spread of Plate 64 – South-West Germany including the northern tip of Switzerland. On it he followed a large section of the route from Strasbourg across Bavaria to Salzburg.

  Operation Crocodile…

  What the hell could that be? He took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. Without them everything – including the map – was blurred. You saw everything in simplified shapes. He raised a hand to close the atlas and then stopped, rigid, like a man unable to move. He could see the crocodile!

  In the morning after breakfast Martel made an elaborate pantomime about hiring a launch from a man in Lindau harbour – the same harbour from which Charles Warner, also in a hired launch, started out on his last journey.

  There was a lot of waving of hands. There were discussions about the merits of one vessel compared with another. There was debate as to how long he wanted to hire the craft for. Finally, there was lengthy argument about the price.

  From a distance two women watched this carefully staged charade. Perched on a seat on the Romerschanze terrace overlooking the harbour, Claire played the role of tourist. And Martel had warned her again there must be no sign to tell a watcher that they knew each other.

  She swivelled her field-glasses at apparent random. Lake Konstanz was living up to its unpredictable reputation. Fogbound the previous evening, the new day was crystal clear with a vault of Mediterranean-like sky. To the south across the placid lake was a superb panorama of snow-tipped mountain peaks including the Three Sisters of Liechtenstein. A handful of tourists trudging round the waterfront added to the peaceful scene.

  Klara Beck, also equipped with binoculars, sat on a seat on the front with the hotel behind her. She had not been forgotten by Martel who had reported her presence to Sergeant Dorner and Stoller the previous night.

  'My men report Klara Beck is apparently staying the night at the hotel,' Dorner relayed to Martel after receiving a phone call. `That I would expect,' Martel had commented.

  'Why, may I ask?' enquired Stoller.

  `Because Delta don't realise I know she belongs to them. She's had no contact with Dietrich since she arrived, no contact with Erwin Vinz or Rolf Gross – so she's the ideal person to leave behind as a spy. And in the morning I can use her…'

  Martel was using Beck now, Claire decided as she trained her lenses on the girl. Like Claire, Beck was using her binoculars and they were aimed in the direction of Martel.

  'I think, dear, you're going to move soon,' Claire said to herself.

  She left her seat, strolled down the steps to the harbour front and wandered slowly towards the hotel in the. warming glow of the sun. Her timing was perfect. She was close to Beck's seat when the German girl got up and began walking rapidly back towards the Bayerischer Hof entrance. On the mole Martel had just ostentatiously shaken hands with the man he was hiring the launch from.

  But when she turned the corner it was not the hotel Beck headed for. Instead she crossed the road, passed under the large tree where taxis waited and disappeared inside the Hauptbahnhof. Her shadow followed.

  Pushing open a door, Claire glanced to her left and saw what she had expected. Beck was inside one of the telephone booths, making % call. Claire drifted over to a bookstall and started to look at paperbacks. The new development worried her.

  Inside the phone booth Beck dialled a local number, cradled the receiver on her shoulder and looked towards the station exit. No one was there. At the other end of the line a man's voice responded as though waiting for her call.

  'Hagen here…'

  'Werner, this is Klara

  'We are ready. Any joy?'

  'The goods are aboard a grey launch. Departure imminent…'

  She broke the connection and left the station, crossing over to the hotel at a leisurely pace, drinking in the delight of the sun's warmth. On the steps she paused close to a pavement artist as he began drawing a fresh picture, taking out her cigarette pack.

  'Watch for the police bringing back that grey launch,' she murmured.

  She lit the cigarette and went into the lounge. She had just triggered off the execution of the second Englishman.

  Sergeant Doi-ner was not looking where he was going as he walked down Ludwigstrasse towards the harbour. He crashed into the girl and would have knocked her over except for his swift grab round her shoulders with both hands. Claire Hofer, who had timed her arrival as agreed earlier, stood quite still. Dorner, wearing civilian clothes, spoke loudly.

  'I do apologise. My own clumsy fault…' His voice dropped, his lips scarcely moved. 'Everything is organised. Fifteen minutes from now the island is sealed…'

  Dorner left Claire who walked rapidly after checking her watch. Minutes – seconds – counted if the trap were to be successfully sprung. She turned down a short cut to the harbour front. Martel was aboard his launch, reached by climbing down a steep ladder attached to the side of the mole.

  Claire glanced to her right, saw the pavement artist, Braun, as he strolled into view, hands clasped behind his back. Taking a brilliant red head-scarf out of her shoulder-bag she wrapped the covering round her head.

  Aboard the launch Martel saw the flash of brilliant red cloth – the signal that everyone was in position. He caught a glimpse of Sergeant Dorner strolling round the harbour to where the large police launch was berthed. Lighting a cigarette, he watched Claire out of the corner of his eye. She was hurrying now towards the open-air bathing-pool walled off from the lake below the Romerschanze terrace.

  Reaching the pool, she used the entrance ticket purchased earlier and entered one of the changing cubicles. With the door locked she stripped off her synthetic jersey dress, revealing the bikini she wore underneath. Slipping the rolled-up dress and her pistol inside a water-proof bag, she attached the bag to her wrist with a leather thong.

  She left the shoulder-bag which was now empty inside the cubicle, locked the door, checked her waterproof watch and walked along the outer wall. At that time of day there was hardly anyone about. She dived off the wall into the lake.

  Slipping loose the mooring rope, Martel we
nt inside the cramped wheel-house of the launch and checked his watch – which earlier he had synchronised with Claire and Sergeant Dorner Two minutes to go. He inserted a cigarette into his holder and lit it.

  The only lingering traces of the mist which had shrouded Lake Konstanz the previous day covered the Austrian shore. The forecast promised a warm sunny day. It was a major factor Martel had taken into account when finalising his plan with Dorner and Stoller. And at this moment the BND chief was controlling operations from an office at Stadtpolizei.

  Martel was careful not to look towards the eastern side of the harbour. Moored to its berth by the Lion Mole lay the two-decker launch of the Water Police commanded by Sergeant Dorner. The German was already below-decks, changing into official uniform after slipping aboard unnoticed. Martel double-checked his watch, took a deep breath and began to leave harbour.

  Inside his office at Stadtpolizei Erich Stoller stood looking out of the window into the main street. It was just another day for the townspeople. Tourists sat at tables outside Hauser's drinking coffee and. consuming cream cakes. Behind him on a heavy table was the transceiver and its operator – the key to Stoller's control.

  With the use of the transceiver he could instantly communicate with police cars discreetly stationed near the road bridge, with other vehicles strategically placed on the mainland near the end of the rail embankment.

  The transceiver also kept him in direct touch with Sergeant Dorner aboard the police launch still berthed in the harbour. A signal came over the transceiver.

  `Siefried is riding…'

  Dorner had reported that Martel was on his way.

  At a remote point on the misty shore five windsurfers ran down the shallow beach to board their waiting craft. They were stationed midway between Lindau and the Austrian town of Bregenz. Their leader, Werner Hagen, a six-foot blond giant, was running towards them, gesturing at the lake. He had been waiting by a telephone inside a deserted warehouse, waiting for the call from Klara Beck.

  `He's leaving Lindau harbour,' he shouted as he ran to his own sail. 'A grey launch. Martel alone is aboard…'