by Colin Forbes
'Anyone else with him in this unit?'
'A guy called Lou Carson. He was subordinate to O'Meara…'
'And all the time O'Meara was in West Berlin you're convinced he obeyed the directive – under no circumstances to go over the Wall?'
He was watching Loomis closely. The American had swung his legs off the bunk and was opening another can of beer. Tweed shook his head, his eyes fixed on Loomis who was staring into the distance.
'Maybe that was when the bastard first started to dislike me,' he said eventually.
Tweed sat quite still. He had experienced this before with interrogations – you sensed when pure chance had played into your lap. There was a time to speak, a time to preserve silence.
Loomis stood up and stared through a porthole across the peaceful waters. The craft rocked gently, scarcely moving. Tweed looked round the neat cabin. The American kept a tidy ship. He had kept a tidy desk at Langley, Tweed recalled – which was where he should still be. Loomis started talking.
'This particular unit in West Berlin was just these two guys – keeping tabs on the East German espionage set-up. It was one time Carlos was reported as being in East Berlin…'
'Really?'
'We had a system of identification codes,' Loomis continued, 'so I always knew when a signal came from O'Meara and when it was from Lou Carson – without either man knowing the other had his personal call-sign. We started playing it pretty close to the chest after the debacle…'
'Let me get this clear. Each man had his own identification signal so you knew who was sending a report. But both O'Meara arid Carson thought the system applied only to them – not to the other?'
'You've got it. You know, Tweed, you get a feeling when something is wrong. Signals were coming through from O'Meara but the wording didn't sound like O'Meara – although they carried his sign. So I hopped on a plane and arrived in West Berlin unannounced. Lou Carson was pretty embarrassed. I'd caught him with his pants down. He was on his own…'
'And where was O'Meara?'
'He surfaced two days later. Swore he had gone underground to another base for a couple of months because our normal one had been blown to the East German security people…'
'You believed him?' Tweed pressed.
'No, but that was only a gut feeling. You don't go to the Director with gut feelings. He likes solid evidence…'
'How had O'Meara got round the identification system?'
'Simple – he'd handed Lou Carson his identification log book so Lou could send messages and it would look as though they came from O'Meara. Carson cooperated because O'Meara told him to…'
'What happened next?' Tweed asked while Loomis was still wound up.
'Both men were recalled to Washington and others took their place. O'Meara had done a good job in West Berlin, he knew the right people, he can charm the birds out of the trees. Before I know it, he's promoted over my head and he's sending me to Bahrain with two hundred thousand dollars in a case aboard a special flight…'
'You said he embezzled the money.'
'Let me finish, for Christ's sake! When the people with the guns for Afghanistan checked the money I handed over they said it was counterfeit. They had a bright Indian who had worked for currency printers…'
'The counterfeit was good enough to deceive you?'
'I'd have accepted it without question. O'Meara had the case locked in his office safe, he took it out and handed it to me. He levered me out of the Company over that incident,' Loomis blazed. 'They let me go quietly because there had been too many scandals and they were worried about their image…'
'O'Meara just cleaned you out? No one else?'
'Lou Carson went. There were others. He was bringing in his own people. When he'd wrecked half-a-dozen lives he joins the Secret Service and walks away from the wreckage. There are guys like that everywhere…'
'It happens – but it's not pleasant,' Tweed murmured, then he changed the subject. Best to leave a pleasant atmosphere behind when he boarded Concorde for London the following day.
The second long-distance call to Manfred came duly at the agreed hour the following day while Tweed was aboard the Oasis. It was Manfred who opened the conversation.
'You have nothing to worry about. Tweed is in Washington.'
'The devil he is! How do you know that?'
'Because I have people everywhere. The problem is a small one. Measures have already been taken to deal with it…'
'You mean you're going to have Tweed…'
'Enough! And the answer to your question is no. It would be bad policy. Crocodile will proceed on schedule. Now I must go – I have matters to attend to…'
It would be bad policy… Manfred stood quite still, staring into space. He had not been quite frank with his caller, but Manfred was often anything but frank. He was' certainly not going to admit that the killing of Tweed would be an extremely difficult operation. The Englishman was equipped with a sixth sense where danger was concerned.
Instead there was a better way; of dealing with the problem. He picked up the phone again to call a Washington number.
It was Sunday May 31. Tweed had spent the night aboard Oasis – which the American had moved to a fresh mooring. This action confirmed the nervousness Tweed had detected on his arrival.
'Never stay in the same place for long,' Loomis remarked as he tied up the cruiser to a fresh buoy. 'And always move after dark without lights.'
'Illegal, isn't it?' Tweed enquired. 'To sail without navigation lights?'
'Bet your sweet life it is
Over a meal which the American cooked in the galley they talked about old times. Loomis remarked he had heard Tweed was being held in reserve for 'the time when Howard trips over his big feet. Then they bring you back to clean up the mess. No, don't protest,' he admonished, waving his spatula, 'my grapevine is good.'
Just prior to his departure for Dulles, it was Tweed who noticed two incidents which disturbed him. He was on deck with his suitcase, waiting for Loomis to climb down the ladder into the dinghy, when he observed movement onshore.
'Loan me your field-glasses, Clint,' he called out.
Something in his guest's tone made Loomis react quickly. Tweed raised the glasses to his eyes, adjusted the focus and studied the shoreline briefly. Then he handed them back, his lips compressed.
'Bird-watching?' Loomis enquired.
'There were two men in the trees over there. One of them had a camera with a telephoto lens – bloody great piece of equipment. I think he was photographing the Oasis..
'Probably just a camera nut. They shoot anything.'
They had climbed down into the dinghy and the dog, Waldo, stood at the top of the ladder keening, when a helicopter appeared, flying from the Chesapeake Bay direction down the. centre of the channel. As they left the cruiser Tweed craned his neck to get a look at the machine. 'That's the third time that chopper has over-flown us since I arrived,' Tweed commented.
`You see them all the time in this part of the world. Coastguard machines, private jobs…'
Loomis was concentrating on steering the dinghy to where they had parked his car. Tweed, hunched in the stern, continued staring up at the helicopter. The sun was reflecting off the plexiglas, making it impossible to see inside the pilot's cabin.
'I think it was the same machine each time,' he insisted. Loomis was unconcerned. 'It's O.K. – we left Waldo on board.'
At Dulles they repeated their performance of the previous day – wasting no time. Tweed got out of the car and walked rapidly into the building without a glance back. Behind him he heard Loomis already driving away.
Aboard Concorde after lift-off it seemed to Tweed he might never have visited America – it had all happened so quickly. He was so absorbed in his thoughts he never noticed when they passed through the sound barrier. Fragments of conversation with Loomis drifted back into his mind.
… O'Meara… surfaced two days later… he had gone underground to another base… a couple of mon
ths.., he'd handed Lou Carson his identification logbook…
Tweed began to feel drowsy. He closed his' eyes and fell asleep. It was the steep angle of descent which woke him. They were landing at London Airport. It had all been a dream. He had never been away at all. When he arrived at Park Crescent McNeil's expression prepared him for the shock.
CHAPTER 19
Sunday May 31
Clint Loomis parked his car in a different place when he returned from Dulles alone. He knew every inch of the shoreline on both banks and this time he chose an abandoned shed at the end of a dirt track to house the vehicle. Then he started the long walk back to where the outboard was concealed.
It was another brilliant sunny day and the heat beat down on the back of his neck as he dragged the dinghy to the water's edge, got inside and fired the motor. In the distance the cruiser Oasis was gleaming, the sun reflecting off the highly-polished brass. For a moment he was reminded of Tweed when he heard the sound of a helicopter and saw the machine disappearing in the direction of Chesapeake Bay. Then he concentrated on navigating his small craft.
Waldo was waiting for him, barking his head off at the top of the ladder. As he was tying up the dinghy Loomis vaguely noticed a second power cruiser rather like his own heading on a course towards him from Chesapeake Bay. He went through the same security precaution – tipping Waldo overboard and waiting while the dog swam round the boat before hauling him aboard.
The odd thing was Waldo only displayed signs of agitation when he was back on deck. He was shaking himself dry – and Loomis grinned as he recalled how Tweed had taken the brunt of the water the previous day – when the dog stopped, still dripping. His body tensed, his ears lay flat, his teeth were bared and he stood rigid while he emitted a slow, drawn-out snarl.
'What's the matter, boy? Tweed got you nervy…'
Loomis followed the direction of Waldo's stare and his expression changed. Waldo was gazing at the oncoming cruiser which, unless it changed course, would pass close by them on its way upriver. Loomis could see no sign of anyone on board,. which was odd. You would expect someone on deck on such a glorious day. He ran down into the cabin.
In a locked cupboard the ex-CIA man kept a small armoury. Opening it, he looked at the machine-pistol, the double- barrelled shotgun, the three hand-guns. He chose the shotgun.
It was like a ghost ship, the oncoming cruiser, Loomis thought as he came up on deck. Tinted glass in the wheelhouse windows which masked the presence of men who must be inside. Damnit, one man must be at the wheel. Chugging slowly and ominously, a cloth over the side concealing the name painted on its bow, it closed with Oasis.
Waldo was a coiled spring, hairs bristling, the softness of the growl from deep in his throat infinitely more menacing than his normal barking. Loomis glanced round to see if help was near at hand. Only a vast expanse of empty water greeted him.
He crouched low, his shotgun out of sight. If this was trouble one blast through the wheelhouse window was liable to take out anyone inside. The helmsman certainly – which meant the vessel would no longer stay on its remorseless course.
It was due to pass within yards on the port side, the side where Loomis waited. The hell of it was he couldn't initiate any action in case they were peaceful sailors going about their lawful occasions as the Brits would phrase it. The thought made him wish he had Tweed on board. He had a feeling Tweed would not just have sat and waited. But what the hell else could he do?
Stand up and address them through his loud-hailer? And present someone with a perfect target. Already he was working on the premise that the approaching cruiser was hostile – without one shred of evidence. Yes! Waldo was evidence – his reaction to the vessel was unusually violent…
They set about the task in a way Loomis had not foreseen. They were almost alongside Oasis when a flutter of dark, pineapple-shaped missiles sailed across the water separating the two vessels and landed in various places. On deck. On the foredeck. At the foot of the companionway. Grenades! Jesus Christ…!
They had slightly different time fuses. One landed underneath Waldo and detonated on impact. The dog disintegrated – into a flying mass of bloody meat and bone, smearing the woodwork. Loomis went crazy. He stood up.
'Bastards!'
His shotgun was levelled point-blank at the tinted glass of the other vessel but before he could pull the trigger a grenade which had landed just behind him exploded. All feeling suddenly left his legs and he found himself floating backwards, falling down the companionway. He landed at the bottom just as one of the grenades which had ended up in the cabin also detonated. It sliced away half his head.
A boathook grappled Oasis's side when ten separate explosions had been counted. The man holding it. wore a frogman's suit. The engine of the killer cruiser had been stopped and another man, also wearing a frogman's suit, leapt nimbly abroad holding a sub-machine gun.
He took only two minutes to search Oasis, to note that Loomis was dead, that no one else was hiding aboard. Then with the same agile movements he returned to his own cruiser, the engine started up and the vessel set on a new course which took it far away from Oasis as swiftly as possible.
In the burning-glass blue of the sky the pilot of a helicopter turned his machine and headed it away from Washington. Over his radio he spoke one word repeatedly.
Extinction… extinction… extinction…
CHAPTER 20
Sunday May 31
The headquarters of Bundesnachrichtentlienst – the BND, the German Federal Intelligence Service located at Pullach – is six miles south of Munich. Erich Stoller's nerve centre was surrounded by a wall of trees and an inner wall comprising an electrified fence. Stoller, with his dry humour, referred to it as 'my own Berlin Wall'. He had just made this remark over coffee to Martel.
Tweed, due to catch the 13.05 flight back to London, was still fast asleep aboard the Oasis owing to the difference in the time zones. They sat in Stoller's office inside a single-storey concrete blockhouse of a building. Through the armour plate-glass window a stretch of bare earth showed where armed guards patrolled. Beyond was the electrified fence and beyond that dense pine trees. It was another hot morning and the temperature was rising rapidly.
'I spent four years in Wiesbaden with the Kriminalpolizei,' the German told Martel. 'Then I transferred to the BND.' 'And after that?'
Martel watched Stoller's dark eyes as he drank some more of the strong coffee, his manner relaxed, his voice expressing friendly interest.
'A year here and then two inside the Zone…' Stoller's tone became sombre at the recollection of his time in East Germany. 'You know what it's like – going underground. It felt like ten years. Every hour of your waking day on the alert, every waking minute expecting a hand to drop on your shoulder. And you don't sleep too well,' he concluded with a wry smile. 'I thought you knew about that period…'
'Tweed doesn't tell me everything,' Martel lied easily. 'How long have you been back in civilisation?'
'Four years – if you can call Bavaria civilisation just at the moment. The riots are getting worse. The neo-Nazis march, the left-wing people counter-march, the two lots meet – and Boom!'
'The state government elections in a few days should solve all that,' Martel suggested.
– 'If Langer's moderates win. The trouble is Dietrich's party and the frequent discovery of Delta arms dumps may drive people into Toiler's left-wing bear-hug. Then he'll set up Bavaria as some kind of so-called Free State – detached from the Federal Republic…'
`You don't really believe that, Erich…'
'I do believe you've just been subjecting me to some kind of personal interrogation and I'm wondering why.'
Martel swore inwardly. He'd had to take the risk Stoller would catch on. Maybe he'd been stupid to try the experiment- facing a fellow-professional. He set out to repair the damage.
'Why so edgy? If we're to work together I like to know about a man. Maybe I can provide you with my career sheet…'
&n
bsp; 'Sorry!' Stoller raised a hand and smiled his slow, deliberate smile. The German did everything deliberately. He even sipped his coffee as though testing for a suspect ingredient.
`I am edgy,' he went on. 'You would be if you faced a crucial election – just when the Summit Express is crossing your territory with the West's top leaders aboard. My responsibility is the sector from Strasbourg through to Salzburg
`And the German Chancellor?'
`Kurt Langer boards the train at Munich Hauptbahnhof – but I still have the other three to guard through the night from Strasbourg.'
'You sound as though you expect trouble,' Martel suggested. 'I do.' Stoller stood tip behind his desk. 'Shall we collect your friend, Claire Hofer, and drive to Munich?'
`Can I make one phone call to London before I leave?' go and entertain Miss Hofer. No, no! You may prefer to talk in private.' Standing up, Martel reflected, the German was an imposing figure; not the sort of man you would expect to survive behind the Iron Curtain for two years.
'I will be in the canteen where we left her while we talked,'
Stoller informed him. 'Just ask the operator for your number, press the red button and you're on scrambler…'
While he waited for the Park Crescent number Martel studied a wall-map of Bavaria. It showed where caches of Delta arms and uniforms had been found. Flags indicated the discovery dates.
He found it strange that the rate of success was accelerating. No wonder the polls were showing increasing support for Tofler's party as Election Day approached. Each discovery increased the voters' fear of a Delta win. The phone rang and he heard McNeil at the other end of the line. He asked her to supply 'photos of the four principals…'
'Tweed is out of London,' she told him quickly. 'He asked me to give you a message, Keith. Tomorrow, Monday, catch the first available flight to Heathrow where you will be met. You can give me the flight number? Good. And the ETA? Bring a passport picture of Miss Hofer. As soon as the meeting is over you fly back to Bavaria. Time is running out..