by Colin Forbes
'He said that just before he died?'
'Yes.'
'Which means you withheld this information for three days?' 'Yes.'
The two men faced each other like fierce dogs squaring up for battle. Stoller had gone very pate, his long arms close to his body. Martel watched the German as he lit a fresh cigarette. He asked the question casually.
'What was it like – your two years under cover in what you still call The Zone? That length of time must be something of a record – to survive undetected…'
'And what does that mean?' Stoller asked very quietly.
'Simply that my main job is to identify the rotten apple in the barrel – O'Meara, Flandres, Howard – or yourself. And the train is leaving Paris tonight. You're going to find the atmosphere aboard rather electric. Think of it, Erich, all four of you looking over your shoulders…'
'Why take Hagen's word?'
'Because my job is to tell when a man is lying – and I believe Hagen was telling the truth.'
'Would you think me rude if I asked you to leave? And at least you won't be on board the train
'Why the hell did you do that to Stoller? God knows he's helped us,' Claire raged.
They had returned to the Hotel Clausen and Martel was sitting on her bed while she stormed round the room. The Swiss girl was in a furious temper. She sat down in- front of the dressing-table and began brushing her hair vigorously.
'We're letting them all know at the last moment. It's the plan Tweed and I cooked up when I met him at London Airport. It will throw the killer off balance, may cause him to make a slip
'They'll all know? Is that a good idea?'
'They'll be watching each other.'
'As you said, the atmosphere will be diabolical. One thing's for sure – you've made an enemy of Stoller…'
'Only if he's guilty…'
She swung round on her stool and glared. 'For God's sake remember what you said to him. We can't go near him again.' 'You think we're marooned?'
'Aren't we?' she challenged.
They were waiting for Tweed in his office after his return flight from Paris. Seated behind her desk, McNeil half-closed her eyes to warn her boss. Big Trouble.
'This is Tim O'Meara,' Howard began very stiffly, introducing the large American who remained by the window to avoid shaking hands with Tweed. 'Someone took this photograph while you were on board Clint Loomis' power cruiser on the Potomac…'
Tweed took the glossy print and examined it carefully. It was a blow-up which had been produced with great skill, doubtless in the CIA laboratories at Langley. The print provided a clear reproduction of Tweed who was squinting as though gazing into the sun.
'Well?' Howard demanded.
'How did you come by this photo? It is important that I know.'
Previously Tweed had given O'Meara one brief glance on entering his office. The question was now addressed to him. Howard went purple at Tweed's reaction.
'By God, you're going to regret this…'
'No,' Tweed corrected him briskly, 'you are going to regret this if my question is not answered. I happened to notice when the photo was being taken.' He looked direct at O'Meara again. 'I need to know how you obtained this picture…'
'Delivered by messenger to Langley,' O'Meara said brusquely. 'I gather the messenger was held at the gate – normal procedure. He said he had been called by phone, told to go to the reception desk of a Washington hotel where an envelope would be waiting with my name on it. Another envelope contained the delivery fee and a fat tip.'
`You believe this?'
`We checked out his story, for Christ's sake,' the American snapped. 'Who took the picture we haven't a snowflake in hell's idea. It was obviously taken with…'
`A telephoto lens – then your technicians produced this remarkable blow-up. There was a message with the print and negative?'
'Yes,' said O'Meara, unconsciously confirming Tweed's query as to whether both print and negative had been delivered. 'It said that I might like to know an Englishman called Tweed had been aboard the Oasis before the unfortunate aftermath. All this stuff was flown to me top priority by Langley.'
`Manfred,' Tweed murmured.
`What was that?' Howard pounced.
`Manfred! He arranged it – the taking of the picture after he had had Loomis and myself followed from Dulles. He's playing his usual tactic – sowing confusion prior to launching Crocodile
Tweed then proceeded to play his own diversionary tactic before Howard could interrogate him about the Washington trip. Unlocking a desk drawer he lifted out three articles and placed them neatly on his desk top. A. 38 Smith amp; Wesson Special. A black beret. A pair of large tinted sun-goggles. He added to the collection a dark blue windcheater.
`The interesting question,' Tweed remarked, 'is who was in London last Friday morning when Manfred-Carlos was in Piccadilly?'
`We were in Paris for the security meeting. I caught the noon plane,' said O'Meara.
`I was on the to am. Flight…'
Like the American, Howard answered quickly, then stopped in mid-sentence. In a matter of seconds Tweed had reversed, the roles, had become the inquisitor instead of the accused. He followed up his advantage before Howard could explode.
'That doesn't exonerate either of you. The wearer of these garments, the owner of the gun was seen by a policeman in Piccadilly at nine o'clock in the morning. As you know, shortly afterwards this little collection was found on a chair in the man's shop, Austin Reed. My question really is who did this mysterious man who vanished so quickly come to London to meet…'
He broke off as the door opened and Howard's deputy, Mason, came into the room. He. was closing the door when Tweed spoke abruptly.
Not now, Mason. And next time, knock first. It is customary.' 'But I was invited to attend…'
'You are now invited to leave immediately.'
Mason stared at Howard who looked away towards the window. He wet his lips as though about to say more when he caught Tweed's gaze. It was bleak and intimidating and Mason suddenly realised no one was coming to his aid. With a mumbled apology he left the room.
'Did you invite him?' Tweed asked Howard sharply.
'Not really…' Howard seemed as relieved as anyone to see the back of Mason at this juncture. 'He is, of course, my deputy
'Who has yet to work his passage,' Tweed replied caustically. 'Returning to the subject of this strange incident in Piccadilly, Special Branch – at my request – handed these items to their Forensic boffins for urgent analysis. No manufacturer's labels, of, course. The beret is from Guyana, the windcheater and goggles from Venezuela next door. Origin of the gun untraceable. Does their report suggest anything?'
'South America,' O'Meara said grimly. 'Carlos again?'
'Except that it is rather obvious,' Tweed pointed out. 'And we are getting too many obvious signals. I'm looking for something not obvious…'
'What the devil do you mean?' demanded Howard who had recovered his normal balance. 'And what has this to do with our over-riding concern – the Summit Express?'
`It's a question of timing.' Tweed was still addressing O'Meara. 'You should read a little more history. In the early part of 1919, when Germany was falling apart, a Soviet republic was established in Bavaria – so there is a precedent for Operation Crocodile. Luckily the so-called people's government was destroyed by the remnants of the German Army and the Freikorps. Look at the map…'
Tweed opened The Times atlas and showed them Lake Konstanz and how its shape was like that of a crocodile with its jaws agape.
'That is the significance of Crocodile – it denotes the locale of the conspiracy. Bavaria is their immediate target. The plan is to set up a neutral government under this creature, Tofler who has Communist links. Bavaria has a narrow section of the Konstanz shore – and reports had reached me that a secret factory in Czechoslovakia is building motor torpedo boats…
`But Czechoslovakia has no coastline,' the American protested.
'So when Toile
r takes over, the torpedo-boats are sent by road aboard giant trailers and launched into Lake Konstanz. Only a few would be needed to dominate the Rhine delta – even to help a campaign later to seize the Vorarlberg province from Austria…'
'I find this sinister,' O'Meara muttered.
'A typically audacious Manfred plan,' Tweed assured him. 'To detach Bavaria from the rest of the Federal Republic – and then one-third of the land mass of Western Germany is severed from the main bulwark against Soviet Russia. The stakes in Crocodile are enormous …'
'You could be dramatising the situation,' O'Meara suggested.
'No, he isn't,' Howard agreed, to Tweed's surprise. 'If by some twist of political events Bavaria were detached from the Federal Republic the Soviets have conquered western Europe. It is a scenario we have feared for years – not that I dreamt Bavaria would be the key the Kremlin would turn to unlock Western Europe…'
`This crap about a Soviet Republic in 1919…' O'Meara broke in aggressively.
'Is history,' Howard confirmed. 'It existed for a short time. Now I want to know the source of your information,' he told Tweed firmly.
'Werner Hagen, the recently deceased nephew of Reinhard Dietrich. What neither of you know,' he continued pokerfaced, 'is that he also revealed that the assassin is one of the four security chiefs attached to the train…'
Howard recovered from the shock first. His expression froze and he walked round the side of the desk to stare down at Tweed. His tone was clipped.
'For this I will have you thrown out of the Service.'
'If I'm wrong, you might manage it,' Tweed agreed. 'But if I am right you will have questions to answer at the highest level
'The guy's crazy!' O'Meara burst out. 'First he gets involved in the Clint Loomis killing. Now he comes across with this lunatic accusation…'
'Alain Flandres is taking it very seriously,' Tweed' bserved. 'I met him in Paris only yesterday
'You did what!'
Howard was almost apoplectic. He thrust both hands inside his jacket pockets to regain control. Tweed gazed back at Howard over the rims of his glasses as his chief spoke with great deliberation.
'You have no authority to involve yourself in any way in the security of the Summit Express. You have grossly exceeded your brief and will be held answerable for this dereliction of duty
'Washington will hear of this, buddy,' snapped O'Meara. 'They will be interested to hear a senior British agent has made this accusation about their security chief…'
'I said one of the four security chiefs,' Tweed reminded him.
`There are precedents. Remember Chancellor Willy Brandt's closest aide, Guenter Guillaume, turned out to be a Soviet plant – which destroyed Brandt. Now I believe they have planted someone else.' He looked at Howard. 'The assassin could have been recruited many years ago. I rather think he was. You had better be extremely careful from the moment you board that train tonight…'
CHAPTER 23
Tuesday June 2
Name: Alain Dominique Flandres. Nationality: French. Date of birth: January 18 1928. Place of birth: Strasbourg.
Tweed, alone again in his office with McNeil, studied the file she had handed him. Alain's personal description followed – his height, weight, colour of eyes, colour of hair. It matched the file's subject. He settled himself more comfortably in his chair to peruse the life history.
Career record: Escaped to England, April 1944. Commissioned as lieutenant in Free French Forces. Appointed to Military Intelligence due to fluency in German. At war's end transferred to staff of Gen. Dumas for French occupation of Vorarlberg and the Tyrol. Demobilised and returned to France, May 1953. Immediately joined Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire. Transferred to Secret Service in charge of special unit guarding President, July 1980.
Tweed finished reading the file and drank more tea while he ran over the details again. 'What about his marital status?' he asked.
McNeil replied from memory. 'He married Lucille Durand, daughter of a textile manufacturer from Lille in…'
`That's enough,' Tweed interjected. 'What about the dirt?' he enquired with an expression of distaste. 'The yellow sheet – an appropriate colour for the things we record about people's lives. But sometimes that's where the clue lies…'
`Seven different mistresses so far…' McNeil was consulting a yellow flimsy. 'You want the erotic details?'
`No. Were all his women French?'
'The names look French to me. Who next?'
`O'Meara,' Tweed hunched forward in the chair, his eyes screwed up in concentration. 'This file will be meagre, I presume?'
'Here it is.' She handed him a slim dossier. 'And, as you say, meagre…'
Name: Timothy Patrick O'Meara. Nationality: American. Date of birth: August 3193o. Place of birth: New York City.
Career record: Served with Cryptoanalysis Section, CIA, Langley, 1960-1965. Assigned other duties, 1965-1972. Served with West Berlin station under Controller, Clint Loomis, 1972-1974. A two-man unit; other member (junior) Lou Carson. While in Berlin had affair with 18-year old German girl, Klara Beck. On return to US promoted to Assistant Director of Operations, Langley. Transferred to Secret Service on…
Tweed stopped reading. 'He's married?' he enquired.
`Yes.' McNeil produced another yellow flimsy. 'He did rather well. Nancy Margaret Chase, educated Vassar and all that implies. Daughter of a powerful Philadelphia banker. What they call "the quiet money".'
`His first and only wife?'
'Yes. The yellow sheet hints his father-in-law's connections with the White House helped his rapid rise. O'Meara carries lots of clout. His next move may be to stand for the Senate…'
The yellow sheet says that?'
'No, McNeil says that. And you still haven't explained why you lit fires under Howard and O'Meara this morning…'
Just trying to arrange the key pieces on the board prior to the opening moves in the game. Again, I'm fighting Manfred long-distance – and already the bastard is breathing down my neck.'
`And your rogue piece- Martel? I wonder what he's up to?'
'I'm going to pay a call on Reinhard Dietrich at his schloss,' Martel informed Stoller, who greeted him with apologies on his return to police headquarters in Munich.
`You are completely mad,' the German protested.
`There's something very peculiar going on,' Martel continued. 'I suspect that- unknown to Dietrich – Erwin Vinz is operating a secret cell inside Delta, a cell controlled directly by the East Germans, which means ultimately by the Soviets. Dietrich is being manipulated, conned – and I think I can raise doubts in his mind. That could upset the whole Crocodile apple cart at the last moment – and with the Summit Express leaving Paris tonight this is the last moment…'
The tall German wandered over to the window with an expressionless face. 'What makes you come up with this bizarre theory – what is it based on?'
`Four attempts on my life so far, for God's sake. In Zurich, two in St. Gallen and one off Lindau. In every damned instance the killers wore Delta symbols – the worst type of publicity for Dietrich's movement. They even left a badge under Warner's dead body – because that didn't get there by accident.'
`How are you going to handle it?' Stoller enquired.
`I have phoned Dietrich who apparently had just returned to the schloss. I'm going as a foreign correspondent. Dietrich wallows in publicity…'
`And what paper are your pretending to represent?'
The Times of London. I always carry credentials confirming my status as a reporter. I have one for Die Welt…'
'In your own name?'
`No, as Philip Johnson – who exists…'
He broke off as the phone rang. Stoller answered it, listened for a moment, spoke a few words and handed the receiver to the Englishman. 'It's for you – from London…'
At the inter end of the line Tweed chose his words carefully. It was quite possible the call was being secretly recorded for Stoller to play back to himsel
f later
`Keith, a courier carrying diplomatic immunity is bringing you certain records for you to peruse in the hope that something will point the finger. The courier is my assistant. She will be arriving aboard an evening flight at Munich Airport. Have someone meet her. The flight details are…'
'Thank you,' Martel said. 'And goodbye…'
`I still think you are mad,' Stoller repeated as Martel replaced the receiver. `You could get yourself killed visiting Dietrich at that schloss.'
The Englishman glanced at Claire who had remained silent during their conversation. 'At least you can't say I don't inform you of my movements on your patch, Erich. I'm driving down to Dietrich's place at once.'
`Don't delay…' Stoller paused. 'Late tonight I have to fly to Bonn…'
'I didn't understand what went on in Stoller's office,' Claire said later when they were leaving the outskirts of Munich with Martel behind the wheel of his hired Audi. 'I had a feeling that signals were being exchanged…'
'He was just showing he was Sorry for his earlier outburst. And Tweed is sending in a courier with the dossiers on the evening flight to Munich. We're clutching at every last straw we can lay our hands on.'
`Why tell Stoller about your suspicions about Vinz and his secret cell? If it is Stoller who is guilty…'
`Then his reaction – or lack of it – will tell me something. Incidentally, Reinhard was most cordial when Philip Johnson of The Times phoned. He's looking forward to seeing me.'
`That's what worries me,' Claire replied.
`You say this British reporter who calls himself Philip Johnson has an appointment at the schloss? At what time? Dietrich, why did you agree to see this man?'
In the Munich apartment Manfred's gloved hand held the receiver tightly as he waited for the reply. It was pure chance that he had called the schloss, that the millionaire had then volunteered this information.
'Because I am convinced he is Martel, the man responsible for the murder of my nephew…'
'Why?'
'Because I checked immediately with The Times in London.' A note of exasperation had crept into Dietrich's voice. Manfred questioned every decision he took. 'They confirmed they have no correspondent of that name based in Bavaria…'