by Colin Forbes
'The signature is a code-name,' he explained as the operator read the wording. Mason nodded his thanks to the pilot and left the cabin as the operator began transmitting.
Telephone number Munich. McNeil and! aboard Flight LH 037 from London. ETA.. Please arrange reception committee. Gustav.
In the Munich apartment a gloved hand picked up the phone as soon as it began to ring. The operator checked that she had the correct number and then began to transmit the message.
"McNeil and I aboard Flight LH 037…" '
`Thank you,' said Manfred, 'I have that correctly. Goodbye.'
The gloved hand broke the connection, lifted the receiver again and dialled a Munich number. It was answered by Erwin Vinz whose voice changed when he realised the identity of the caller.
'You will take a team of men to the airport…'
Manfred's instructions were precise, although masked in everyday conversation. When the call was completed he checked his watch. It was convenient that the airport was close to the city – Vinz's execution squad would be in position by the time Flight 037 had touched down.
And Mason, who was still over twenty thousand feet up, would have been appalled had he known the instructions.
'Kill them both – the man as well as the woman…'
Martel stood by a bookstall inside the exit area at Munich Airport, apparently studying a paperback. He also appeared to be on his own, which was not the case. At the other side of the large hall Claire, wearing dark glasses, stood with a small suitcase at her feet like a passenger.
The arrival of Flight LH 037 from London had been announced over the Tannoy. Passengers who had disembarked were hurrying across the hall for cabs and the airport bus. Martel scanned the small crowd and saw McNeil, carrying a brief-case in one hand, a suitcase in the other. He also saw Mason alongside her.
'Tell you what,' Mason was saying to her, 'I'll just dash over to that kiosk and get a pack of cigarettes – you go and grab a cab and then we shan't have to wait…'
'But we're being met…' McNeil shrugged. Mason was gone. 'Martel saw the separation and frowned. He dropped the paperback, picked it up and quickly returned it to the revolving rack. Claire was waiting for the signal and now she recognised McNeil from the description Martel had given her.
She also knew something was wrong. The dropping of the paperback had warned her. Had Martel simply returned the book to its rack it would have been no more than a recognition signal. Inside her handbag she gripped the 9-mm pistol. McNeil, an erect, slim woman, headed for the exit.
A man dressed in the uniform of a Lufthansa pilot standing near the exit produced a Luger equipped with a silencer from a briefcase. Erwin Vinz, carrying a light raincoat folded loosely over his arm, walked into the hall, dropped the raincoat and aimed the machine-pistol the garment had concealed.
'McNeil, drop flat!' Martel yelled.
It was remarkable: Claire was amazed. The middle-aged Englishwoman fell forward, dropped her suitcase, used her hands to cushion the shock of the fall and lay quite still, hugging the floor.
Martel pointed the Colt. 45 snatched from his shoulder holster and aimed at the most dangerous target – Vinz and his machine-pistol. He fired rapidly. Three heavy slugs hammered with tremendous power into Vinz's chest, hurling him backwards. His shirt crimsoned as he crashed to the floor, still clutching the weapon. He had not fired a single shot.
The Lufthansa 'pilot' aimed his Luger point-blank at his agreed target – Mason, who stood near a cigarette machine. Two bullets struck Mason who fell forward against the machine, clawing at it as he sagged to the ground. Claire aimed, steadying her pistol over her left arm. It was remarkable shooting – clear across the hall. Two bullets hit the killer and he toppled forward.
'McNeil, stay flat!' Martel yelled again.
Three men apparently waiting for passengers had produced hand-guns.
Martel had just shot Vinz… Claire was firing at the 'pilot'…
The three new Delta professionals were aiming their weapons at the still-prostrate form of McNeil… There was panic spreading among the other passengers… A woman screamed and went on screaming and screaming…
A steady drum-fire of fresh shooting filled the hall and Martel watched in amazement as all three Delta assassins fell to the floor. Men in civilian clothes appeared from different parts of the hall armed with Walther automatics. One of them came up to Martel, an identity card held up in his left hand.
`BND, Mr Martel. Josef Gubitz at your service. The others you see are my men.'
'How the hell did you know…'
The plane's pilot transmitted the message the Englishman on the passenger list named Mason had sent, transmitted it to Stoller as instructed.'
'Who instructed him?'
'A man called Tweed in London. Any signals sent by Mason from the aircraft to be immediately transmitted to us. Stoller reacted from Bonn by sending us here. It was kind of complicated…' The German, a small, well-dressed man, looked over his shoulder at the carnage in the hall. but it worked.'
'Thank God for that – and thank you.'
Claire was helping McNeil to her feet who was looking down at her grazed knees as Martel joined them. She looked at Martel. 'You know something? My nylons are ruined. Do you think I could indent for a new pair?'
Martel, Claire and McNeil were sitting in the Englishman's room at the Hotel Clausen. The two women drank tea as Martel checked the four photocopy dossiers McNeil had brought him. McNeil sat in an armchair next to Claire and placed her cup on the table. The Swiss girl was marvelling at her placidity.
'That tea you poured me was just right,' McNeil announced. 'It was nice and strong -just a dash of milk and no sugar. You can't beat a cup of tea after a bit of a dust-up.' She paused. 'Mason tried to get me killed, didn't he?'
'Yes,' said Martel. 'And they wiped him out because by now he had served his treacherous purpose. I'm certain he bugged Tweed's office. I'm equally sure he dressed up in the wind- cheater, beret and sun-goggles, made sure he was spotted by a policeman in Piccadilly and then took off his things – probably in a lavatory – and left them with the gun on a chair in Austin Reed's…'
'Why?' Claire asked.
'To confuse us. Manfred was never within hundreds of miles of London. And it must have been Mason who followed Tweed to London Airport before he boarded Concorde – then repor- ted it back to Manfred. It's odd Howard ever took on a man like that…'
McNeil was watching Martel who had closed the last file. 'Do they tell you anything?' she asked. 'Tweed gave the impression he couldn't find anything but I believe it's there…'
Martel took a sheet of the hotel notepaper, scribbled some- thing on it and showed it to McNeil. She read what was on it, tore the sheet into small pieces, got up and walked across to the toilet. They heard her flush the loo and she came out and sat down again.
'Well?' Martel enquired.
'I thought so, too,' McNeil replied. 'You can't trust Tweed, of course – he keeps so much to himself. The trouble will he proving it …'
`So we leave you here until it's all over with Stoller's armed guard on the door. Claire has some distance to travel – and I'm heading for a different destination. What scares me is we have so little time…'
CHAPTER 26
Tuesday June 2: 2030-2335 hours
Charles de Gaulle Airport, 2030 hours. Flight BE 026 landed on schedule. Howard was among the first passengers to disembark. His special pass took him straight through Customs and Immigration and Alain Flandres was waiting for him with a large Citroen.
'This is what I call service,' Howard remarked as they settled back in the rear and the chauffeur-driven car glided away.
'We pride ourselves on our organisation,' Flandres replied with a cynical smile. 'Since the change of government we have little else to pride ourselves on.'
'As bad as that?' Howard glanced sharply at his companion who, as always, was the soul of relaxation. 'Is everything proceeding according to plan?'
'There is something I do not understand – and in the situation we are faced with incomprehensible things disturb me. I have had a signal from Bonn warning us to expect an urgent communication from Germany during the night. Stoller is not at Pullach
'Well, that's his problem…' Howard dismissed the whole thing with a curt wave of his hand.
'It might be our problem as well,' Flandres responded.
Under Flandres' instructions French security forces at both Orly and Charles de Gaulle were checking all arrivals for known faces. But they missed one person who came in on Flight LH 323 from Munich via Frankfurt. The aircraft landed at Charles de Gaulle at 2215 hours and the passenger, who had travelled first class, passed through the security checks unchallenged.
Elegantly clad in a black Givenchy dress and wearing a string of pearls, she also wore a hat with a veil. Porters carried her Gucci luggage to a waiting chauffeur-driven limousine. She raised her veil briefly for Passport Control.
'I wonder how many ingots of gold she is sitting on in the Bahnhofstrasse,' the Passport official murmured to a colleague after he had returned Irma Romer her Swiss passport and she moved away.
'I wouldn't mind having her sitting on me,' his colleague replied. 'She is a beauty…'
Settling herself in the spacious rear of the car the woman with the veil spoke to the chauffeur as the car was driven away from the airport.
'Emil, we have one hour before the train leaves – so you must drive slowly, kill some time. I must board the Summit Express. five minutes before it departs.'
'My instructions were clear, Madame,' Emil replied. 'There will be no problem.'
'There must be no problem.'
Having issued this injunction, Klara Beck crossed her long legs and relaxed. It had been a rush to drive from the Bavarian schloss to catch the plane at Munich but she was sure she had successfully eluded the man who had tried to follow her. That would be Stoller's doing, of course.
'Stick Stoller,' she thought inelegantly and checked the time by her diamond-studded watch.
Gare de l'Est, 2300 hours. The twelve-coach express stood in the station. At the front the giant locomotive which would haul its precious cargo gleamed under the lights. It had been polished and polished again like a jewel. The chief engine-driver, Jacques Foriot, was the most experienced driver in the whole of France. He stood checking his array of dials and controls and then peered out of his cab.
The first six coaches immediately behind the engine were reserved for the train's illustrious passengers. The Prime Minister of Great Britain, typically, had arrived first. She had gone to bed without delay in Voiture One, the coach attached to the locomotive:
Voiture Two would be occupied by the French President who was at this moment climbing aboard after his swift ride from the Elysee. Alain Flandres stood on the platform, his eyes everywhere as the short, stocky President mounted the steps and disappeared inside. Flandres let out an audible sigh of relief.
'One more worry off my mind,' he remarked to his deputy, Pierre Buzier, a giant of a man with a bushy moustache who towered over his chief. 'And now one more worry on my mind,' Flandres continued with a shrug of his shoulders.
'But he is safe now,' Buzier reassured him. 'It was the drive from the Elysee that bothered us…'
`And you imagine that the next seven hundred-mile ride across Europe does not worry me, my friend?' He squeezed Buzier's huge arm and smiled cynically. 'It will be a long night- followed by a long day
…'
The makeup of the express had been the subject of considerable study and much discussion by the security staff at the Elysee to ensure maximum safety. Voiture Three was reserved for the American President who was expected to arrive from Orly at the last moment. And Voiture Four would be the preserve of Chancellor Langer when he boarded the train at Munich at 9.33 am. on the following morning.
Behind these four coaches was attached the communications coach which carried some of the most sophisticated equipment available. One section was devoted entirely to a link between the train and the White House in Washington. The president would be accompanied, as he was everywhere, by an official carrying the black box – the sinister device for signalling a nuclear alert in varying stages of urgency.
Flandres and his technicians had devoted a great deal of energy to equipping this coach, cooperating with the Americans who had installed their own devices.
As though to counter the austere purpose of this coach, the one behind was taken up by the restaurant car for the exclusive use of the western leaders. It was expected that during daylight hours they would confer at length while they hammered out a united policy before facing the Soviet leader in Vienna.
'I want more men on this barrier,' Flandres ordered as he passed through the second barrier temporarily erected on the platform, a barrier sealing off the VIP section at the front from the rest of the express.
'Surely we have enough men already,' Buzier protested.
Tor practical purposes, yes,' Flandres agreed. 'For public relations' purposes, no. The Americans are great believers in numbers. Bring ten more men from outside the station. That should impress them, should it not, Pierre?' Again he smiled cynically.
'If you say so…'
'I know O'Meara. If I am not mistaken I can hear the approach of the great man…'
'The American President?'
'No – O'Meara! Accompanied by the President!'
Beyond the second barrier was the rest of the train, the public section which comprised another six coaches. Two for first-class passengers (one a sleeping-car), three for second-class and, at the rear of the express, the public restaurant.
As he passed them alone – Buzier had hurried ahead to gather up ten more men – Flandres glanced at each window. Most of the blinds in the sleeping-car were closed but the station pulsated with a sense of expectancy. As he continued towards the main ticket barrier the little Frenchman scanned the other windows and eager faces stared back. He stopped to request that a window be closed. Until the train was moving the order was all windows must remain shut.
In the corridors on the other side of the express armed men of the French security services stood at intervals. At the main barrier he saw Howard waiting and pursed his lips. Having seen ' his own charge safely aboard, the Englishman was going to be present when the President of the United States arrived.
The distant sirens shrieking like banshees came closer. He must feel at home, Flandres reflected. He himself had been kept awake when he visited America by the hellish wail of patrol cars dashing through the night.
'He's only just on time,' Howard commented as Flandres reached the barrier. 'Why is it that Americans have to arrive at the very last minute?'
'Because they see no point in waiting. What they accomplish with the time saved is another matter…'
As the Frenchman had anticipated, O'Meara made a great performance of the arrival. When the motorcade swept into the station the American security chief leapt from the leading vehicle almost before it had stopped. Several men, their coats open at the front, followed him as he glared up the platform. The President rather spoilt the effect.
'I want men facing every window before the President moves up the platform,' O'Meara demanded.
'If they're going to take a pot-shot at me, Tim, they're going to,' said the President who stepped out from his car looking as cool and unaffected as a clerk walking home from work. 'And your remark is hardly a great compliment to M. Flandres
He extended a hand. 'It is Alain Flandres, isn't it?'
'A pleasure to see you again, Mr President…'
They shook hands while O'Meara moved restlessly and gestured for the American Secret Service men to form a circle round Flandres and the President. 'Washington, two years ago – am I right?' the President said.
'You have a remarkable memory…'
There was tension as the procession of men made their way along the platform, so many alert to danger which might come from a
ny quarter – and the potential target was the most powerful leader in the western world. Flandres was disturbed and felt he must speak.
`I don't like being hemmed in like this…'
The President, smiling and amenable, stot ped. 'Tim, I think we must allow Alain to command the security operation. This, after all, is his territory.'
'More space, please!' Flandres spoke curtly to O'Meara. 'We must have a clear field of fire in an emergency…'
At the foot of the steps leading up into his coach the President lingered to speak again to the Frenchman. 'I just want you to know that I feel perfectly safe in your capable hands. And now, if you'll excuse me, I like an early night's sleep…'
Three minutes from departure time two unexpected events occurred. A chauffeur-driven limousine drove into the station and an elegant woman alighted and presented her ticket while the chauffeur brought her bags. The ticket collector noted that she had a sleeping compartment reserved. At the same time the Passport controller – brought to check the identity of all ordinary passengers – noted she was Swiss.
`You had better hurry, Madame,' the collector advised. 'The train departs in three minutes.'
Further down the platform at the second barrier Howard watched the elegant woman walking gracefully towards him while her chauffeur carried her luggage. She disappeared inside the sleeping-car and Howard turned to his deputy, Peter Haines, a short, wiry man.
`I wouldn't mind joining that one in her bunk,' he observed and climbed aboard the train.
The ticket collector was closing the barrier when a cab drew up.
A compact figure wearing glasses and a rumpled hat who had paid the fare earlier got out. He ran towards the barrier, carrying a small case.
He had his ticket ready and a plastic card which he presented to the Passport official. The latter glanced in surprise at the card which bore a photograph of its owner and then turned to hold up his hand to the guard indicating that the train must wait.
The late arrival moved rapidly down the platform to the second barrier opposite which Howard was standing in the open doorway to get a last-minute breath of fresh air. As he saw the passenger his face went rigid and he stepped down on to the platform.