Double Jeopardy (16 page)

'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.

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 went 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…'

They wore swimming trunks as they manoeuvred their sails into the gentle breeze. Round each man's wrist was a belt from which hung a sheath encasing a large throwing knife. A silver triangle, the Delta symbol, was attached to the side of their trunks. The team of executioners, led by Werner Hagen, headed for a position about half a mile outside Lindau harbour.

'Thank God I found you – it was difficult in this mist…'

Claire leaned against the hull of the launch where Martel had hauled her aboard. With her legs stretched out and her bosom heaving with the recent effort she let Martel untie the leather thong and place the waterproof bag beside her.

The launch was stationary. Martel had taken it out through the harbour exit moving slowly, sounding his siren – according to regulations for ships entering or leaving – for longer than necessary to help Claire locate him. A wind was blowing up, making a low whining sound which got on Claire's nerves,

'You think they'll come?' she asked.

'Damned sure of it…'

She extracted from the bag her dress and the si-mm pistol. He looked at the dress and picked it up to take it inside the wheelhouse. 'This won't be much good for you to wear…' He came out checking the action of his. 45 Colt and slipped it back inside the shoulder holster.

'It's synthetic jersey cloth,' she told him. 'I chose it since it's practically crease-proof…'

She broke off, realising his attention was elsewhere. He still had the engine switched off as he peered eastward into the grey, thinning mist. The light wind was dispersing it slowly.

'You think they're coming from over there?' Claire asked.

'It's the shortest distance from a shoreline where they're least likely to be detected. In a minute you put on this face-mask – if one of them gets away I don't want you recognised…'

'And that thing?' She pointed to a bulky instrument on the small chart-table in the wheelhouse. 'Is it radar?'

'It's a tape-recorded signal which does two things it signals Stoller at his headquarters when I press a button -warning him we're under attack. It also sends out a continuous signal which Dorner in his police launch can pick up to home in on where we are.'

'You worked this out pretty well,' Claire commented. 'Because from the Warner killing I know we're up against a first-class brain who thinks out his plans well…'

'Reinhard Dietrich?'