Double Jeopardy (19 page)

'And who is going to assassinate one of the western leaders?'

Martel threw the question at him. Hagen stood up slowly. 'I have the cramp…' He bent down and massaged the calf of his left leg, then straightened up, flexing his hands.

'I told you I'm not a patient man,' Martel snapped.

`The assassin – again I swear I do not know his identity – is one of the four security chiefs supposed to be guarding the western leaders…'

The reply threw Martel completely off guard for the fraction of a second. It was all Hagen needed. He rushed forward, aiming a blow at Claire which knocked her off the rock she had perched on. She could have pulled the trigger but knew Martel wanted the German alive.

Hagen's headlong rush was intended to carry him to cover behind the water-mill before either captor could react. It carried him forward as he intended but he stumbled over a protruding outcrop of rock close to the water-mill.

He screamed, hands outstretched to save himself. Claire heard the horrid sound of his skull striking one of the descending metal blades and the scream faded to a gurgle. He lay motionless, head and shoulders in the river. A gush of blood welled, mingling with the peaceful sound of tumbling water.

Claire ran forward, steadied herself on the slope and checked Hagen's neck pulse as Martel came up behind her. Standing up she looked at the Englishman, shaking her head.

'He's dead. What do we do now?'

`Get him back to civilisation and contact Stoller or Dorner at once. I have to find a safe phone to call Tweed.'

They reached police headquarters in Lindau with the body concealed in the back of the car under Martel's raincoat. Dorner gave them the news without preamble.

`Erich Stoller left a message strictly for your ears – he flew to Paris for a security conference. 1 will make arrangements about Hagen – Stoller will want him sent by special ambulance to a morgue in Munich. As to making a phone call to London which can't be intercepted, the answer is the Post Office…'

Dorner drove them there himself. They were closing the doors when the German gently pushed them open and escorted his two companions inside.

A few words from Dorner persuaded the switchboard operator to call the London number. Martel first tried the Maida Vale flat and was relieved when he heard Tweed's voice which sounded weary. The voice changed pitch when Tweed realised who was calling. He activated the recording machine, rushed through the identification procedure and spoke before Martel could say any more.

`Operation Crocodile, Keith. You're standing in the middle of it. Look at a map of southern Germany through half-closed eyes – concentrate on the shape of Lake Konstanz. The damned thing is just like a crocodile- jaws open to the west with the two inlets, Uberlingersee and Untersee

'That confirms my data – something is scheduled to happen in Bavaria. Reinhard Dietrich's nephew, Werner Hagen, talked before he left us permanently…

Crouched over the table in his flat Tweed gripped the receiver more tightly. Events were piling on top of each other – always the most delicate and dangerous phase in an operation. He listened as Martel continued.

'One of the four VIP's aboard the Summit Express is scheduled for assassination on the train. Do you read me

'Of course I do.' Tweed's voice and manner had never been calmer. `Give them numbers – starting geographically from west to east. Which number is the target…'

'Informant didn't know…'

'At least we're alerted. Aboard the train – I've got that. Identity of assassin?'

The question Martel was dreading. Would Tweed think he had gone off his rocker? He took a deep breath, thankful that Dorner had stayed with the switchboard operator so no one could overhear this call.

`I'm convinced – and so is my colleague that this next bit of information provided by Hagen is genuine. You have to trust my judgement…'

'Get on with it, man…'

'The killer is one of the four security chiefs who will be guarding the VIP's. And, before you ask, not a damned clue as to who is the rotten apple. I'd better get off the line, hadn't I?'

'1 consider that a sensible suggestion…'

Tweed had the devil of a time, almost the worst few hours he could remember. He found a cab quickly to take him to Park Crescent, but then his problems were only beginning. That supercilious careerist, Howard, had flown to the security meeting in Paris without telling anyone where the conference was being held. Supercilious careerist? It suddenly occurred to him that Howard was one of the four prime suspects…

Never averse to using unorthodox methods, Tweed was careful to follow protocol on this occasion. He knew Sir Henry Crawford, the British Ambassador in Paris, but his first move was to call a friend at the Foreign Office.

'I have spoken to Sir William Crawford,' he announced when he was seated in an uncomfortable armchair. This statement formed a bridge between the Ambassador in Paris and his contact – across which the contact was compelled to walk.

'What is the message?' the other man in the room enquired.

'It was agreed I should present that in isolation to the cipher clerk on duty. I hope you don't mind?'

Tweed was at his meekest, most concerned with not offending the august institution inside whose portals he had been privileged to enter. This was unusual – for someone outside the Foreign Office to use its private code. Tweed employed the weapon of silence, adjusting his glasses while the other decided whether he could see any way out. He couldn't.

'Come with me,' he said, a chilly note infusing his tone.

Ten minutes later the signal was on its way to Paris. Other than Tweed, the only person who knew its contents was the cipher clerk. He would reveal it to no one. Tweed sighed with relief as he hailed yet another cab in Whitehall, gave the Park Crescent address and sank back into the seat.

Low cunning had won the day. The Ambassador himself would know the contents – should any witness ever be needed that the signal had been sent. And the Ambassador was personally delivering the message to Howard in the conference room. That would force Howard to read out the warning to the other three security chiefs.

'I wish I could be there to study their faces when that message is read out,' Tweed reflected as the cab proceeded up Charing Cross Road. 'One of those four men will be shaken to the core.

It could be any one of the four. You'll have to track through their dossiers back over the years…'

Tweed gave the instruction to McNeil as they strolled together in Regent's Park after the clammy heat of the day. It was still light, the trees were in full foliage, the grass had a springy rebound which Tweed loved. Everything was perfect – except for the time-fuse problem he must solve.

'O'Meara, Stoller and Flandres

'Don't forget Howard,' Tweed said quickly.

'What am I looking for?' McNeil enquired with a note of sharp exasperation.

'A gap.' Tweed paused under a tree and surveyed the expanse of green. 'A gap in the life – in the records – of one of those four trusted men. Maybe as little as two months. Time unaccounted for. He will have been trained behind the Iron Curtain – I'm sure of that. This man was planted a long time ago…'

'Checking Howard's dossier will be tricky…'

'You'll need cover – a reason why you're consulting all these files from Central Registry. I'll think of something…'

He resumed his walk, his shoulders hunched, a faraway look in his eyes. 'The funny thing, McNeil, is I'm certain we've already been given a clue – damned if I can put my finger on it…'

`Tim O'Meara won't be any easier than Howard to check – he's only been head of the President's Secret Service detachment for a year.'

'Which is why I'm taking Concorde to Washington tomorrow if I can get a seat. 1 know somebody there who might help. He doesn't like O'Meara. A little prejudice opens many doors…'

'Howard will want to know why,' she warned. 'The expense of the Concorde ticket will be recorded by Accounts…'

'No, it won't. I'll buy the ticket out of my own pocket. There is still something left from my uncle's legacy. I'll be away before Howard returns. Tell him I've had a recurrence of my asthma – that I went down to my Devon cottage..:

'He'll try and contact you..'

'About my signal via the Ambassador?' Tweed was amused. 'I've no doubt when he returns his first job will be to storm into my office. Make it vague – about my trip to the cottage. I felt I just had to get out of London. It will all fit,' he remarked with an owlish expression. 'He'll think I'm dodging him for a few days. He'll never dream I've crossed the Atlantic.'

McNeil stared straight ahead. 'Don't look round – Mason is behind us. He's pretending to take that damned dog of his fora walk…'

Tweed paused, took off his glasses, polished them and held them up as though checking his lenses. Reflected in the spectacles was the image of Howard's lean and hungry-looking deputy recently recruited from Special Branch. He also had stopped by a convenient tree which his Scottie at the end of a leash was investigating.

'I prefer the dog to the man,' Tweed commented as he replaced his glasses and started walking again. 'Add him to the list. If anyone can find the vital discrepancy in the dossiers you can…'

Howard had reserved a room for the night at the discreet and well-appointed Hotel de France et Choiseul in rue St. Honore.

While he waited for his guest he put in a call to Park Crescent. When the night duty operator answered he identified himself and continued the conversation.

'I want a word with Tweed,' he said brusquely.

Just a moment, sir. I will put you through to his office.'

Howard checked his watch which registered 2245 hours. He was disturbed: Tweed was still inside Park Crescent when the building would be empty. It was later than he had realised when he made the call. He had another surprise when McNeil's voice came on the line. He spoke quickly to warn her it was an open line.

'I'm talking from my hotel room. I'd like an urgent word with Tweed…'

'I'm afraid Mr Tweed has been taken ill. Nothing serious – a bad attack of asthma. He's gone down to the country for a few days…'

'It's not possible to get him on the phone?'

'I'm afraid not, sir. When can we expect you back?' 'Impossible to say. Goodnight!'

Howard ended the call on a stiff note: he never liked questions about his future movements. Sitting on his bed he frowned while he recalled the conversation. That was an odd departure from McNeil's normal behaviour-asking a question she knew he would disapprove of.

In the Park Crescent office Miss McNeil smiled as she replaced the receiver. She had been confident the final question would get Howard off the line before he probed too deeply. She returned to her examination of the dossier in front of her. It carried a red star – top classification – on the cover, and a name. Frederick Anthony Howard.

In the Paris bedroom Howard was pacing impatiently when there was an irregular knocking on his locked door, the signal he had agreed with Alain Flandres. Despite the signal he extracted from his case the 7.65-mm automatic Flandres had loaned him and slipped it inside his pocket before opening the door. Flandres walked into the room.

'Chez Benoit, mon ami!'

The slim, springy Flandres was a tonic; always optimistic, his personalityfizzed. He walked round the room smiling, his dark eyes everywhere.

'Chez What?' Howard enquired.

'Benoit! Benoit! They serve some of the best food in all of Paris. The last serving is at 9.30 in the evening – but for me le patron makes the exception. The Police Prefect often eats there. You are ready? Good…'

Flandres had a cab waiting at the entrance to the hotel. The journey took no more than ten minutes and the Englishman, sunk in thought, remained silent. Normally voluble, Flandres also said nothing but he studied his companion until they arrived and Were ushered to a table. They were examining the menu when Flandres made his remark.

'My telex from London about the Carlos sighting this morning in Piccadilly has disturbed you? You wonder who he went there to meet? You were in London this morning?'

Howard closed the menu. 'What the bloody hell are you driving at, Alain?' he asked quietly.

'I have offended you?' Flandres was astonished. 'Always it is the same – I talk too much! And Renee Duval, the girl who sent me the telex – I have withdrawn her from London. She was only on routine assignment. Now, the really important subject is what we are to select for dinner…'

Flandres chattered on, steering the conversation away from the topic of the telex. He was now convinced something else was disturbing the Englishman, something he was carefully concealing from his French opposite number.

Saturday May 30

Washington, DC, Clint Loomis…

The extract from the secret notebook discovered on Warner's dead body had linked up with nothing so far, Tweed reflected.

Concorde landed on schedule at Dulles Airport. Tweed was not among the first passengers to alight, nor among the last. He did not believe in disguises but before disembarking he removed his glasses. This simple act transformed his appearance.

Clint Loomis was waiting outside. He ushered him straight into a nondescript blue sedan. The American, in his late fifties, had not changed since their last meeting. Serious-faced, his dark eyes penetrating and acutely observant, he wore an open-necked blue shirt and pale grey slacks. His hair had thinned somewhat.

'We can say "Hello" when we get there,' he remarked as he drove away from Dulles. 'Maybe you'd better take off your jacket…'

The sun was blazing, the humidity was appalling. It was like travelling inside a ship's boiler room.

'Is it always like this in May?' Tweed enquired as he wrestled himself out of his jacket, turned to cast it on the seat behind and looked through the rear window, studying the traffic.