Double Jeopardy (23 page)

'What news?' he enquired.

'Your old friend, Clint Loomis, has been murdered…'

She handed the telex to Tweed and sat down, her notebook at the ready. She doodled while she waited, carefully not looking at Tweed who sank into his swivel chair and eased his buttocks into the old cushion. He read the signal three times.

Ex-CIA agent Clint Loomis killed by unknown assassins this day.. . aboard power cruiser Oasis… attorney fishing witnessed second cruiser sail alongside.. grenade attack killed Loomis and the guard dog. FBI investigating with full cooperation CIA…

'That damned helicopter,' Tweed muttered. 'He wouldn't take any notice…'

'I beg your pardon?' McNeil queried.

'Sorry, just thinking aloud.' His voice became crisper, he sat up erect in his chair as he pushed the telex strip back across his desk. 'Put that in the shredder. No one else is to see it. Any word from Martel?' -

'He phoned me from Bavaria. He's coming in early tomorrow and I have booked the necessary hotel accommodation at Heathrow. He has given me the flight details so you can meet him there.'

Tweed swivelled in his chair and gazed at the blinds which were closed over the windows. They were as blank as his thoughts. He was very worried.

'Things are coming to a head,' McNeil suggested.

'And only two days to solve the insoluble. The Summit Express leaves the Gare de l'Est in exactly forty-eight hours' time.' He swivelled back to face her. 'You've been going through all the dossiers. No hope, I suppose…'

'There is something,' McNeil replied.

The call from Washington came through just before midnight and Manfred was asleep in his Munich apartment. He switched on the bedside light, slipped on his gloves and picked up the receiver. The identification procedure was concluded and the merican-sounding voice gave its message briefly.

'Loomis' contract has been terminated. We decided not to renew it …'

'Thank you…'

Manfred replaced the receiver, got out of bed and began padding round the room. All was going well. Nothing could now stop Crocodile. The big killing would be carried out on schedule.

Monday June 1

'We have the rest of today and part of Tuesday before the Summit Express leaves Paris for Vienna tomorrow night,' Tweed said.

'And in those few hours,' Martel commented, 'we have to identify the target out of the four western leaders. And we have to track down the security chief who is the rotten apple – again from four potential candidates…'

At the London Airport Hotel McNeil had reserved three bedrooms – all in different names. The accommodation would only be used for the short time while Tweed conferred with Martel, but this would not seem strange: it was common practice among international business executives.

They were esconced in the middle room. Earlier Tweed had checked the rooms on either side to make sure they were empty. Martel was inserting a cigarette in his holder after his comment. He had arrived a short time ago on a flight from Munich. Once they had talked he would fly straight back to Germany.

'Any ideas?' Martel asked. 'Does the Loomis murder tell us anything?'

'It is pretty certain that after my signal was read out in Paris to the security conference by the British Ambassador one of the four security chiefs present reacted. He had me followed tti – London Airport when I boarded Concorde. There just wasn't sufficient time to kill Loomis before I talked to him…'

'What about Alain Flandres? His earlier history is pretty thin in the files. Then there's O'Meara – that absence from his West Berlin base for two months Loomis told you about. It could have been spent in East Berlin.'

'That is my reading of the situation…'

'Except that I have another candidate -Erich Stoller of BND. He spent two years under cover in what he called "The Zone":

'I didn't know that,' replied Tweed. Intrigued, he leaned forward over the coffee table. 'You dug up this fact?'

'No, he volunteered it, implied you knew about it. He also knew I was interrogating him, but on the surface it hasn't affected his cooperation…'

'I didn't know, but Erich is clever,' Tweed leaned against the back of his chair and stared at the ceiling. 'He may be pre-empting the possibility we'd find out in his dossier. So we have two possibles – O'Meara and Stoller. And after we've finished here I'm flying to Paris to meet Alain. I want his version of his past.'

'And Howard?'

'The least likely.' Tweed took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Martel noticed traces of fatigue. 'I don't like him,' he continued, 'but that's irrelevant. We're looking for a traitor who has practised his trade of treason for years…'

'So you're ignoring Howard?'

Without replying Tweed burrowed inside a brief-case he had propped against the side of his chair. Extracting the photocopy of a file he handed it to Martel. On the front was the security classification, file reference number and three words. Frederick Anthony Howard.

Martel began skip-reading as Tweed explained. 'We have McNeil to thank for that. How she got the original out of Central Registry and made that photocopy I'll never know. I think she has a duplicate key to the dossier cabinet…'

'Christ!' Martel looked up, stupefied at the thought of the risk McNeil was running. 'She's never told you that?'

'No,' Tweed said quietly. 'That is her way and I don't ask her questions. Have you come to it yet?'

'Come to what?'

'Page 12. Several years ago Howard spent a tour of duty with the Paris Embassy as Intelligence Officer. While he was there he took a spell of leave – six weeks. In Vienna.'

'Normal leave?'

'No, sick leave. He was on the edge of a nervous breakdown – "mental exhaustion" is the phrase used by the quack. The medical report is there. He was away January to February. Think of the Austrian climate. Damned funny place to go for sick leave…'

'If he knows Vienna that will help him protect the PM.' 'That's another odd note,' Tweed commented. 'He's never made a single mention of the fact as far as I know.'

Martel handed back the photocopy and sat puffing his cigarette. Tweed produced an envelope with four glossy prints. 'You wanted photographs of Flandres, O'Meara, Howard and Stoller…' Martel put the envelope in his pocket, stubbed out his cigarette and spoke with great vigour.

'Time is so short we have to put maximum pressure on all four security chiefs – in the hope that the unknown assassin makes a wrong move. We stir up the cauldron…'

'How?'

'By telling each of them on the quiet the part we left out. I can deal with Stoller – you'll have to pass the word on to Howard, Main and O'Meara…'

'What word?'

'That the same unimpeachable source which told us one of the Western leaders is marked for assassination aboard the express also told you that the killer is among the four security chiefs.'

From an inside pocket Tweed extracted a card protected by a plastic folder and gave it to his companion. Martel studied the card, which carried his photograph, as Tweed explained while he wandered restlessly round the room. So far he had not reacted to the audacious suggestion Martel had put forward.

'Keith, we shan't meet again before the Summit Express leaves the Gare de l'Est tomorrow night. That card enables you to board the train at any point en route. No one can stop you – not even Howard…'

Permission to board… every facility to be given to the bearer, Keith Martel… specific permission to carry any weapon'

Across his photograph was inscribed the neat and very legible signature of the Prime Minister. She had counter-signed the reference to weapons. Martel stared at Tweed.

'In God's name, how did you get this?'

'I approached her directly through the Minister. I spent half an hour with her. I told her one of the four security chiefs, may be an assassin…'

'She must have loved that…'

'Took it very calmly,' Tweed replied. 'She even said she would feel perfectly safe in our hands. She went through your dossier while I was there. Incidentally, you brought a good passport picture of Claire Hofer with you? Good. Do you trust her?'

'With my life – I have done already. Twice..

'Give me her photo.'

Tweed sat down at the table, produced a second card, a duplicate of Martel's but without the photo or signatures. Taking a tube of adhesive from his pocket, Tweed carefully affixed Claire's photo in position. He then extracted a pen Martel had not seen before and proceeded with great care and skill to forge the PM's signature twice. He looked at Martel over his glasses.

'I have her permission – and she loaned me her pen to do the job. Here is Miss Hofer's card. One thing I must remember to do above all else.'

'What's that?'

'Return the PM her pen. She'll give me hell if I forget. One thing more is exercising my mind – before we go. Manfred…'

'What his next move will be, you mean?'

'I know,' Tweed replied. 'I have duelled with him long-distance before and I should know by now how his mind works. Sit in his chair for a moment. He has been informed that we know one of the four western leaders is marked down for assassination. When we reveal to the security chiefs that one of them is the assassin he will react – he may already have put into action the next phase of his strategy …'

'Which is?'

'Smokescreens. To conceal the identity of the killer he will try to divert our suspicions to the wrong man. He will aim for the maximum confusion in our minds – simply put, so we don't know where the hell we are. And we have no time at all left to locate the guilty man.'

'You agree my idea, then,' Martel said and stood up, checking his watch.

'Yes. We tell the security chiefs one of them is a phoney. And then watch all hell break loose…'

Reinhard Dietrich was in a state of controlled fury as he drove the Mercedes 450 SEL from his apartment to the underground garage which Manfred had designated as the meeting place. On the phone it had almost been in the nature of a summons for Dietrich to come immediately – alone and with just sufficient time to get there.

Inside the deserted underground garage Manfred sat behind the wheel of his BMW hired under a fictitious name with false papers. He had deliberately arrived early and positioned himself so his car would face Dietrich's on arrival.

He heard Dietrich coming, driving on the brake.

The garage was dimly lit and Manfred timed it perfectly. As the millionaire appeared driving towards him he turned on his light full power. The unexpected glare blinded the industrialist who threw up a hand to shield his eyes and cursed as he reduced speed and pulled up alongside the BMW. Manfred promptly turned off his lights, which further confused Dietrich's vision.

He saw a vague image of a man wearing a dark beret, the face turned towards him concealed behind large sun-goggles. Switching off his motor he lowered the window. Manfred was already talking as the window purred open.

'If you lose the election you go ahead with the putsch as planned. Your men in full uniform. You march on Munich – make it as much a replica of Hitler's 1923 march on Munich as you can.'

'Hitler didn't succeed,' Dietrich pointed out. 'He ended up in Landsberg Prison…'

'Where is the new weapons dump?' Manfred interjected. 'I see…' He paused. 'We are so close to zero hour you should use armed guards to protect the place this time. That is all…'

'Wait!'

Manfred had not even heard the plea. He was driving out of the garage, his red tail-lights disappearing round a corner. Dietrich swore again, took out a cigar and lit it. The arrangement was he should wait two minutes before he also left.

Arriving back at Munich Airport, Martel took a cab to the corner of a side street in the city. Waiting until the cab had gone, he walked the last four hundred yards to the Hotel Clausen where the Swiss girl was staying. He was relieved to find Claire safe in her room.

'I've been busy while you were away,' she announced. `I spent a lot of time at the Hauptbahnhof

'That was foolhardy – you could have been spotted…' 'When will you learn I'm not stupid?' she flared up. 'I change my clothes before each visit. A trouser suit in the morning, a skirt and blouse with dark glasses after lunch…'

'Sorry.' Martel dropped his brief-case on the bed and stretched his arms. 'I'm tensed up. The Summit Express leaves Paris tomorrow night and we're no nearer knowing who the target is, let alone the assassin…'

'The dossiers that woman in London is checking? She has found nothing?'

'It could be Flandres, Howard, O'Meara – even Erich Stoller. Any one of them. But she's persisting. The Hauptbahnhof…'

'You never told me what you had noticed after we ran for it,' she reminded him.

'Your impressions first.'

He slipped off his shoes, lay on the bed and propped his back on the bedboard. While she talked he smoked and watched her, thinking how fresh and appetising she looked. He felt a limp, sweaty, mess: the humidity in Munich was growing worse.

'The Hauptbahnhof here,' she began, 'and probably in Zurich – for the same reasons – is the mobile headquarters of Delta. Which explains why Stoller has never managed to locate their main base. The schloss Dietrich has in the country is a blind…'

'Goon.'

'It makes an ideal headquarters because of all the facilities. It is always crowded. So a meeting between two men-or several- is unlikely to be noticed. Couriers come in on trains, deliver their messages – and depart on other trains. They never actually go into Munich! How am I doing?'

'Promising. Do go on.'

'You observed one of those meetings- the man off the Zurich Express. Plenty of meeting-places – far less risky than any so-called safe houses which might be located and watched. The cafeteria, the cinema, and so on. They even have fool-proof communications which can be used with the certainty no call will ever be intercepted. The payphones.'