Rhinoceros

COLIN FORBES

RHINOCEROS

POCKET BOOKS

LONDON • SYDNEY- NEW YORK- TOKYO - SINGAPORE - TORONTO

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2000

This edition first published by Pocket Books, 2001

An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

A Viacom Company

Copyright © Colin Forbes, 2000

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention

No reproduction without permission

® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved

Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of

Simon & Schuster Inc

The right of Colin Forbes to be identified as author of this work has

been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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London WC2B 6AH

Simon & Schuster Australia Sydney

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library

ISBN 0-7434-1522-1

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is

entirely coincidental.

Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd,

Polmont, Stirlingshire

Printed and bound in Australia

by Griffin Press

Colin Forbes writes a novel each year. For many years
he has earned his living solely as a full-time writer.
He lives well away from London in the countryside. An
international bestseller, each book has been published
worldwide. Colin Forbes is translated into thirty lan
guages.

He has explored most of Western Europe, the East and
West coasts of America, and has visited Africa and Asia. All the locations in his novels are described from personal
experience.

Surveys have confirmed that his readership is divided almost equally between men and women.

Author's Note

All the characters portrayed are creatures of the author's
imagination and bear no relationship to any living person. Equally, Berg Island is an invention and bears no relation
ship to any existing island.

For
IAN S. CHAPMAN

Prologue

The first strange event was when Bob Newman, foreign
correspondent, arrived at Heathrow to meet the American
guest. He showed his SIS folder to pass through the
formalities. Standing by the carousel, he checked the
photo sent from Washington. On the back was a written
description.

Six feet one tall, weight 190 Ibs, clean-shaven, thirty-five
years old.
Newman spotted Mark Wendover at once among
the crowd waiting for their baggage. Coming up behind
him, he laid a hand on his shoulder.

'Welcome, Mr Wendover . . .'

The American, built like a quarterback, reacted in a
most unexpected way. As he swung swiftly round, Newman
saw his right hand stiffen in the gesture of a potential karate
chop. Newman spoke quickly.

'I'm Bob Newman, here to meet you. Didn't they tell
you? We did send a message.'

'Great to see you. Thanks for coming. May I call
you Bob?'

'Of course.'

'Then I'm Mark. Sorry if I startled you. Haven't had
any sleep for over twenty hours.'

'Better watch the carousel. . .'

'You're right. And here comes my bag . . .'

They were in Newman's car, driving into London, sit
ting next to each other when Newman asked the question.

And if I startled you, he thought, you certainly startled me.
You were on the verge of launching an attack. Why?

'We're not quite sure what your status is. Cord Dillon,
the Deputy Director of the CIA, was in a rush when he
phoned and a bit vague about you.'

'I'm vague myself about what to do next. I was with the
CIA for five years. It was OK, but too much paperwork for
my liking. I did fieldwork too,' he added quickly. 'Shot a
saboteur in Denver once. Left the outfit - the Company
as some of the oldsters still call it - and set up a private
detective agency. That did well - I've left behind a staff of twenty.' He looked at Newman and grinned, but the grin did not extend to his cold blue eyes. 'But that isn't
why I'm here.'

'I gather you're here because you have information
about the recent suicide of Jason Schulz, top aide to the
Secretary of State.'

'Except it wasn't suicide,' Wendover rapped back. 'It
was cold-blooded murder, amateurishly disguised to look like suicide.'

Why, Newman was asking himself, don't I feel comfort
able with this guy? And why am I sure he's nervous? The
traffic had temporarily stopped the car and he looked
straight at his passenger.

Wendover had corn-coloured hair, cut very short, a handsome strong face of the type which would appeal to
a lot of women. His long nose was broken, which seemed
to add to his good looks. He had a wide determined
mouth and just enough jaw to suggest strength without
aggression.

'If it was an amateurish-seeming job, why is it being
called suicide?'

'That's the mystery. The FBI was hauled off the case.
Its chief is raging - and mystified. Schulz was supposed to have driven to a park in Washington, walked into a
copse, leaned against the trunk of a tree, taken out a gun
and blown the side of his head off. He was a very important
man in the State Department.'

'So what's wrong?' Newman prodded as the traffic
moved again.

'First, Jason's wife swears her husband never owned a
gun - and we believe her. The weapon, a Smith & Wesson revolver, had the serial number filed off. So, impossible to
trace where it came from. Second, he was found slumped
at the foot of the tree, still holding the gun. The trouble
is, the way his fingers were clutching the gun didn't seem
right. More like someone had placed his fingers there
after he was shot. Third, no trace of his car in the park. They found it parked in his usual slot in an underground
garage.'

'With all that evidence, who on earth called off the
FBI?'

'We don't know. It's pretty mysterious.'

'We've booked you a room at the Ritz. If it's all right by you I'll call later and take you out to dinner. Would seven be too early?'

'Just give me time to take a shower. Seven is fine . . .'

The conversation lapsed until Newman was pulling up outside the Ritz. Before Wendover grabbed his bag he
turned to Newman and asked the question.

'Jason Schulz died five days ago. I gather Cord sent me
over because Tweed is worried. Right?'

'We can talk about that over dinner.'

He watched Wendover, carrying a heavy bag, leap up
the steps to the hotel like a ten-year-old. That doesn't
look to be a man who hasn't slept for twenty hours, he
thought.

In time sequence the second event occurred earlier the
same day. Newman's chief, Tweed, Deputy Director of
the SIS, had driven down to East Sussex at the invitation
of an old friend, Lord Barford. He had taken Paula Grey, his assistant, with him.

It was late on a brilliant sunny afternoon as he drove
between the open wrought-iron gates and
into the Barfbrd estate. Paula, seated beside Tweed, gazed at the spacious
parkland. The ruler-straight drive extended across to a
large, distant Elizabethan mansion. The sun had shone
first after lunch and there were still traces of a heavy
frost, islands of white on the beautiful lawn, which was
an intense green.

'You've known Lord Barford for a long time, I gather?' she remarked.

'When I first joined the SIS he was in command
of Special Branch. In those days we found them very
cooperative. None of the bitter and stupid rivalry there is between the two outfits today. He's one of the old school. Very wealthy but he felt he had to serve his country. He's very shrewd.'

'Looks like quite a party,' she commented as they
drew closer to the terrace running along the front of
the mansion. An assortment of expensive cars were parked
below the terrace. She counted a Porsche, four Mercedes, a Lamborghini, five Audis and two Rolls-Royces.

As they mounted the steps one of the massive double
doors at the entrance opened. A tall man who had to be in
his seventies came out with a warm smile. Despite being near the end of March, a bitter north wind blew along the
terrace.

'Lord Barford,' Tweed whispered.

Their host had a long head with a beaked nose, lively
grey eyes which, Paula thought, missed very little. Wearing
a velvet smoking jacket, he advanced towards them.

'Welcome to Barford Manor. It's been too long, Tweed.
Who is your delightful companion?'

'Meet Paula Grey, my right arm.'

'I'm pleased to meet you, Lord Barford,' she said as she
shook his extended hand. 'If you don't mind my saying
so, it's Arctic on this terrace and you're not wearing
a coat.'

'Used to it, my dear. I was once shooting bear in Finland
when the temperature had gone off the thermometer.
Come in, come in.'

He studied Paula, saw an attractive woman in her thirties with a mane of glossy black hair, fine-boned features and a
stubborn chin. He went on talking as they entered a large
hall and a butler took their coats.

'You must be remarkably efficient and self-controlled to work for this young tyrant.'

'Young?' Tweed laughed. 'Your eyesight must be going.'

Barford stared at Tweed. He saw a man of medium
height and uncertain age, well-built without any sign of
a paunch and wearing horn-rimmed glasses. He was the
man you passed in the street without noticing him, a
characteristic he had found useful in his profession.

They were ushered into a large drawing room, luxuriously furnished but with great taste. A number of people seated with drinks on sofas and armchairs turned to look
at the new arrivals.