Rhinoceros (29 page)

'That's Harry,' Paula told him. 'I'm glad he's come,'

They started walking past the weird buildings that
reminded Paula of gigantic modern sculptures. It was very
quiet, very humid. She thought she smelt a whiff of oil.

'How far to the Elbe?' she asked.

'Not far,' Tweed told her, having put his map away.

It was disturbingly quiet as they walked downhill. Not
a soul in sight anywhere. She looked back, hoping for
a comforting sight of Harry. Nothing. But when Harry
followed you he was the Invisible Man. It was unnervingly
silent, then she heard the faint swish of water as they
reached the bottom of the hill. They had reached the
docks, the Elbe. Tweed led them to his right. She saw
a street sign.
Elbstr.

To her left as they walked slowly in the heat she had her
first sight of the river. About as wide as the Thames in
London. Above them loomed immensely tall cranes. Half
way up the huge structures she saw control cabins. There seemed to be dozens of the cranes. All motionless. She thought they looked like Martians which had just landed. She saw one vast structure, squatter, resting on railway
lines so its position could be moved when barges arrived. Lights high up gave spasmodic illumination, emphasizing
the black shadows. There was no moon to see - the sky
had a heavy overcast which must have drifted in recently.

She felt tiny, and a little nervous, walking below these
monsters.

'When the Germans build they build big,' she com
mented.

'Hence the enormous Panther tanks they used in the
Second World War that I've read about,' said Tweed. 'I've seen pictures of them. They fought like tigers and caused
us a lot of trouble during the Normandy landings.'

'Just so long as we don't see one coming down the street,'
she retorted.

'Rather unlikely,' Newman assured her.

Across the far side of the river Paula saw another army of
cranes deployed. More lights glowed from a great height.
Two freighters were moored for the night with several large
barges.

'It just goes on and on,' she commented.

'They are,' Tweed informed her, 'the second largest docks
on the Continent. The only bigger system is Europort down
in Holland. But these docks are catching up.'

A chain clanked in the night. She nearly jumped out of
her skin. It was the first sound she had heard since they'd
begun their long plod along Elbstrasse.

'Just a barge being moved by the current,' Newman
remarked. 'That would be its mooring chain.'

'Creepy down here,' Paula commented.

She had stopped looking up at the cranes. But she found herself very aware of their presence. At least they were
immobile. Tweed raised an arm, pointed ahead.

'See that grassy bank, the row of terrace houses on top
of it. That's where Dr Kefler must live. And there's the
footpath he told us to climb. All we have to do is find
No. 23.'

'Lovely view he's got,' Paula said. 'Looking out on those
cranes which rise up higher than the houses.'

They began climbing the narrow footpath with Tweed
in the lead. The huddle of small old houses bunched
together along the terrace did not look very upmarket.
Paula was wondering why a man of Kefler's eminence
lived like this.

No. 23 was close to where they had left the footpath,
where they were perched on top of the slope. Tweed looked
up at a first-floor window where lights shone behind net curtains. A window was raised. Before Tweed could see
the figure leaning out, the beam of a powerful torch shone in his face. It was switched off quickly.

Very quickly he heard steps running down stairs inside. Behind him Newman was shuffling his feet impatiently.
Their position, standing on top of the slope, was very
exposed. His eyes swept the metal forest of cranes but he
could see no movement. Then the two new locks Tweed had
noticed on the heavy old wooden door of Kefler's house were turned from inside. The door was pulled inward and a small figure stood in the dark. Why no lights?

'Come in immediately, please,' a deep voice said in
English.

They filed into the gloom, the door was closed, locks
turned. Light flooded a small hall. The small plump man
held out a hand to Tweed.

'I apologize,' he began in English, 'for shining the torch
in your eyes. I had to be sure it was you. Keith Kent's description fits you perfectly. Oh, I am Dr Kefler . . .'

Tweed introduced his two colleagues. Paula thought Kent's picture of Kefler as a teddy bear was perfect. The
German had brown hair
en brosse,
eyes like buttpns which
gazed at her through glasses with the thickest lenses she had ever seen. He smiled warmly, was cuddly, she felt,
then dismissed
the word as silly but appropriate. He wore a velvet smoking jacket, his short legs were clad in dark blue
slacks and he almost danced with pleasure as he ushered
them into a room on the first floor at the front. They had
to be careful climbing the narrow twisting staircase. Paula guessed that the room he showed them into was his study.

'I have bought a jar of English coffee,' he confided to
her. 'I know the German coffee is very strong . . .'

'That was very thoughtful of you,' she told him.

'It is nothing. I turned on the kettle before I came down.
I will fetch it now. Yes? Make yourselves comfortable. Sit
down everyone. I fetch the kettle. I have the papers for
you, Herr Tweed . . .'

Before Tweed could ask what papers he was referring
to, Kefler had trotted off into the kitchen. Relaxing in her
armchair, Paula looked round the room. You can tell a
man from his study. On a large old desk, which didn't look German, was a fax machine, a computer, a printer
- and an ancient Remington typewriter which looked out of place. She also thought the modern equipment looked
very new, hardly used. Along one wall were floor-to-ceiling
bookcases. She stood up to look at them.

'Not my choice of armchair,' Newman whispered.

'You're too tall,' Paula whispered back.

Which was true. The armchairs had low seats and Newman had to stretch out his legs in front of him. It
struck Tweed, who was just about comfortable, that Kefler
with his short legs had chosen furniture that suited himself.
An understandable lack of thought for guests — domestic
matters would be a nuisance to him.

'He's got six old volumes on the history of the Frankenheim
Dynasty,' Paula observed, indicating the bookcases.

'I am so sorry I take so long time,' Kefler began as he
reappeared and laid a tray on a low table. The coffee
pot, the cream jug, the cups and saucers were Meissen. He's got out the best china, Paula thought. 'You serve
yourselves, please? Then you have the coffee the way you like it,' the German suggested, smiling all the time. Paula
did the honours.

'You know something?' Kefler said as he perched on a
stool. 'You noticed the two new locks on my front door,
Mr Tweed?'

'Yes, I. . .'

'Refugees. Turks, Croats, Kosovars - God knows who else or why we ever let them in. Many are criminals. A house near mine was burgled a week ago. They take
everything. And would you believe it
..."
Once again
the teddy bear was in full verbal flood. '. . . they take a
parrot!'

'A parrot? Difficult to take away . . .' Paula began.

'No, not at all . . .' Kefler gave a bubbling laugh. '. . . It was a cheap piece of pottery. Now where they sell a thing
like that? Crazy. Is the coffee any good?'

They all agreed sincerely it was marvellous. Kefler nod
ded dubiously as though he thought they were just being
polite.

'You're well equipped,' Paula remarked, looking at the
old desk.

'I don't use any of it. I do like my Remington, though.
Scientists are dangerous. They invent things without first thinking: what will be the consequences? That time bomb,
the Internet. Great, they say. Brings the world closer together. Nations get too close to each other, disagree,
quarrel, then make
war.'

'I'm inclined to agree with you,' Tweed slipped into the
pause. 'Now, earlier you mentioned some papers.'

'Ach! The Zurcher Kredit Bank is the best, the most
honest in the world. It is
notl
Miss Grey, you were looking
at my old desk. Not so German, eh? I bought it in your
Portobello Road in London. I love it. But I divert . . .'
Kefler stared at Tweed as though making sure he trusted
him.'. . . Vast sums of money are being laundered through that bank - or they do the walk with the money from rich
clients, maybe send it to a secret account at Vaduz in
Liechtenstein . . .'

'You know that definitely?' Tweed interjected.

'No,
nein.
I only know three hundred million marks
walk off.'

Paula did a quick calculation in her head, was stunned.
Very roughly, one hundred million pounds sterling. Hardly chicken-feed.

'I give you papers now,' Kefler decided.

He jumped off his stool, stooped down under the cherished desk from the Portobello Road. Reaching under the knee-hole, his pudgy hands jerked, brought out a small
leather folder which had obviously been attached with
sticky tape. He carefully removed the tape before handing
the folder to Tweed.

'Open it! Please do!'

He was almost dancing with enthusiasm. Tweed ex
tracted a sheaf of folded stiff papers, unfolded them. They
appeared to be German bank statements with
Zurcher Kredit
printed at the top of each sheet. The contents on
the sheets baffled him - lists of figures with code letters such as
GT.

'You don't understand them, of course,' Kefler advised.
'So you show them to the clever Keith Kent. He will
decode . . . Did I say three hundred million marks? . . .
My British numbers go wrong. I should say
seven
hundred
million marks walk.'

Paula did another quick calculation in her head. Roughly
£230,000,000! She stared at Newman, who obviously had
also converted marks into pounds. He had a blank look.

'Dr Kefler,' Tweed said calmly, 'are these papers really for me?'

'Of course! I tell you. Keith Kent decode, show you.'

'You haven't a briefcase - or something like that - I
could carry this folder away in?'