Tuesday June 2
Name: Alain Dominique Flandres. Nationality: French. Date of birth: January 18 1928. Place of birth: Strasbourg.
Tweed, alone again in his office with McNeil, studied the file she had handed him. Alain's personal description followed – his height, weight, colour of eyes, colour of hair. It matched the file's subject. He settled himself more comfortably in his chair to peruse the life history.
Career record: Escaped to England, April 1944. Commissioned as lieutenant in Free French Forces. Appointed to Military Intelligence due to fluency in German. At war's end transferred to staff of Gen. Dumas for French occupation of Vorarlberg and the Tyrol. Demobilised and returned to France, May 1953. Immediately joined Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire. Transferred to Secret Service in charge of special unit guarding President, July 1980.
Tweed finished reading the file and drank more tea while he ran over the details again. 'What about his marital status?' he asked.
McNeil replied from memory. 'He married Lucille Durand, daughter of a textile manufacturer from Lille in…'
`That's enough,' Tweed interjected. 'What about the dirt?' he enquired with an expression of distaste. 'The yellow sheet – an appropriate colour for the things we record about people's lives. But sometimes that's where the clue lies…'
`Seven different mistresses so far…' McNeil was consulting a yellow flimsy. 'You want the erotic details?'
`No. Were all his women French?'
'The names look French to me. Who next?'
`O'Meara,' Tweed hunched forward in the chair, his eyes screwed up in concentration. 'This file will be meagre, I presume?'
'Here it is.' She handed him a slim dossier. 'And, as you say, meagre…'
Name: Timothy Patrick O'Meara. Nationality: American. Date of birth: August 3193o. Place of birth: New York City.
Career record: Served with Cryptoanalysis Section, CIA, Langley, 1960-1965. Assigned other duties, 1965-1972. Served with West Berlin station under Controller, Clint Loomis, 1972-1974. A two-man unit; other member (junior) Lou Carson. While in Berlin had affair with 18-year old German girl, Klara Beck. On return to US promoted to Assistant Director of Operations, Langley. Transferred to Secret Service on…
Tweed stopped reading. 'He's married?' he enquired.
`Yes.' McNeil produced another yellow flimsy. 'He did rather well. Nancy Margaret Chase, educated Vassar and all that implies. Daughter of a powerful Philadelphia banker. What they call "the quiet money".'
`His first and only wife?'
'Yes. The yellow sheet hints his father-in-law's connections with the White House helped his rapid rise. O'Meara carries lots of clout. His next move may be to stand for the Senate…'
The yellow sheet says that?'
'No, McNeil says that. And you still haven't explained why you lit fires under Howard and O'Meara this morning…'
Just trying to arrange the key pieces on the board prior to the opening moves in the game. Again, I'm fighting Manfred long-distance – and already the bastard is breathing down my neck.'
`And your rogue piece- Martel? I wonder what he's up to?'
'I'm going to pay a call on Reinhard Dietrich at his schloss,' Martel informed Stoller, who greeted him with apologies on his return to police headquarters in Munich.
`You are completely mad,' the German protested.
`There's something very peculiar going on,' Martel continued. 'I suspect that- unknown to Dietrich – Erwin Vinz is operating a secret cell inside Delta, a cell controlled directly by the East Germans, which means ultimately by the Soviets. Dietrich is being manipulated, conned – and I think I can raise doubts in his mind. That could upset the whole Crocodile apple cart at the last moment – and with the Summit Express leaving Paris tonight this is the last moment…'
The tall German wandered over to the window with an expressionless face. 'What makes you come up with this bizarre theory – what is it based on?'
`Four attempts on my life so far, for God's sake. In Zurich, two in St. Gallen and one off Lindau. In every damned instance the killers wore Delta symbols – the worst type of publicity for Dietrich's movement. They even left a badge under Warner's dead body – because that didn't get there by accident.'
`How are you going to handle it?' Stoller enquired.
`I have phoned Dietrich who apparently had just returned to the schloss. I'm going as a foreign correspondent. Dietrich wallows in publicity…'
`And what paper are your pretending to represent?'
The Times of London. I always carry credentials confirming my status as a reporter. I have one for Die Welt…'
'In your own name?'
`No, as Philip Johnson – who exists…'
He broke off as the phone rang. Stoller answered it, listened for a moment, spoke a few words and handed the receiver to the Englishman. 'It's for you – from London…'
At the inter end of the line Tweed chose his words carefully. It was quite possible the call was being secretly recorded for Stoller to play back to himself later
`Keith, a courier carrying diplomatic immunity is bringing you certain records for you to peruse in the hope that something will point the finger. The courier is my assistant. She will be arriving aboard an evening flight at Munich Airport. Have someone meet her. The flight details are…'
'Thank you,' Martel said. 'And goodbye…'
`I still think you are mad,' Stoller repeated as Martel replaced the receiver. `You could get yourself killed visiting Dietrich at that schloss.'
The Englishman glanced at Claire who had remained silent during their conversation. 'At least you can't say I don't inform you of my movements on your patch, Erich. I'm driving down to Dietrich's place at once.'
`Don't delay…' Stoller paused. 'Late tonight I have to fly to Bonn…'
'I didn't understand what went on in Stoller's office,' Claire said later when they were leaving the outskirts of Munich with Martel behind the wheel of his hired Audi. 'I had a feeling that signals were being exchanged…'
'He was just showing he was Sorry for his earlier outburst. And Tweed is sending in a courier with the dossiers on the evening flight to Munich. We're clutching at every last straw we can lay our hands on.'
`Why tell Stoller about your suspicions about Vinz and his secret cell? If it is Stoller who is guilty…'
`Then his reaction – or lack of it – will tell me something. Incidentally, Reinhard was most cordial when Philip Johnson of The Times phoned. He's looking forward to seeing me.'
`That's what worries me,' Claire replied.
`You say this British reporter who calls himself Philip Johnson has an appointment at the schloss? At what time? Dietrich, why did you agree to see this man?'
In the Munich apartment Manfred's gloved hand held the receiver tightly as he waited for the reply. It was pure chance that he had called the schloss, that the millionaire had then volunteered this information.
'Because I am convinced he is Martel, the man responsible for the murder of my nephew…'
'Why?'
'Because I checked immediately with The Times in London.' A note of exasperation had crept into Dietrich's voice. Manfred questioned every decision he took. 'They confirmed they have no correspondent of that name based in Bavaria…'
'No correspondent of that name on their staff?'
'I didn't say that!' Dietrich rapped back. 'They do have a man with that name on their staff, he is a foreign correspondent – but at the moment he is in Paris. This man who called himself Johnson is driving here this afternoon by the direct route from Munich in a blue Audi. Any more data you require?'
'Be very careful what you say…'
Once beyond the outskirts of Munich Manfred drove his BMW like a maniac. The sniperscope rifle was concealed inside a zipped-up golf-bag on the seat beside him. His features were concealed behind an outsize pair of dark-tinted glasses. His hair was hidden by a soft hat pulled well down over his forehead.
He braked about half a mile from the main entrance to the Dietrich estate. His phenomenal memory had not let him down. Yes, the gate in the wall was there. And beyond it stood a ramshackle farm-cart abandoned long ago and which he remembered from his secret meeting with Erwin Vinz by the roadside.
The geography, also, was right for his purpose. Beyond the gate a field rose up steeply to a ridge surmounted by an outcrop of rock. An excellent firing-point. Getting out of the BMW, he opened the gate, lifted the shafts of the cart and heaved to get it moving.
Manfred possessed extraordinary physical strength. He had once broken the neck of a man weighing twenty stone. He hauled the cart into the road where he positioned it carefully. He could have blocked the road completely – but this would have been bad psychology.
If you are quick-witted, confronted by a barrier you turn your car swiftly on the grass verge and drive like hell back the way you have come. So he used the cart to block the road partially – to force an oncoming vehicle to slow to a crawl and negotiate the obstacle.
It also provided against the contingency that the wrong car could arrive first and the occupants might get out and shift the cart. As the cart was positioned they would simply drive slowly round it. He next hid the BMW inside the field behind a clump of trees, not forgetting to close the gate. His target would notice little details like that.
Five minutes later, confident from what Dietrich had told him on the phone that he had arrived first, Manfred settled himself in place behind the rocky outcrop and peered through the gun's 'scope. In the crosshairs the road came up so he felt he could reach out to touch it. Then he heard the sound of an approaching car. Martel's blue Audi came into sight.
'I still don't like this idea of visiting Dietrich,' Claire said as she sat beside Martel in the Audi. 'But, oh, this must be one of the most beautiful places in the world.'
According to the map Martel had studied earlier they were within two miles of the main entrance to the schloss. All around them the sweeping uplands of Bavaria were green in the blazing sun. At the summit of limestone ridges which reared up like precipices clumps of fir trees huddled. They had not passed another vehicle for some time.
'You are not going to visit Dietrich,' Martel told her. 'Before we get there I'm leaving you with the car while I walk the rest of the way. if I haven't reappeared in one hour you drive like hell to Munich and report to Stoller…'
'I'm not frightened. I'm coming with you…'
'Which means if I run into trouble there's no one available to fetch help…'
'Damn you, Keith Martel! That's blackmail…'
'That's right. Now what, I wonder, is this?'
'It's a farm-cart someone has left in the road. You can drive round it along the verge.'
Martel was driving at fifty miles an hour when he first spotted the obstacle. He began to reduce speed, agreeing with Claire that to get past the obstruction he would have to edge his way round it along the grass verge. He looked in his rear-view mirror, expecting to see one or more cars coming up behind him. The mirror showed an endless stretch of deserted road.
He looked to his right and saw a vast field running away to the foot of an upland. He looked to his left and saw ahead, close to the farm-cart, a closed gate. Beyond the gate the land rose steeply, ending in a rocky escarpment which loomed over the road. He scanned the escarpment, reducing his speed further so that he would be moving at less than ten miles an hour as he nosed his way round the ancient cart.
The escarpment was deserted. Claire followed his gaze, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. The escarpment had a serrated edge like a huge knife with large notches. In one of the notches she saw movement. She pressed her back hard against the seat as she shouted.
'There's someone up there..!'
In the crosshairs of Manfred's 'scope the windscreen of the blue Audi was huge. The sun was in an ideal position – shining from behind his shoulder. He took the first pressure on the trigger. The Englishman's features were clear – even the cigarette-holder at a jaunty angle. The girl beside him wore dark glasses, making identification impossible. It didn't matter. The car was crawling…
'Hold on tight!'
Martel yelled the warning as he did the opposite to what instinct dictated – to reverse and turn on the verge. He rammed his foot through the floor. The Audi surged forward. The farm-cart rushed towards them. Claire blenched. The accident would be appalling. There was a sound of shattering glass.
Martel heard the whine of the high-powered bullet wing past the back of his neck. He kept his foot down, skidded as he swerved round the cart, regained control, drove off the verge and down the clear stretch beyond the cart.
Missed! On the ridge Manfred was stupefied. It was unprecedented. Following his normal cautious policy – which had enabled him to survive so long – he left the area immediately and drove back to Munich.