By Stealth (48 page)

`Mr Westendorf will be happy to see you this evening. If you could arrive at 6 pm. May I ask where you are staying?'

`The Four Seasons Hotel, room number 311.'

`Thank you, sir. We will be expecting you. At 6 pm.'

Tweed was disturbed as he put down the phone. Nothing had been as he'd expected. He had anticipated Westendorf answering the phone — if anyone at all had responded to his call. He had pictured the German existing on his own inside the schloss — his wife had died several years ago.

Westendorf had one seventeen-year-old son. Tweed had assumed he might well have been kidnapped. Something strange had compelled the German to throw up his career without warning. What was going on in Germany? Tweed sensed the pattern he had uncovered with Andover and Delvaux was now being repeated in Hamburg. Someone tapped on the door. It was Paula.

`What a lovely room,' she enthused. 'And a super view from the window.'

`I think they've installed that lovely fountain gushing in the middle of the lake since I was last here. Maybe I've forgotten it.'

`And if I know you, you've forgotten it's time we went down and had some lunch.'

`Something quick. I don't feel like a full-dress effort. I know. The bar ...'

Newman was about to knock on the door when they went into the corridor. Paula was revelling in the peace of the hotel. A chambermaid wished them `Guten Tag' as they entered the lift. The bar opened off the spacious lobby which had a large sitting area. Small and comfortably furnished with leather banquettes, the bar was empty except for the barman who came forward.

`I can make do with ham sandwiches — if that's all right with both of you,' Tweed suggested.

`And to drink, sir?' the barman enquired.

`A bottle of champagne,' Newman decided.

`Mineral water for me,' Tweed ordered.

Once the barman had gone Tweed told them about his call to the Schloss Tannenberg. He had just finished when Marler peered in. He gave a discreet thumbs-up sign and disappeared.

`That means he's got a car,' Newman said.

`It will be after dark when we get there,' Tweed ruminated aloud. 'Odd the emphasis that man put on six pm.'

`We'll find out when we get there,' Newman assured him.

At 5.15 pm. Tweed, muffled against the cold in an overcoat, collar turned up, was walking up and down outside the hotel with Paula. She also wore her coat buttoned to her neck. The night was clear, star-studded, and the temperature had dropped below zero. It was the first day of December.

Newman stood smoking a cigarette as a very large black Mercedes 600 pulled in to the kerb. Paula stared at its size as, behind the wheel, Marler called out through his open window.

`Don't just stand there freezing. Hop in.'

They had left the outskirts of Hamburg behind when Tweed asked the question. They were moving through a district of impressive two-storey villas in spacious grounds behind high railings. Hardly any other traffic.

`How on earth did you get hold of this mobile palace?' he asked.

`Oh,' Marler drawled, 'I said I was driving a top official to visit a Minister. After all, he was one — once.' He eyed Tweed in the rear-view mirror. 'This chariot is costing you a bomb. And from the map you gave me we're nearly there.'

Paula, revelling in the space, the warmth from the heaters, caught glimpses of the solid villas as the headlights swung round bends. A very expensive area.

Marler suddenly stopped, stiffened like a fox scenting danger. He had been driving slowly for the past five minutes, peering at elaborate name plates by the side of high gates and illuminated with lanterns. All the gates had been shut but this pair was open.
Schloss Tannenberg
. Tweed sensed his alertness.

`Something wrong?'

`I think you ought to go in equipped.' He opened a hold-all on the seat beside him, produced a .32 Browning automatic which he handed Paula with spare ammo. For Newman he had a hip holster, a Smith & Wesson .38 Special with ammo. Before replying to Tweed he waited while Newman strapped on the hip holster, checked the gun, loaded it, slipped it inside the holster, put his jacket and coat on again. Paula had slipped her Browning into her shoulder-bag after checking and loading it.

`Something is wrong,' Marler reported. 'Look out of the window. Gates wide open — and one of those dragon's teeth chains laid across the drive a few yards beyond the entrance.'

`But where did you get the weapons?' Tweed demanded.

He was annoyed: they had no permits to carry weapons inside Germany. On the other hand Benoit had warned about 'a zone of maximum danger'.

`This afternoon — while you were all having a kip — I was busy,' Marler said in an ironic tone. 'I visited a chum, a German arms dealer on a barge along the waterfront. He told me business had tailed off something shocking since the Berlin Wall went down. I got this lot for a song — plus Walthers for Butler and Nield. And an Armalite for myself. All a question of knowing the right people.'

`Or the wrong ones,' Tweed rebuked him. 'Now I'm going to walk up that drive. Bob, Paula, you can follow at a distance. I don't want to startle Westendorf.'

`I'll find somewhere to park the car,' Marler decided.

Tweed walked slowly up the tarred drive, his footsteps making no sound. He stepped over the dragon's teeth chain — which would rip a vehicle's tyres to pieces and stop it in seconds. It was too quiet.

He could see the old two-storey stone villa in the distance. Lights on in the ground-floor windows behind closed curtains. On either side of the drive high, dense banks of rhododendron bushes concealed the grounds. He reasoned that the oppressive silence was due to the German occupying the villa by himself. Like Andover. Like Delvaux ….'

The muzzle of a gun was rammed into the back of his neck. At the same moment a hand descended on his shoulder, a voice growled the command in English.

`Make one wrong move and I'll blow your head off.'

Inside the Four Seasons, Pete Nield, smartly dressed as always in a business suit, wandered into the spacious lounge area adjoining reception. A very attractive woman with a blonde mane, wearing a form-fitting black dress, sat on a couch. The dress was slit up one side and she had her elegant legs crossed. Lee Holmes.

Nield paused by a table of German newspapers and magazines. He pretended to be looking for something to read. Lee called out to him in her husky voice.

`Don't I know you? Surely you were at the Hilton back in Brussels? You were.' She patted the seat beside her. `Do please come and sit with me. I'm bored to distraction. I desperately need some entertaining man. You fit the bill.'

I would have thought there'd be a queue of men — waiting to distract you.' Nield fingered his trim moustache as he sat close to her. 'And of course I do remember seeing you, but you were always chaperoned by some man. Severe-looking type. My bad luck, I thought.'

`A gallant man.' She sighed, her bosom rising. 'How rare these days.' Her bare arm touched his sleeve as she took out her jewelled cigarette holder, inserted a cigarette. Nield flicked his lighter into flame. She shook her head and smiled warmly. 'I'm giving it up — this is testing my will-power. Absolutely silly, really.'

Nield smiled. He had known about her technique, but wanted her to feel he knew nothing about her.

`Why are you so bored?' he asked. 'I saw you with a military type who seemed very distinguished.'

`Brigadier Burgoyne. Distinguished for wanting his own way. Now he's trotted off on some official business, indulging in one of his investigations. He regards me as a piece of the furniture.' She smiled again. 'The only compensation is the pay is good.'

`Thank Heaven for small mercies. What would you like to drink?'

`Champers! To celebrate the beginning of our friendship.'

Tweed froze, remained quite still. The gun muzzle against his neck felt cold as ice. The hand on his shoulder was large and had a strong grip. Then he heard a new voice.

`This gun is pressed into your spine. Drop your own or you'll be a cripple for life. At the best,' Newman concluded.

Tweed heard a tiny click: the safety catch being put on. Then a much louder sound as the weapon hit the tar. He turned round slowly. The first voice had sounded familiar, so he was not too surprised to face Chief Inspector Otto Kuhlmann of the Criminal Police from Wiesbaden.

`A nice warm friendly welcome to Germany, Otto,' he said genially. 'But what the hell are you doing here?'

Newman had holstered his weapon. Kuhlmann bent down, retrieved his own gun, straightened up, and glared at Newman. The German police chief was short in stature but had very wide shoulders. He always reminded Newman of old films he'd seen starring Edward G. Robinson. The same wide mouth, tough face, thick dark hair and eyebrows. The same alert eyes and dynamic energy. A powerhouse of a police chief — and one of Tweed's old friends.

`My apologies,' Kuhlmann began, 'but we get a call from a man who says he is Tweed. That is, one of my officers took that call. Can we be sure of your identity? And in the dark you were just a shadow. We are taking no chances.'

`Neither am I,' Newman told him. 'Like you, I just saw a shadow with a gun. I'm not apologizing.'

`You have a permit for that weapon?' Kuhlmann asked in a gentle voice.

`He hasn't,' Tweed said quickly. 'But if I am right about what has been experienced by Hugo Westendorf protection was in order.'

`I may forgive you, Newman.' Kuhlmann turned to Tweed. 'Shall we see what is going on inside
Schloss Tannenberg
— before we freeze to death out here . . .?'

Tweed braced himself for his first sight of Westendorf. He remembered him well from the time the German Minister, as he then was, had visited Britain incognito to attend a meeting of INCOMSIN — the International Committee of Strategic Insight.

The German had been six foot two inches tall, of slim build, and with a strong-boned face and a high forehead. His mind had been like quicksilver, his manner courteous, and his energy phenomenal. Tweed dreaded what he was about to witness.

Kuhlmann pressed the bell beside the heavy closed door four times in quick succession, then once again after a pause. As it was, when the door was opened a few inches the first thing Tweed saw was the muzzle of a Heckler and Koch 9mm sub-machine-gun. The man holding it came into view, a plain-clothes detective without a smile. Was this the voice which had answered him on the phone, Tweed wondered.

They were admitted with Kuhlmann ushering in Paula, whom he hugged, and then the other two. Tweed then had the shock of his life.

'We shouldn't talk,' Tweed warned quickly. 'This place is probably bugged.'

'It was,' Kuhlmann replied. 'I ripped out every listening device myself.'

But it was Hugo Westendorf Tweed was staring at. The German had crossed the large hall with a brisk step, holding out his hand. He carried himself erect, his grip was strong. There were no signs of strain on his face and he greeted his visitor with a warm smile.

`Welcome to
Schloss Tannenberg
, my friend. It is so very good to see you.'

'And I thought someone — maybe your son, Franz — had been kidnapped.'

`But he has been. Three months ago. Which is why I resigned. It was a demand of the kidnappers — which I at once acceded to.'

36

They were sitting in a comfortable library Westendorf had suggested as a good place to talk. Their German host stood in front of a blazing log fire inside a huge stone alcove. The walls were lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling and Tweed had the impression the books were read. He was mystified by the situation and phrased his question with care.

`As far as you know, is Franz in good health?'

`You mean,' Kuhlmann intervened, 'has Westendorf received a severed arm or hand — like Andover and Delvaux. The answer is no. Westendorf communicated with me as soon as Franz had been kidnapped. I have worked in great secrecy. The press have no idea of what happened.'

`What action did you take?' Tweed asked.

`I launched the greatest dragnet ever mounted in the Federal Republic. I turned over Germany. Always in secrecy. I contacted informants in the underground criminal world and they started looking. Like so many respectable citizens, they hate the alien refugees — many of whom compete in the rackets.'