By Stealth (49 page)

`The object was to locate Franz if you could?'

`Only partly.' It was Westendorf who explained. 'I had heard from Andover and Delvaux the dreadful experience they had suffered — I travelled to meet them in Liège. Kuhlmann's main purpose was to keep the kidnappers and my kidnapped son on the move. The doctor who carried out amputations on Andover's daughter, on Delvaux's wife, would need peace and quiet — above all, security — to perform his fiendish work. Kuhlmann made sure they never had the time. He missed trapping them three times by hours — but they kept running like scared rabbits.'

`But what is the present situation?' Tweed enquired.

Kuhlmann had lit one of his cigars. He waved it in the air like a baton as he replied.

`Franz Westendorf was freed from an isolated farmhouse outside Bremen a few hours ago. His three captors were shot dead. I obtained permission from the new Minister of the Interior — a friend of Westendorf's — to use our elite anti-terrorist team.'

`That ends the chance of identifying the mastermind behind all this,' Tweed observed.

`No chance!' Kuhlmann snapped. 'The kidnappers were gypsy rubbish from the East. They'd had no idea who was controlling them. I emphasize I only took this line of action with the full consent of Westendorf.'

`It was blackmail.' The German ex-Minister stiffened as he spoke. 'I will never give in to blackmail. And Franz, who is eighteen in three days' time, holds the same view.'

`You showed a lot of courage,' Tweed remarked. 'But you did resign as Minister, as well as your membership of INCOMSIN and other organizations.'

`On Kuhlmann's advice,' Westendorf told him. 'The aim was to confuse the man behind the kidnapping. At first, he thinks I'm reacting like Andover and Delvaux. Meantime Kuhlmann is harassing the kidnappers, keeping them on the move, always looking over their shoulders.'

`How did you eventually trace Franz?' Tweed asked.

`As I'm sure you know,' Kuhlmann replied, 'from your one-time experience as Scotland Yard's youngest superintendent in Homicide, you need a little luck. But you must have the wit to know it when you are given the luck. A schoolboy identified the original vehicle used in the kidnap as a grey Audi. One of his friends found the empty Audi parked near this villa, little knowing the kidnap was in progress. The schoolboy - for a bit of fun - burst the yellow balloon his friend had attached to the rear of the Audi. I found this fact in a routine report. So I knew the Audi might still have a limp balloon dangling from it - something the kidnappers might not have noticed. I circulated the report.'

`And then?' Tweed enquired as Kuhlmann took a puff at his cigar.

`Having switched cars many times, I'm sure, the damned fools hung on to the Audi. Earlier today a motorcycle patrolman in Bremen saw an Audi stopped in the traffic — and noticed a limp yellow balloon hanging from its rear. It was foggy and he followed it into the country to this farmhouse. He used his radio to Bremen police HQ and I heard the news inside thirty minutes in the Action Centre I'd established here at Berliner Tor. A unit of the anti-terrorist team was flown to Bremen ...'

`On rather a long shot,' Tweed commented.

`Not too long. I'd first phoned Bremen and the locals said the farmhouse had been rented three months ago with a bank draft from Luxemburg City. That was enough for me. I ordered the raid to go ahead. You know the result.'

`I congratulate you,' said Tweed.

Westendorf had earlier poured glasses of hock for his guests. He walked over to Paula, sitting next to Newman, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

`All this must have been very tiring for you. I have heard you go almost everywhere with Tweed. How is the hock?'

`Very refreshing,' she replied gratefully.

`Then, gentlemen, I have a suggestion.' Westendorf's blue eyes were alert, his manner decisive. 'I wish to discuss certain very important matters with Tweed. The next step we take. But I find the villa has become claustrophobic, so let us drive to my motor yacht, the
Holsten V
, moored at Blankenese harbour on the Elbe. And I would be glad of your company,' he said to Paula. `Intelligent women often think of angles men overlook.'

`Good idea,' agreed Tweed. 'But I'm curious about one thing, Kuhlmann. Why did you destroy all the bugs?'

Kuhlmann removed the cigar from his mouth. 'I toyed with the idea of using them — arranging rehearsed conversations. Westendorf vetoed the idea.'

`Why?' Tweed asked his host.

Westendorf made a chopping motion with his hand.

'I resented the abominable invasion of privacy. And Kuhlmann agreed for another reason.'

`I decided,' Kuhlmann explained, 'that psychologically it was another move which would confuse the man directing the kidnappers. What you call a carrot and stick manoeuvre. The carrot was Westendorf resigning all his posts — demanded by the rat who phoned him after the kidnap. Then the stick was my ripping out all the listening devices I had spotted — installed when the villa was empty.'

`Any idea where they were made?' Tweed enquired. `Hong Kong.'

Paula noticed the night had changed as they stepped into Westendorf's stretched black Mercedes limo. It was a damp cold now, the stars had disappeared and wisps of mist were drifting towards the villa across the grounds. She also saw the dragon's-teeth chain had been temporarily removed as they moved down the drive.

At Tweed's request, they stopped outside the entrance and he got out to have a word with Marler sitting behind the wheel of the Mercedes 600. A plain-clothes man was stationed close by under a tree, armed with a sub-machine-gun.

`We're driving to Blankense for a meeting aboard a yacht Westendorf has moored in the harbour,' Tweed told him.

`I'll follow at a discreet difference. Don't argue,' Marler said amiably. 'I've got a feeling-you might just need some back-up ...'

Westendorf had taken the wheel with Tweed beside him: in the back Paula revelled in warm comfort with Newman next to her. As they drove past more villas the mist thickened. On both sides they were passing through what — in good weather — would be scenic parkland.

`We are now entering Blankenese,' Westendorf said. `Once it was a small fishing port — now no fishing is permitted any more because the River Elbe is polluted. We pay a high price for the amenities of our modern civilization.'

`A society,' commented Kuhlmann, sitting between Paula and Newman, 'which that flood of refugees waiting east of our frontiers would give their right arms to enjoy.'

`Which is one subject I want us to discuss,' Westendorf remarked, and then concentrated on his driving.

He was driving slowly down a steep hill along a narrow tarred road. Paula had the impression Blankenese was a small town huddled on a series of hills. Peering out of the window she saw, as the mist drifted, villas perched high up and reached by flights of ancient stone staircases. They had left the High Street — deserted — behind and Westendorf drove very slowly as the downward gradient increased.

Blankenese, Paula decided, was now a labyrinth of narrow cobbled streets twisting and sheering up on either side in a way that recalled mountaineering. Frequently, instead of these alley-like streets there were
treppes
— endless stone staircases mounting up out of sight. By the blurred light of a street lamp she saw the name of one —
Becker's Treppe
. They had reached the riverside level when she saw another street name briefly under the faint glow of a street lamp.
Strandweg
.

As Westendorf stopped the car Paula found her nerves were twanging. The mist had become a fog. As they stepped out into it she heard the distant moan of a foghorn and shivered. The atmosphere was so like that night she had stood on the edge of the Lymington marina — waiting for Harvey Boyd to come home.

Following Westendorf's limo at a distance, Marler was bothered. From out of nowhere a bloody great brown Cadillac had appeared. There were two men in the front of the great battle-wagon of a car. He had little doubt they were tailing the limo.

Reaching the river level, the Cadillac turned left along the Strandweg, crawling. It stopped suddenly, Marler braked instantly. The Cadillac was a blurred shadow and he didn't think they had seen him: they were too intent on watching the limo. The fog parted for a moment and he saw the rear of the vehicle, a long radio aerial elevating automatically. They were reporting to someone.

Marler waited. The fog had closed in again, blotting out all sight of the Cadillac. He reached under his seat for the Armalite he had assembled while waiting outside
Schloss Tannenberg
. Locking the car quietly, he walked along slowly to where the car had parked. It was gone.

`Sorry about the fog,' Westendorf said, leading the way to the harbour. 'The met forecast got it wrong.'

The fog lifted again and Paula saw a small oblong basin fenced off from the Elbe by a jetty wall which ran out a short distance, turned at right angles, continued parallel to the silent river.

It was crammed with yachts. Most of them were cocooned for winter in protective blue-plastic covers. Westendorf had reached the end of the short wall, had turned left along the main rampart. He looked back at Paula.

`The
Holsten V
is moored by the outer wall. No room in the harbour when I brought her back in.'

Tweed followed close behind Paula while Kuhlmann and Newman brought up the rear. Westendorf took Paula's hand to help her aboard a large luxurious motor yacht. He showed her the way with a torch beam, unlocked a door, ran down a flight of companionway steps, opened a second door. He switched on lights and they were inside a well-furnished saloon. Gleaming brass rails, the wood polished so she could see her face in it.

`Sit yourselves down,' he invited. 'Anyone like a drink to drive out the cold?'

Paula didn't sit. She stood near a window, peering out at the fog which was now a solid grey curtain drawn across the glass. Westendorf sensed her restlessness. He took her by the arm.

`You might find it interesting on the bridge. I'll switch on the radar.'

Another companionway at the far end of the saloon led up to the compact bridge. Westendorf pointed to a screen, turned on the radar. She gazed at the screen. Blank.

`Nothing will be out on the river tonight,' Westendorf remarked. 'Not in this fog. I will leave the door open so you can hear us. Come back into the saloon when you feel like it . . .'

He went back down the steps, took a bottle of Laurent Perrier champagne from the fridge. Tweed was relaxing on a comfortable leather banquette next to Kuhlmann. Newman was gazing out of a window. Westendorf handed round glasses, took one to Paula.

`It stimulates the brain cells,' he said when he returned. `At least, that is my excuse.
Prost!
'

`You made a reference to refugees,' Tweed began. `Have you ever met a Dr Wand?'

`Once.' Westendorf sat down, crossed his long legs. 'A curious man. I didn't like him. He has established a branch of his organization in Germany, another in Denmark. He said he was anxious that only talented refugees who would be an asset to the West should be allowed in. My impression was that he was lying. I said nothing. He went away. End of story.'

`But not end of the refugee story,' Tweed persisted. 'I remember you held strong views as Minister when you attended a meeting of INCOMSIN in London.'

`That is so. There are literally millions of refugees from all over the East — including gypsy hordes — who are waiting on the other side of the Oder—Neisse frontier ready to swarm in on us. They see Western Europe as a treasure-house of good things and if this tidal wave was to come they would destroy Europe's economy. I proposed taking a leaf out of the old Soviet Union's book — when they stopped their citizens fleeing here. They, of course, were very different, more civilized people.'

`Exactly how would it have worked?'

`To put it bluntly, I wanted to create a new death belt from the Baltic to the Adriatic. The refugee masses would be warned illegal crossing was
verboten
— would be lethal. I wanted a half-mile zone of no passage. Watch-towers on our side with guards armed with swivel-mounted machine-guns. Armed patrols with fierce dogs. And the lacing of the zone with anti-personnel mines. Also warships would patrol the coasts, checking any vessel from the East night and day. I would have saved Europe — but many illegals are now in our midst.'

`Did it occur to you,' Tweed asked, 'that a hostile power might smuggle in saboteurs and spies among the refugees?'

`It did.'