By Stealth (60 page)

`Have you a map?' she asked anxiously. 'There will be no one about in the middle of the night.'

`A very good map of the area,' he assured her.

Outside he glanced up at his first-floor window overlooking the narrow cobbled street. All the houses were old steep-gabled edifices built of red brick and with red tiles on the roofs. Some had plaster walls painted in yellow or white. The silent, deserted street had a fairytale atmosphere. He climbed behind the wheel, drove slowly so as not to wake the inhabitants.

On the outskirts he studied the map again and decided to head west for the small town of Hojer. The land was flat and reaching Hojer he turned north along a road running roughly parallel to the sea. He met no traffic, saw not a single human soul, not a light in the few houses he drove past. His night vision was excellent and he could make out to the west the dykes protecting the land from the fury of the sea. Arriving at a lonely intersection, on a whim he turned west again. He was crossing a wilderness of scrubby grass and sand.

The wind increased in force, scooping up powdered sand, hurling it against his windscreen. Off the road stood an isolated house. Switching on his wipers to clear sand from the windscreen, he swung the car off the road, bumping over rough ground. Despite the fact that the windows were closed, particles of sand were penetrating the car, and now he could hear the thunderous boom of great rollers crashing on the nearby shore.

He had driven past the house, which looked derelict, and now he drove about twenty yards from the front entrance. Definitely an abandoned property. Red paint peeled off its façade, white paint off the trim round the windows. He frowned as he suddenly saw a light appear in a semi-basement window. Odd. He swung his headlights over the two-storey building. The light disappeared. Had he imagined seeing it?

He drove on over as bleak a heathland as he had seen so far. Braking, he stepped out. The boom of the sea became a roar. Surf caught by the ferocious wind landed a few feet away from his car. He half closed his eyes to protect them against the fine sand as the wind threatened to blow him over.

I've had enough of this, he thought, as he climbed back behind the wheel. It took all his strength to pull the heavy door shut. Back to 'fonder and a warm bed. Tomorrow was another day. The real search for Paula would begin then.

44

`Tweed has already cracked up, as I predicted.'

Inside the large villa, set back from Jaegersborg Alle with a large front garden screened by a hedge, Dr Wand rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He sat behind a Regency desk in a room at the back of the building. The curtains were shut over the windows and again the desk lamp was the only illumination.

The villa was located at Jaegersborg Al16 988 in the Gentofte district north of Copenhagen. The only other occupant was the gaunt Mrs Kramer, dressed as always in black, a tall, thin woman whose face might have been carved out of stone.

Wand had phoned her from Hamburg, telling her to fly direct to Copenhagen, to prepare the villa for his arrival. His instructions had been precise. 'The villa, as you know, dear lady, has an unoccupied appearance. I would be most grateful if you would preserve that illusion. Leave The Boltons, please, at the earliest possible moment, to catch a Copenhagen flight.'

`You are sure this Tweed has been broken?' Mrs Kramer now enquired.

`I had the news this morning. He has resigned. Retired. I took the precaution of phoning the Four Seasons Hotel. They informed me he had checked out. He is now, I am sure, on his way back to London. He will no longer be present to interfere with my very important activities. A cup of black coffee would be most welcome ...'

Left alone, Wand checked his watch. 11.30 am. Earlier he had phoned a senior civil servant in London who always knew what was going on. He had confirmed positively that he had heard Tweed had resigned from public life.

Wand knew he could rely on his informant — after all, he had loaned the man a large sum of money for a mortgage on a property in the English countryside. And he had no intention of letting Mrs Kramer know his source. Keep everyone in watertight compartments.

Wand operated a cell system. In Jutland he had twenty men awaiting the arrival of the
Mao III
and the Yenan. None of them knew the two Stealth ships were due to land their human cargo on the remote South Jutland shore. They would be given their instructions by Starmberg at the last moment.

`Goodbye, Mr Tweed,' Wand said to himself.

It was a relief to hear he had permanently immobilized the Englishman. The cargo of trained men who would be put ashore was the most important consignment of agents Wand had ever handled. They would be the leaders of the entire underground apparatus Wand was planting strategically in Europe – including Britain, the most important objective.

Thoughts of Tweed reminded him he must phone Dr Hyde. He dialled the number of the old house in Jutland, prepared for a long wait. To his surprise Hyde answered at once.

`My dear sir,' Wand began, 'I trust your new patient has been delivered to you and is in your competent hands?'

`She is here, yes. Everything is ready,' the oily voice assured him.

`I said we would wait three days before you carried out the operation. It is possible you may decide to complete the treatment earlier. If you would be so kind, please wait for my next call.'

`Everything is ready,' Hyde repeated. 'I can carry out the operation at any time—'

Hyde realized the connection had been broken, that Dr Wand had replaced the receiver. 'Arrogant swine,' he muttered.

A short distance away from the villa a large white van was parked on the opposite side of the road in Jaegersborg Alle. Painted on the outside was the name of an interior decoration firm: just the sort of vehicle which might be parked in this wealthy district while a team refurbished one of the elegant rooms inside a villa.

A rather different team occupied the interior of the van. Equipped with large windows made of one-way glass, very unusual equipment for an interior decorator was arranged inside. Long-distance video cameras were aimed at the entrance to No. 988.

They had already recorded the arrival of Dr Wand earlier, driving his own limo. One camera had taken close-up pictures as Wand's heavily built figure had climbed out to open the gate, prior to driving the limo down the short distance into a garage with electronic doors operated by remote control.

Ulf Kilde, leader of the three-man Police Intelligence undercover team, used a high-powered transmitter to report back to Inspector Nielsen at intervals. In case Wand left the villa to drive to a fresh destination Kilde had a back-up vehicle parked in a nearby side street.

This vehicle was quite a contrast to the gleaming white van. It was battered old Fiat with a souped-up engine. Kilde was in touch with the waiting driver by radio.

`Still no sign of activity,' Kilde reported to HQ. 'The villa looks unoccupied — all the shutters are closed. But our friend is definitely inside …'

During the early morning of that day Newman, behind the wheel of a black Mercedes supplied by Kuhlmann, had driven north from Hamburg through pleasant countryside towards the ancient Hanseatic town of Lübeck. His ultimate objective was to board one of the huge car ferries at the Puttgarden terminal on the edge of the Baltic.

`Tweed has fallen asleep,' remarked Cardon, referring to their passenger in the back.

`Thank God for that,' Newman replied. 'He's exhausted with worrying about Paula. I can understand that.'

Both men could not have been more wrong. Tweed had his eyes closed but his brain was racing. Mentally he checked over what he must do when he reached Nielsen's HQ in Copenhagen.

Nielsen would have a scrambler. The first priority was to contact Commander Noble at the Admiralty in London. Tweed hoped to heaven Noble had managed to dispatch one of Delvaux's advanced radar systems to Tug Wilson, commander of the missile-armed frigate
Minotaur
patrolling the North Sea.

Perhaps an equal priority was to try and call Marler at the Tønder phone number he'd transmitted to them at Berliner Tor. What were the chances that Marler's team could trace the unspeakable Dr Hyde in time? He coughed so as not to startle Newman.

`Bob, did you say Helen Claybourne told you the Burgoyne Quartet, as Paula nicknamed them, might be moving on to Copenhagen?'

`Yes. And, I told her we'd be staying at the d'Angleterre. I hope I did the right thing?'

`You did. If those four turn up again I will be pleased beyond expression.'

`Why? They're a peculiar crowd.'

`Why?' Tweed repeated. 'Because among other targets I want to get my hands on Vulcan.'

`And you think either Fanshawe or Burgoyne is Vulcan?'

`I don't think. I'm convinced of it. And that devil is a key figure in Wand's plans — according to what you told us, Philip.'

`He is,' Cardon confirmed. 'My source was a mint one.' `Wake me when we're coming into Lübeck for breakfast,' requested Tweed.

He closed his eyes again but sleep wouldn't come. He kept recalling what Fieldway, the MOD officer, had told him about Burgoyne. The Brigadier had disappeared for some four months while fighting on the battlefield in Korea.
Vanished off the face of the earth
, was the phrase Fieldway had used. Then Burgoyne had suddenly reappeared. An odd business, that.

Tweed's mind changed gear. He was also convinced that either Helen Claybourne or Lee Holmes was a professional assassin. He had witnessed the first killing of Hilary Vane, coming off the Washington flight at London Airport. Cyanosis.

The same woman — whoever it was — had killed a cab driver in Brussels to steal his cab. Cyanosis. And the smell of a perfume. Guerlain Samsara. The same woman had driven down Sir Gerald Andover in Liêge. And had probably killed Joseph Mordaunt. Cyanosis. Yes, he hoped that the Burgoyne Quartet turned up at the d'Angleterre.

At the tip of the German island of Fehmarn, at Puttgarden, Newman drove the Mercedes inside the giant maw of the huge ferry. Arriving early, he had positioned himself at the head of the vehicle queue. Parking next to the side of the lowest deck, he switched off the engine.

`I think I'll stay with the Merc.,' Cardon said. 'Then I can make sure no one tampers with it. I'll tuck myself inside that alcove .

Thirty minutes later, Tweed stood alongside Newman on the main deck near the prow. He had taken a Dramamine after eating breakfast in ancient Lübeck, a town he loved out of season. The massive ferry moved out into the Baltic in the face of a strong wind. Large surf-tipped waves rolled towards them.

`You usually stay inside,' Newman commented. 'It's going to he a rough crossing.'

`I need the fresh air to keep my brain moving ...'

Sunk deep in thought, the passage seemed over in a flash to Tweed. They drove off at Rødby and were in Denmark.

Still sunk deep in thought, the car drive to Copenhagen also passed in a flash for Tweed. They drove past the old pre-First World War railway station and into a part of Copenhagen few tourists ever visited.

Following Tweed's instructions, they drove past the grim and grey triangular building which is police headquarters. They turned on to Hambrosgade, a long wide anonymous street running past one side of the triangular building. Newman stared when Tweed pointed to a collection of single-storey wooden cabins.

`Nielsen works here. Park.'

Newman gazed at a very long cabin built of wooden planks and painted bright red. The legend on the side read KRIMINAL POLITIET. Cardon said again he would stay with the Merc. as Newman followed Tweed, who walked up to the door, pressed the bell. Inspector Lars Nielsen, Chief of Police Intelligence, opened the door himself.

`Welcome to Copenhagen, Tweed. And I recognize you,' he said, studying Newman. 'The foreign correspondent. Come inside. Everything is happening.'

Nielsen was a small thin-faced Dane with strong features and alert blue eyes which seemed to look inside you. The office he led them into was comfortably furnished, to Newman's surprise.

`How did you come to be expecting me?' Tweed asked after a warm shaking of hands.

`Otto Kuhlmann phoned me, estimated very accurately when you would arrive. You have to phone him urgently. That phone is scrambler. You'd both like coffee? Good. Have you eaten? Good. I'll be back. Make your call ...'

`Kuhlmann here. Ah, Tweed. Where are you speaking from? You've arrived at Nielsen's log cabin? Marler called me. You should call him now. You have the number? Do it now. Call me back whenever I can help ...'