Terminal (5 page)

`You were photographed by a man in civilian clothes. Didn't you see the flash-bulb go off? He had a funny camera with a big lens...'

`A civilian?' Seidler was startled. 'Are you sure? Someone with a torch came out of the guard but...'

`No torch. A flash-bulb. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. You were looking straight ahead.'

Seidler, a man in his late forties with a thatch of dark brown hair, slimly built, a bony face, a long, inquisitive nose and wary eyes, thought about it. It was the reference to a civilian which worried him Always before there had been no one there except uniformed guards. Yes, this was definitely the last run. He had just relaxed with this comforting thought when Franz said something else which disturbed him.

`I'm not helping you again,' the old man rasped.

Suits me to the ground, Seidler thought, and then glanced to his left sharply. Franz was staring straight ahead but there was a smug, conniving look in his expression. Seidler knew that look: Franz was congratulating himself on some trick he was going to pull.

`I'm sorry to hear that,' Seidler replied.

`That business back at the frontier post,' Franz went on. 'I felt certain they'd changed the guard. It's only a matter of time before they
do
change the guard. Jan won't be there to collect his Schnapps and wave you through. They'll search the car...'

He was repeating himself, talking too much, over-emphasizing the reasons for his decision. That plus the satisfied smirk. Seidler's devious and shrewd mind began searching for the real reason. His right hand thrust deep inside his coat pocket for warmth felt the flick knife he always carried in the special compartment he had had sewn into the pocket.

Money!
Franz worshipped the stuff. But from what source could he obtain more money than the generous amount Seidler had always paid? The road to Vienna passes through some of the loneliest and bleakest countryside west of Siberia. Flat as a billiard table — a monotonous snow-covered billiard table — the bare fields stretched away on both sides, treeless.

It was still dark when they drove through one of the few inhabited places between Gmund and the Austrian capital. Horn is a single street walled by ancient, solid farmhouse-like buildings. Giant wooden double doors seal off entrances to courtyards beyond, entrances large enough to admit wagons piled high with hay and drawn by oxen.

What the devil could Franz be up to? Seidler, an opportunist par excellence, a man whose background and character dictated that he would always live by his wits, probed the problem from every angle. A
Mittel-European
, his father had been a Sudeten German in Czechoslovakia before the war, his mother a Czech.

Seidler spoke five languages — Czech, German, English, French, Italian. The Czechs — and Seidler was mostly Czech — have a gift for languages. It was this facility, plus the network of contacts he had built up across Europe — allied with a natural Czech talent for unscrupulousness — which had enabled him to make a good living.

Six feet tall, he sported a small moustache and had the gift of the gab in all five languages. As they approached Vienna he was still wrestling with the problem of Franz. He also had another problem: he had a tight schedule for the consignment inside the cardboard container resting at the tail of the Renault. The aircraft waiting for him at Schwechat Airport. His employers were sticklers for promptness. Should he risk a little time checking out Franz when they reached Vienna?

The first streaks of a mournful, pallid daylight filtered from the heavy overcast down on Vienna as Franz stopped the Renault in front of the Westbahnhof, the main station to the West. Here Seidler always transferred to is own car parked waiting for him. It wouldn't do to let Franz drive him to the airport — the less he knew about the consignment's ultimate destination the better.

`Here's your money. Don't waste it on drink and wild, wild women,' Seidler said with deliberate flippancy.

The remark was really very funny — the idea of Franz Oswald spending good money on girls instead of at the tavern. The old man took the fat envelope and shoved it into his inside pocket. His hands tapped the wheel impatiently, a gesture out of character Seidler noted as he went to the rear of the car, lifted the hatchback and grasped the large cardboard container by the strong rope handle. Slamming down the hatchback, he walked back to the front passenger window and spoke.

`I may have a different sort of job. No risk involved. A job inside Austria,' he lied. 'I'll get in touch...'

`You are the boss.' Franz released the brake without looking at his employer and the car slid past. Seidler only saw it by pure chance. On the rear seat a rumpled, plaid travelling rug had slipped half on to the floor, exposing what it had hidden. Seidler froze. Franz had stolen one of the samples from the consignment.

Early morning workers trailed out of the station exits below the huge glass end wall and down the steps as Seidler moved very fast. There was a jam-up of traffic just at the point where you drove out of the concourse and Franz's Renault was trapped.

Running to his parked Opel, Seidler unlocked the car, thrust the cardboard container onto the rear seat and settled himself behind the wheel. He was careful not to panic. He inserted the ignition keys first time, switched on the motor and pulled out at the moment Franz left the concourse, turning on to Mariahilferstrasse. Dreary grey buildings loomed in the semi-dark as Seidler followed. It looked as - though Franz was heading into the centre of the city — away from his home.

Seidler was in a state of cold fury and, driving with one hand, he felt again the flick knife in the secret pocket. The smirk on Franz's face was now explained. He was selling one of the samples. The only question in Seidler's mind now was who could be the buyer?

Stunned, Seidler sat in his parked Opel while he absorbed what he had just observed. A spare, brisk-looking man with a military-style moustache had been waiting for Franz. Outside the British Embassy!

Seidler had watched while Franz got out of his Renault, carrying the small cardboard container as he joined the Englishman. The latter had taken Franz by the arm, hustling him inside the building. Now it was Seidler who tapped his fingers on the wheel, checking his watch, thinking of the aircraft waiting at Schwechat, knowing he had to wait for Franz to emerge.

Ten minutes later Franz did emerge — without the container. He climbed in behind the wheel of the Renault without a glance in the direction of Seidler who sat slumped behind his own wheel, wearing a black beret Franz had never seen. Something in the way he had walked suggested to Seidler Franz was very satisfied with his visit to the British Embassy. The Renault moved off.

Seidler made his move when Franz turned down a narrow, deserted side street lined with tall old apartment buildings. Flights of steps led down to basement areas. Checking his rear view mirror, Seidler speeded up, squeezed past the slow- moving Renault and swung diagonally into the kerb. Franz jammed on his brakes and stopped within inches of the Opel. Jumping out of his car, he ran along the pavement in the opposite direction with a shuffling trot.

Seidler caught up with him in less than a hundred metres opposite a flight of steps leading into one of the basement areas. His left hand grasped Franz by the shoulder and spun him round. He smiled and spoke rapidly.

`There's nothing to be frightened about... All I want to know is who you gave the box to... Then you can go to hell as far as I'm concerned... Remember, I said this was the last run...'

He was talking when he rammed the knife blade upwards into Franz's chest with all his strength. He was surprised at the ease with which the knife entered a man's body. Franz gulped, coughed once, his eyes rolled and he began to sag. Seidler gave him a savage push with his gloved hand and Franz, the hilt of the knife protruding from his chest, fell backwards down the stone steps. Seidler was surprised also at the lack of noise: the loudest sound was when Franz, half-way down the steps, cracked the back of his skull on the stonework. He ended up on his back on the basement paving stones.

Seidler glanced round, ran swiftly down the steps and felt inside Franz's jacket, extracting his wallet which bulged, although the envelope of Austrian banknotes Seidler had passed to him was still inside the same pocket. He pulled out a folded wad of Swiss banknotes — five-hundred-franc denomination. At a guess there were twenty. Ten thousand Swiss francs. A large fortune for Franz.

The distant approach of a car's engine warned Seidler it was time to go. His gloved hand thrust the notes in his pocket and he ran back up the steps to his car. He was just driving away when he saw the sidelights of the approaching car in his wing mirror. He accelerated round a curve and forgot about the car, all his thoughts now concentrated on reaching Schwechat Airport.

Captain 'Tommy' Mason, officially designated as military attaché to the British Embassy in Vienna, frowned as he saw the driver-less Renault parked at an angle to the kerb, the gaping entrance to the basement area. He was just able to drive past the vehicle, then he stopped and switched off his own engine.

The sound of the Renault's motor ticking over came to him in the otherwise silent street. With considerable agility he nipped out of his Ford Escort, ran to peer down into the basement, ran back to the Ford, started up the motor again and drove off at speed.

He was just in time to see the rear lights of the Opel turn on to a main highway. He caught up with it quickly and then settled down to follow at a decent interval. No point in alarming the other party. First thing in the morning and all that.

Mason had first noticed the Opel parked outside the Embassy when he was interviewing Franz Oswald. Peering casually from behind the curtains of the second floor window he had seen the car, the slumped driver wearing one of those funny, Frog-style berets. At least, the Frogs had favoured them at one time. Didn't see them much these days.

He had seen no reason to alarm his visitor who, much to his surprise, had actually kept their appointment. More surprising still — even a trifle alarming — had been the contents of the cardboard box. When his visitor had left Mason had thought there might be no harm in following the chap — especially since Black Beret appeared also to be in the following business. You could never tell where these things might lead. Tweed, back in London, had said something to this effect once. Odd how things Tweed said, remarks casually tossed off, stuck in the mind.

Mason, thirty-three, five feet ten, sleepy-eyed, trimly- moustached, drawly-voiced, crisply-spoken, using as few words as possible, was a near-walking caricature of his official position. At a party shortly after his arrival in Waltz City, the Ambassador had indulged in his dry humour at the new arrival's expense.

`You know, Mason, if I was asked to show someone a picture of the typical British military attaché I'd take a photo of you...'

`Sir,' Mason had replied.

Mason was soon pretty sure that the Opel chap was heading for the airport — unless he continued on to the Czech border and Bratislava, God forbid! But any man who left bodies in basements at this hour was worth a little attention. A quarter of an hour later he knew his first guess had been spot on. Curiouser and curiouser. What flight could he be catching before most people had downed their breakfast?

Seidler drove beyond the speed limit, checking his watch at frequent intervals. Franz Oswald was only the second man he had ever killed — the first had been an accident — and the reaction was setting in. He was shaken, his mind taken up with one thing. Getting safely aboard the aircraft.

Customs would be no problem. Here again, timing was vital — the chief officer on duty had already been paid a substantial sum. When it came to essentials his employer, so careful with money, never hesitated to produce the requisite funds. Turning into the airport, he drove past the main buildings and continued towards the tarmac. Josef, who didn't know anything, was waiting to take the hired car back to Vienna.

Seidler jumped Out of the car, nodded to Josef, lifted the large container from the back of the Opel and walked rapidly towards the waiting executive jet. The ladder was already in position. A man he had never seen stood by the ladder, asking the question in French.

`Classification of the consignment?'

`Terminal.'

Five

London. 10 February 1984. 8
?
. Tweed, short and plump- faced, middle-aged, was gazing out of the window of his office at SIS headquarters in Park Crescent when Mason called from Vienna.

Through his horn-rimmed glasses he looked out towards Regent's Park across the Crescent gardens. Small clusters of gold sprouted amid the green in the watery morning sunlight. Early spring crocuses. It was something — promising the ultimate end of winter. The phone on his desk rang.