Martel contemplated getting out and running the rest of the way. Then he saw they were passing the Four Seasons Hotel. Too far yet. He would never make swift progress through this mob of Langer supporters.
He checked his watch again in an obvious gesture which the driver saw in his rear-view mirror. It was 9.23 am. The Summit Express was due to arrive at the station in exactly ten minutes' time. The turmoil following the Chancellor's assassination would be appalling. It could easily sway the election into Tofler's hands.
Like Tweed, Martel had worked out that the target was the German leader. And now he knew the identity of the assassin – but only he could confront the killer and prove his identity. He stared in the rear-view mirror and met the driver's eyes.
'Here I can try a side-street,' the man said. 'It could save a few minutes…'
A few minutes. They could make all the difference to the future of western Europe – of the whole of the West.
Manfred's nylon-clad hand lifted the receiver the moment the instrument began ringing. He was aware he was gripping the receiver tightly. His packed case stood by the apartment door.
'Ewald Portz speaking,' a voice said. 'I am in position…'
'Watch your timing – it must be perfect…'
'We have gone over it a score of times,' Portz snapped. 'Then just remember – this is not a rehearsal…'
In a phone booth at Munich Hauptbahnhof Portz, a short, stocky man in his thirties, glared at the phone he was still holding. The line had gone dead. The bastard had rung off.
Inside the apartment Manfred picked up his case and kept on his gloves while he opened the outer door, closed and locked it. Only then did he remove the gloves and stuff them in his pocket. The main thing was that Portz – the decoy – was ready and in position. Armed with a pistol loaded with blanks he had to aim and fire at the Chancellor at the same moment as the real assassin. Then he would run like hell in the confusion, making himself prominent as he disappeared inside the U-Bahn.
This tactic should divert attention from the real assassin who, once he had done the job, would make his way to the adjoining Starnberger Hof, the station for trains to the mountains. Then he would travel only a few stops before he left the train, was met by a waiting car and driven to a nearby airstrip.
Getting behind the wheel of his car parked at the kerb, Manfred adjusted his spectacles and drove off to the underground garage for his final meeting with Reinhard Dietrich.
It was hopeless. The traffic was getting worse the nearer they came to the Hauptbahnhof. Martel rapped on the window, gesturing to the driver to stop. He had the money for the fare- in addition to the earlier tip – ready in his hand as he leapt out.
`You will catch your train?' the driver enquired..
`This is the one train in the world I have to catch…'
Martel disappeared and the driver shook his head. What a statement. The English, they were all mad. Perhaps that was why they had won the war?
Martel barged his way through the crowd, elbowing aside men who shouted after him as he plunged on through the milling mob. He could see the Hauptbahnhof now. It was 9.31 am. Only two more minutes before the Summit Express arrived – before the Chancellor, noted for his briskness, left the train and made his way to the specially-constructed podium Martel could see. He forced a path round the edge of the jostling mass.
Reaching the road in front of the Hauptbahnhof he encountered a fresh problem but he was ready for it. In his left band he held the special pass which allowed him to board the express. The new problem was police guards who held back the crowd. He shouted at the top of his voice.
'Polizei! Make way! Polizei…!'
`Stop…!'
A uniformed policeman drew his Walther from his holster as Martel dashed past him and across the open space. He zigzagged, risking a bullet in the back. The voice called out with greater urgency.
'Halt or I fire…!'
Only at this critical juncture did he have some luck. He recognised a man in civilian clothes as one of Stoller's aides – and the aide recognised Martel. He raised a bullhorn and bellowed the order to the policeman.
'Hold your fire! Let this man through…!'
Martel dashed past him and the station entrance was ahead with more sightseers behind a cordon of police waiting for a glimpse of the Chancellor. Beyond he saw the locomotive of the express just stopping. He ran on…
As the express slowed to a halt Klara Beck was walking through the corridor towards the exit, carrying her tartan-covered suitcase. She did not even glance into Claire Hofer's compartment. Something about the way she moved made Claire study the woman.
Lindau! Claire had seen Beck arrive in the reception hall of the Bayerischer Hof. From the elevated terrace above the harbour she had observed Beck walking rapidly towards the Hauptbahnhof. Klara Beck!
Claire stood up, grabbed The Wailer and left the compartment, following the woman in the trouser suit. When she reached the exit the door was open and Beck stepped down on to the platform.
Half-way along the coach Beck paused, stood the case on the platform, twisted the handle through a one hundred and eighty degree arc and walked on, leaving the case. Alain Flandres had descended from the restaurant car and glanced quickly round as though looking for something suspicious. Then he walked swiftly through the ticket barrier to the side of the station. Chancellor Langer had left the train and waved a hand, acknowledging the crescendo of cheering.
Claire dropped The Wailer on the platform and pressed the button. She nearly jumped out of her shoes as a hellish wailing sound like a police siren blasted out, its high pitch penetrating the cheers. Langer paused uncertainly. Stoller appeared beside him, a gun in his hand, followed by O'Meara. Beck glanced back and recognised Claire.
There was a searing flash of light as the magnesium flares packed inside the paper-thin walls of the tartan- covered case exploded. It was the five-second moment of distraction the assassin was waiting for. Ewald Portz raised his pistol and began firing the blank shots. Martel appeared behind him, the Colt. 45 in his hand. He gripped the butt with both hands and elevated the muzzle.
At the side of the station Alain Flandres aimed his Luger equipped with a silencer point-blank at Langer. Martel swivelled his weapon and snapped off three rapid shots. The bullets missed the Frenchman but ricochetted all round him. He ran for the entrance to the Starnberger Hof station and disappeared.
Klara Beck was on the verge of pulling the trigger of her pistol pointed at Claire when Stoller fired once. Beck stooped forward, the pistol falling from her hand, and sagged to the ground.
O'Meara had produced his. 38 Smith amp; Wesson and took deliberate aim at Portz..After firing his blanks the German was fleeing towards the U-Bahn. The American's bullets slammed into his back and he sprawled on the concrete, leaving behind a smear of red as he lay inert.
As Alain Flandres ran on to the platform a train was just leaving the Starnberger Hof. The timing had been vital. He grabbed a door-handle and heaved it open. A train guard shouted at him as Martel came round the corner. Flandres had heaved himself up on to the step and was about to hurl himself inside the compartment. Martel fired twice and both bullets rammed into the target's back.
The train was gathering speed as he hovered, half-inside the compartment and half on the step. He stayed poised like a figure frozen in a tableau. Then his body jack-knifed, toppled backwards into space and hit the platform like a sack of cement. He was dead when Martel reached him.
CHAPTER 30
Wednesday June 3
`The Soviets – using East Germans as proxies – replaced a young French lieutenant in the Army of Occupation in Bregenz with their own man thirty years ago,' Martel said and accepted a cigarette from the German Chancellor who sat opposite him in the restaurant car of the Summit Express.
The train had left Munich and was heading east for Salzburg and Vienna. Martel was not in the least embarrassed by his audience which included his own Prime Minister, the American and French Presidents, together with Tweed, Stoller, O'Meara and Howard. He just felt unutterably weary.
