geographical oddities.
The town is literally split in two. The northern district is German, the Southern Swiss. Seated in the back of the Mercedes, its windows masked with net curtains, he wore a smart civilian suit. The pause at the post lasted no longer than one minute. Brigadier Masson had sent an aide who brushed aside all normal formalities.
It was late evening, very dark – the night was moonless – as the Mercedes proceeded to a small place called Frauenfeld. Brigadier Masson awaited his guest in an upper room of the Gasthof Winkelreid.
A table was laid for dinner. Solid silver cutlery. Superbly polished glass which gleamed in the candlelight. Schellertberg's favourite wine in an ice bucket cradled in a tripod. The panelled walls reflected the faint shiver of the candles.
'My dear Brigadier Masson! What a pleasure to meet you again! If you knew how relaxing it is for me each time I visit Switzerland! For a few hours I forget all my cares and worries.'
Schellenberg was at his most charming and ebullient, so cordial that his manner would have disarmed a man less wary than the Swiss Intelligence chief.
Masson's mood was quite different. He greeted the German with courtesy but his expression was cool and aloof, almost cold. A sensitive Man, Schellenberg spotted the change in atmosphere from his previous visit but pretended not to notice.
They had dinner.
'I came across a Rubens recently… quite by chance… a supreme example of his genius.'
Schellenberg ate and drank with enjoyment and appreciation. He talked intelligently. Old master paintings. Goethe's work. A new French novel. Beethoven's music. Masson simply listened, his blue eyes studying the German's mobile expressions.
It was only when dinner was over, when they had retired to two armchairs drawn up in front of a fireplace where half a tree trunk blazed, crackled and spat, that something snapped.
No servants would enter the room again unless summoned by Masson. Schellenberg held his balloon- shaped glass of fine old Napoleon brandy up to the light. He was gazing contentedly at the glass when he spoke.
'The Fuhrer's life is in danger. You are responsible. You are harbouring a Soviet spy transmitting our top secrets to Moscow. Immediately the Fuhrer knows this he will order an invasion of Switzerland. Who is the spy at the Fuhrer's headquarters? I have come for his name.'
Jock Carson was sitting at the bare wooden table in the office placed at his disposal in the police barracks by Sergeant Mulligan. Through the open window he could see the lights of Jerusalem, there was no blackout here.
A faint stench of cordite, which he always associated with death, drifted in with the cloying night air. It was uncomfortably humid. He stared at the table, its well-scrubbed surface disfigured with old ink stains. He had been waiting for a call from Cairo for over an hour. The 'phone rang twice only before he whipped up the receiver.
'Carson here. That you, Harrington? We're on a direct army line so get on with it. Any gen?'
'We may have panned a little gold.' Harrington's voice was faint but clear, clear enough for Carson to detect triumph.
'I said get on with it, for Christ's sake…'
'You know that list of names you gave me of people staying at the Hotel Sharon? Well, I've checked it with the register at Shepheard's. Apart from Standish there is one common denominator. Man called Vlacek. V. Vlacek. V for Victor.'
'How long was he at Shepheard's?'
'Two nights. The night before Standish arrived – and the night Standish was there.'
'Pity we don't know when Standish knew he was flying out, Who is this Vlacek?' Carson asked.
'A perfectly respectable Pole working for that funny propaganda outfit near Abassia Barracks. Come out from Russia with the Polish Army..
'From Russia!'
'What's up, Chief?' Harrington sounded perplexed. 'It's the Nazis we're fighting, not the Russians.'
'Sometimes I wonder. This Vlacek seems to have a licence to roam…'
'I checked that, too. Discreetly. Gather he had overdue leave. Decided to take it on the spur of the moment…'
'That's it! What I've been looking for. That really is stretching the long arm of coincidence to breaking- point. An interview with Mr Vlacek is overdue. And we've damn-all time left.'
'That's why I called you as soon as I knew. Does Standish know Lindsay is coming in?'
'He had to…' Carson sounded regretful. 'Also that he's flying out on a Dakota. I couldn't sit on everything. What he does not know is the timing. Nothing else? I've got an appointment – with Mr Victor Vlacek…'
Linda Climber had gone to bed early. She turned on her side and with her index finger explored Whelby's face, starting with a thick eyebrow and drawing the finger along his cheekbone and down the bridge of his fleshy nose.
'You are a very mysterious person, Peter. For a man on vacation you seem to have so much to do.
You're always flitting off somewhere:- •
'I've always liked walking alone. I've walked alone since I was a child in India.'
He cradled her nude back with his arm and pulled her closer. She persisted talking as he turned his wrist and glanced at the time.
'You're a very deep man, Peter. I can sense it. You lock so much away inside you.'
'And now I'm going to flit off again for a few minutes.' He kissed her and got out of her bed. 'I've forgotten to phone an old friend I promised to meet tomorrow.' He put on his dressing gown and slippers. 'I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't run away…'
'Dressed like this? With nothing on? You can 'phone your friend from here…'
'The number is in my room. Never could remember numbers…'
He glanced in a wall mirror, combed his hair, and looked back at her as she sat up in bed, clutching the sheets to her bare breasts. Whelby had never understood this curious aspect of feminine modesty. He nodded reassuringly as he left.
Linda swore under her breath. What perfect timing. She was hardly in a position to follow him to see where he was going. Which might mean nothing. But there had been too many such nothings.
'Definite news at last,' Whelby told Vlacek inside Room 24. 'Lindsay is being flown in sometime tomorrow to Lydda Airport. The machine will be a Dakota. It could land after dark, but it will be tomorrow.'
'I need more than that…' The bony-faced man made an impatient gesture. 'Surely they gave some idea of the time of arrival, where the plane is coming from?'
'They didn't. I asked. Mulligan went vague. I didn't press. It would have looked suspicious. I showed you Lindsay's photograph, so identification should be no problem.'
'I would like to keep that photograph. May I have it?'
'No. It has to go back into the file I pinched it from in London. Overlooking a tiny detail like that can lead to disaster. When do I see you again? What method will you employ to s… s… solve the problem?'
'You won't see me again. The method is not your affair. I am leaving this hotel tonight. Are you enjoying yourself with Mrs Climber?'
A sharp look, assessing Whelby's reaction. A waste of time. The Englishman's bland, diffident manner gave away nothing as he wandered round the room, hands in dressing gown pockets.
'She worries me. She asks a lot of questions. She is clever but I get the sensation of being interrogated.. ' 'You met her how?'
'A chance meeting on the plane flying in from Cairo. She came over to me…'
'She approached you?'
Something in Vlacek's voice made Whelby turn and study the little man's expression. He didn't like what he saw. It had been a mistake to talk about the American woman.
'Why? What are you getting at?' Whelby demanded.
'Get dressed immediately. Go straight to the barracks.. Vlacek checked his watch. 'Stay till midnight and be sure people know you are there all the time. Say you are waiting for a 'phone call from Cairo. Anything. Establish your whereabouts.'
'I don't like this…'
