of Switzerland. Well clear of the tourist belt.
The landscape was changing. They were crossing flatlands dimly visible in swirling mist which hid nearby Lake Konstanz. They saw few signs of human habitation and there was something desolate in the atmosphere. Martel concentrated on the view as though he might miss something important.
`This is the Rhine delta, isn't it?' he queried.
`Yes. We cross the river soon just before it runs into the lake.'
Delta. Was there significance in this geographical curiosity at the extreme eastern end of the lake? The southern shore was Swiss except for a weird enclave of land occupied by the German town of Konstanz away to the west. The northern shore was German. But at this eastern tip a few miles of lake frontage was Austrian.
Martel adjusted the horn-rimmed spectacles with plain glass he wore to change his appearance. He lit a fresh cigarette, being careful not to use his holder. He seemed to have relapsed into a dream.
'We shall soon be in Lindau,' Claire said exuberantly, trying to drag him out of his dark mood. 'Surely we must find something – it was
…' Her voice wavered and then she had herself under control. 'It was the last place Warner was seen alive.'
`Except that we are getting off at the stop before – Bregenz in Austria.'
'Why?'
`Bregenz could be important. And it will be the last place Delta will expect us to leave the train…'
Hauptbahnhof, Munich… Hauptbahnhof, Zurich… Delta… Centralhof…Bregenz. Washington, DC, Clint Loomis… Pullach, BND… Operation Crocodile.
These were the references the dead Charles Warner had written in the tiny black notebook hidden in a secret pocket, the notebook Erich Stoller of the BND had discovered on the body and flown to Tweed in London.
Bregenz.
As the express slowed down Claire caught a glimpse of Lake Konstanz through the corridor windows – a sheet of calm grey water. The express stopped and when Martel opened the door at the end of the coach he found no platform – they stepped down on to the track. He dumped his suitcase, took Claire's and held her elbow while she descended the steep drop. She shivered as she picked up her case and they made their way across rail tracks to the station, an old single-storey building.
`You shivered…'
It's the mist,' she said shortly.
A cold clammy dampness moistened her face and she felt it penetrating her light raincoat. She had lied. It was the mist partly – but mainly it was the atmosphere created by the drifts of greyish vapour. You saw things, then they were gone.
Behind Bregenz looms the massive heights of the Pfdnder, a ridge whose sides are densely forested. As they crossed to the station Claire saw a gap appear in the mist pall exposing the dripping wall of limestone, then it too was gone. There was no ticket barrier to pass through – tickets had been checked aboard the express. They depogited their cases in the self-locking metal compartments for luggage and walked into Bregenz.
The place seemed deserted, as though it were a Sunday. A line of old block-like buildings faced the station. Martel paused, puffing his cigarette as he glanced round searching for anything out of place. Claire gazed at him.
`Those glasses make you look studious – they change your whole personality. And you're walking more ponderously. You're just like a chameleon. Incidentally, what are we going to do here?'
He extracted two photos of Charles Warner obtained from Tweed before leaving Park Crescent and handed her one of the prints. She looked at the picture of the man she had worked with for over six months, the man who had been brutally murdered on the lake behind them – only a short distance from where they stood.
`The story is we're looking for a friend – Warner,' Martel told her. 'His wife is seriously ill and we think he's somewhere here. We'll buy a street map,, divide up the place into sections – then meet up at an agreed place in two hours' time…'
`It sounds a hopeless task,' she commented when they were studying a street plan bought at a kiosk.
`Warner was here – he made a reference to the place in his notebook. Concentrate on anywhere selling cigarettes – he smoked like a chimney. He had a strong personality, made an impression on anyone he talked to. Now, we'll decide which district each of us is going to tackle. Half this job is legwork…'
In the Munich apartment the phone began ringing and Manfred, who was expecting the call, picked up the receiver with his gloved hand. It was Erwin Vinz. Manfred, a teetotaller, poured Perrier water as he listened intently.
'I am speaking from Munich Hauptbahnhof,' Vinz began after giving the identification code. 'I got off the train a few minutes ago
Manfred knew immediately something was wrong. Vinz was rambling, reluctant to come to the point. Manfred introduced into the conversation his often-used ploy.
'Excellent! We assume all went well. Appointment kept and deal concluded!'
'The Englishman was not on the train. There is no doubt – I can vouch for the fact personally. If he got aboard at St. Gallen he must have got off at Romanshorn or St. Margarethen in Switzerland.'
'Kohler saw him closing the compartment door after he boarded the express at St. Gallen…'
Manfred's voice was gentle and delicate, concealing his livid rage. Vinz's insolence in emphasising If cast doubt on Kohler's competence. Not that Manfred cared a damn about Kohler – but Vinz was trying to shift the blame and that he would not tolerate.
'Kohler would have known,' Manfred continued, 'if our friend left the train while it was moving through Switzerland…' Manfred saw no reason to explain that Kohler would have had men with a clear description of Keith Martel waiting at each Swiss stop. He continued to make Vinz sweat.
'Your sector began at the Swiss border. You got on the train at Lindau
'The bastard must have got off at Bregenz,' Vinz interjected. 'It was the only place left uncovered…'
'Left uncovered by you…'
Bregenz! Manfred's hand gripped the receiver tightly. The one town he did not want Martel poking around in was Bregenz. He felt like screaming at Vinz, but the sensitivity of the situation must at all costs be hidden.
'I can have a team in Bregenz in one hour,' Vinz volunteered, disturbed by the silence at the other end of the line.
'We would like your team to keep its appointment with the client in half an hour. I hold you personally responsible for bringing about a successful conclusion to this transaction…'
Inside the payphone at Munich Hauptbahnhof Vinz swore again. Once more Manfred had abruptly terminated the conversation. And now he had to fly his bloody team back from Munich to the airstrip nearest Bregenz. This time they had to eliminate the Englishman.
In London Tweed had left his office for his flat in Maida Vale after receiving the St. Gallen call from Martel. Mason, Howard's new deputy, had tried to delay him. Looking leaner and hungrier than ever, he arrived as Tweed was leaving.
'The chief would like to see you in his office, sir. He says it is extremely urgent…'
'It always is – to him. I'll see him when I get back.'
Tweed took a cab to the flat. He also took Miss McNeil and she carried the Martel tape concealed in a hold- all. While in the cab he asked his question.
'That new recruit, Mason. Is he any good at anything?'
'He'd make a good bodyguard,' McNeil replied in her crisp Scots accent. 'He's an expert at judo, karate. A marksman with handguns. Special Branch were happy for Howard to take him.'
'Why?'
McNeil had a finely-tuned ear on the grapevine. Probably due to her gift for listening with attentive concentration and unlimited patience.
'He was too physical – always resorted to heavy handling of any suspect at the drop of a hat. A lot of hats – and clangers – were dropped, I gather.'
At the flat McNeil played back the tape of Martel's conversation on the machine kept there permanently, making notes in neat loops and curls. She had offered to make the tea but Tweed insisted only he could make it the way he liked it. You would imagine he had been a lifetime bachelor, McNeil thought, as she went on making her
