`Raise your window,' he ordered Wilde, using one hand to shut his own. The dogs were out in the road, rushing towards the unmarked police car. Faces appeared at either window, fangs bared, mouths slavering, the heads huge, paws clawing desperately to get beyond the glass to ravage the men inside. Stoller put his foot down.
The car leapt forward. Two of the beasts appeared briefly in front of the radiator. The occupants felt the thuds of speeding metal colliding with animal bodies. Then they were hurtling past the open gates where men were pouring out led by a tall, well-built blond giant. Wilde looked back.
'They're going to follow us in a car…'
'That damned bird started it,' Stoller said calmly. 'The dogs kicked up, Dietrich's guards became suspicious – and sent out the hounds. Did you notice the blond Adonis who appeared to be their leader? That was Werner Hagen – a keen windsurfer. We have to evade them – on no account must they know they're under surveillance…'
'Evade them? How?'
They moved at manic speed round bends in the country road and Wilde braced himself. He was almost as terrified of Stoller's driving as he was of fierce dogs: his chief had the reputation of being the fastest driver in Bavaria. Stoller gave a fresh order. -
'When I stop at the next intersection stay in the car-and get well down out of sight. I'll need the gas-pistol – I'm going to block the road. Look, this will do…'
Wilde glanced over his shoulder and saw only deserted roadway. Stoller had gained a temporary lead-but Wilde knew the road ahead would be empty and for miles there were long straight sections. It couldn't be done…
Ahead a farm-track led off to the right. Stoller jammed on the brakes. There was a screech of rubber and he turned through ninety degrees, ending up a short distance along the track. Wilde was saved from being hurled through the windscreen by Stoller's insistence that he always wore his seat-belt. It was not over yet.
Stoller was now backing rapidly until his vehicle blocked the road. Grabbing the gas-pistol handed to him by Wilde who was already hunching himself below window level, he left the car, slamming the door shut. He ran towards a large tree near the roadside and hid behind the massive trunk.
The pursuing car – driven by Werner Hagen with two men accompanying him – came round a nearby bend. Hagen found himself confronted by a Mercedes broadside on and which appeared to be empty. He braked, stopped, reached for the gun under his armpit and told the two men to wait in the car.
Leaving his door open he looked cautiously round while the man in the back lowered his window to see what was going on. Stoller used the tree trunk to steady himself, aimed the gas- pistol and pulled the trigger. The missile exploded on the driver's seat – a bull's eye which spread fumes in all directions, smothering Hagen who dropped his gun and staggered, coughing, unable to see anything.
The man in the front passenger seat was choking, his vision blurred. In a matter of seconds Stoller reloaded and took fresh aim. The second missile passed through the open rear window and exploded in the rear of the car. Stoller ran back to his own vehicle.
Minutes later he was miles away, driving along one of the endless stretches with no sign of any other vehicle in his rear-view mirror. Wilde saw that his chief was frowning.
'You pulled that off beautifully. Why the scowl?'
'I was thinking about Martel. Tweed warned me he was coming – but he's a loner…'
So, like Warner, no cooperation?'
`On the contrary, he'll contact me when he needs me. Excellent judgement. I just wonder where he is at this moment…'
CHAPTER 52
Thursday May 28
Martel drove the hired Audi across the road bridge linking the mainland of Bavaria with the island of Lindau. He no longer wore the Tyrolean hat nor was he smoking the pipe used to disguise his appearance in Bregenz.
Hatless, his profile prominent with its strong Roman nose, ' the Englishman smoked a cigarette in his holder at a jaunty angle. It was as though he wished to draw attention to his arrival to any watchers who might be stationed in Lindau.
`What do you think you are doing?' Claire had demanded when he discarded his disguise as soon as they had crossed the – border into Germany.
`Showing the British flag,' replied Martel. 'If I had a Union Jack pennant I'd be flying it
`Delta will spot us soon enough…'
`Sooner, I hope.'
`You're setting yourself up as a target?' she protested. 'You must be mad – have you forgotten Zurich, St. 'Gallen…'
`The point is I have remembered them – and we're working to a time limit. You said the Bayerischer Hof is the top hotel on the island?'
`Yes, and it's next to the Hauptbahnhof
`Then we must rig it so it looks as though you've arrived on your own by train. We'll register separately, eat separately in the dining-room. We don't know each other. That way you can guard my back. And put on those dark glasses which transform your appearance… -
`Would sir like anything else?'
`Yes, guide me to the hotel,' he said. 'This place is a rabbit warren and I've forgotten the burrows. Use the map.'
They had a taste of the beauty of the island when they drove over the bridge and past a green park which ran to the lake edge. The mist had lifted temporarily and the sun was a luminous glow. She checked the map and gave directions. Within minutes she laid a hand on his arm.
`We're almost there. Better drop me here. Turn left at the end. The Bayerischer Hof is on your left, the Hauptbahnhof on your right, the harbour straight ahead. Where do we meet?'
`At the terrace elevated above the harbour, the Romerschanze – the place where a tourist looking through binoculars witnessed the killing of Warner without realising it…'
She left the vehicle, carrying her suitcase. Only two or three tourists were in this quiet section of the old street but she took no chances, calling out in German.
'Thank you so much for the lift. Now I shall catch my train.' `My pleasure…'
The pavement artist, Braun, spotted Martel as soon as he drove round the corner.
Today Braun's picture drawn in crayon on the flagstones was an impression of the amphitheatre at Verona. The small cardboard box for coins lay beside the picture. Again wearing a windcheater and jeans he was patrolling back and forth, hands clasped behind his back as though taking a rest from his labours.
He was actually watching the exit doors from the Hauptbahnhof. A main-line express from Switzerland was due. He turned round at the precise moment Keith Martel appeared and recognised him immediately. It was no great feat of observation.
Thick black hair, early thirties, tall, well-built, clean-shaven, prominent Semitic-like nose, habitually smokes cigarettes in holder at slanting angle…
The pavement artist was so thrown off-balance by Martel's sudden appearance, by the accuracy of the description provided, that he almost stopped in mid-stride – which would have been a blunder since it might have drawn the target's attention to himself. He strolled on as the Audi passed him and he heard it pull up. He sneaked a glance over his shoulder so he would be able to recognise the Englishman from behind.
'I wonder, you curious sod…'
Martel muttered the words to himself as he stared in his wing mirror, still seated behind the wheel. It had been a reflex action – to make one final check before he got out of the car with his suitcase. The swift glance of the pavement artist over his shoulder showed clearly in the mirror.
HS got out of the car and saw the mist beginning to roll in from the lake, invading the harbour. He walked inside the hotel's spacious, well-furnished reception hall and up a few steps to the desk. The girl behind the counter
