'Except that I have another candidate -Erich Stoller of BND. He spent two years under cover in what he called 'The Zone':
'I didn't know that,' replied Tweed. Intrigued, he leaned forward over the coffee table. 'You dug up this fact?'
'No, he volunteered it, implied you knew about it. He also knew I was interrogating him, but on the surface it hasn't affected his cooperation…'
'I didn't know, but Erich is clever,' Tweed leaned against the back of his chair and stared at the ceiling. 'He may be pre-empting the possibility we'd find out in his dossier. So we have two possibles – O'Meara and Stoller. And after we've finished here I'm flying to Paris to meet Alain. I want his version of his past.'
'And Howard?'
'The least likely.' Tweed took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Martel noticed traces of fatigue. 'I don't like him,' he continued, 'but that's irrelevant. We're looking for a traitor who has practised his trade of treason for years…'
'So you're ignoring Howard?'
Without replying Tweed burrowed inside a brief-case he had propped against the side of his chair. Extracting the photocopy of a file he handed it to Martel. On the front was the security classification, file reference number and three words. Frederick Anthony Howard.
Martel began skip-reading as Tweed explained. 'We have McNeil to thank for that. How she got the original out of Central Registry and made that photocopy I'll never know. I think she has a duplicate key to the dossier cabinet…'
'Christ!' Martel looked up, stupefied at the thought of the risk McNeil was running. 'She's never told you that?'
'No,' Tweed said quietly. 'That is her way and I don't ask her questions. Have you come to it yet?'
'Come to what?'
'Page 12. Several years ago Howard spent a tour of duty with the Paris Embassy as Intelligence Officer. While he was there he took a spell of leave – six weeks. In Vienna.'
'Normal leave?'
'No, sick leave. He was on the edge of a nervous breakdown – 'mental exhaustion' is the phrase used by the quack. The medical report is there. He was away January to February. Think of the Austrian climate. Damned funny place to go for sick leave…'
'If he knows Vienna that will help him protect the PM.' 'That's another odd note,' Tweed commented. 'He's never made a single mention of the fact as far as I know.'
Martel handed back the photocopy and sat puffing his cigarette. Tweed produced an envelope with four glossy prints. 'You wanted photographs of Flandres, O'Meara, Howard and Stoller…' Martel put the envelope in his pocket, stubbed out his cigarette and spoke with great vigour.
'Time is so short we have to put maximum pressure on all four security chiefs – in the hope that the unknown assassin makes a wrong move. We stir up the cauldron…'
'How?'
'By telling each of them on the quiet the part we left out. I can deal with Stoller – you'll have to pass the word on to Howard, Main and O'Meara…'
'What word?'
'That the same unimpeachable source which told us one of the Western leaders is marked for assassination aboard the express also told you that the killer is among the four security chiefs.'
From an inside pocket Tweed extracted a card protected by a plastic folder and gave it to his companion. Martel studied the card, which carried his photograph, as Tweed explained while he wandered restlessly round the room. So far he had not reacted to the audacious suggestion Martel had put forward.
'Keith, we shan't meet again before the Summit Express leaves the Gare de l'Est tomorrow night. That card enables you to board the train at any point en route. No one can stop you – not even Howard…'
Permission to board… every facility to be given to the bearer, Keith Martel… specific permission to carry any weapon'
Across his photograph was inscribed the neat and very legible signature of the Prime Minister. She had counter-signed the reference to weapons. Martel stared at Tweed.
'In God's name, how did you get this?'
'I approached her directly through the Minister. I spent half an hour with her. I told her one of the four security chiefs, may be an assassin…'
'She must have loved that…'
'Took it very calmly,' Tweed replied. 'She even said she would feel perfectly safe in our hands. She went through your dossier while I was there. Incidentally, you brought a good passport picture of Claire Hofer with you? Good. Do you trust her?'
'With my life – I have done already. Twice..
'Give me her photo.'
Tweed sat down at the table, produced a second card, a duplicate of Martel's but without the photo or signatures. Taking a tube of adhesive from his pocket, Tweed carefully affixed Claire's photo in position. He then extracted a pen Martel had not seen before and proceeded with great care and skill to forge the PM's signature twice. He looked at Martel over his glasses.
'I have her permission – and she loaned me her pen to do the job. Here is Miss Hofer's card. One thing I must remember to do above all else.'
'What's that?'
'Return the PM her pen. She'll give me hell if I forget. One thing more is exercising my mind – before we go. Manfred…'
'What his next move will be, you mean?'
'I know,' Tweed replied. 'I have duelled with him long-distance before and I should know by now how his mind works. Sit in his chair for a moment. He has been informed that we know one of the four western leaders is marked down for assassination. When we reveal to the security chiefs that one of them is the assassin he will react – he may already have put into action the next phase of his strategy …'
'Which is?'
'Smokescreens. To conceal the identity of the killer he will try to divert our suspicions to the wrong man. He will aim for the maximum confusion in our minds – simply put, so we don't know where the hell we are. And we have no time at all left to locate the guilty man.'
'You agree my idea, then,' Martel said and stood up, checking his watch.
'Yes. We tell the security chiefs one of them is a phoney. And then watch all hell break loose…'
Reinhard Dietrich was in a state of controlled fury as he drove the Mercedes 450 SEL from his apartment to the underground garage which Manfred had designated as the meeting place. On the phone it had almost been in the nature of a summons for Dietrich to come immediately – alone and with just sufficient time to get there.
Inside the deserted underground garage Manfred sat behind the wheel of his BMW hired under a fictitious name with false papers. He had deliberately arrived early and positioned himself so his car would face Dietrich's on arrival.
He heard Dietrich coming, driving on the brake.
The garage was dimly lit and Manfred timed it perfectly. As the millionaire appeared driving towards him he turned on his light full power. The unexpected glare blinded the industrialist who threw up a hand to shield his eyes and cursed as he reduced speed and pulled up alongside the BMW. Manfred promptly turned off his lights, which further confused Dietrich's vision.
He saw a vague image of a man wearing a dark beret, the face turned towards him concealed behind large sun-goggles. Switching off his motor he lowered the window. Manfred was already talking as the window purred open.
'If you lose the election you go ahead with the putsch as planned. Your men in full uniform. You march on Munich – make it as much a replica of Hitler's 1923 march on Munich as you can.'
'Hitler didn't succeed,' Dietrich pointed out. 'He ended up in Landsberg Prison…'
'Where is the new weapons dump?' Manfred interjected. 'I see…' He paused. 'We are so close to zero hour
