visitor.
`Yes?' he enquired, his slate-grey eyes studying Martel. `Philip Johnson of The Times. Mr Dietrich expects me…' 'Why do you arrive on foot?' Vinz demanded.
'Because my bloody car broke down a couple of miles back. You think I'd walk all the way from Munich? And I'm late for my interview – so could we stop wasting time?'
`Credentials?'
Vinz extended a hand and took the press card Martel handed him. Somewhere high in the warmth of the azure sky there was the distant murmur of a helicopter. It reminded Martel of the humming of a bee. Vinz returned the card.
`We will drive to the schloss
He led the way to the large wrought-iron gates which were opened and then closed behind them with the dogs and their handlers on the inside. The guards were dressed in civilian clothes and wore Delta symbols in their lapels.
Vinz climbed in behind the wheel of a Land-Rover-type vehicle and gestured for Martel to occupy the front passenger seat. When they were moving Martel glanced back and saw the rear seats were occupied by two burly guards.
He lit a cigarette and made a display of checking his watch. As he did so he looked surreptitiously into the blue vault of the sky over Bavaria. The tiny shape of a helicopter was receding into a speck.
It was a good five minutes' drive through parkland dotted with a variety of trees before they turned a corner in the curving drive and the schloss appeared. It was not reassuring – a grey-stone walled edifice like a small fortress complete with moat, drawbridge and raised portcullis gate in the arched entrance.
Vinz slowed down as they bumped over the wooden drawbridge, crossing the wide moat of green water. They passed under the archway and the main building came into view, enclosing a cobbled courtyard. At the top of a flight of steps a man and a woman waited to greet their visitor.
Reinhard Dietrich wore his favourite country garb, riding clothes and breeches tucked into gleaming boots. In his right hand he held a cigar. His ice-cold eyes stared at Martel as he dismounted from the vehicle, but it was the woman who gave the Englishman a shock.
Dark-haired and sleek, she was dressed in a trouser suit with her jacket open exposing her full figure. There was a half-smile on the finely chiselled face, a smile with a hint of triumph. Klara Beck was obviously pleased to see their guest.
They led him inside the open doors of the schloss into a vast hall with a highly polished floor scattered with priceless Persian rugs. Vinz and his two henchmen had produced Luger pistols and escorted him across the hall into a large library overlooking the moat.
Martel was faintly amused at this display of weaponry – somehow it symbolised the poor imitation of Hitler's bodyguard Dietrich was aping – and the reaction helped to quell the cold fear growing at the pit of his stomach. He had not anticipated Klara Beck.
`Stay with us, Vinz – just to ensure our guest preserves his manners.' Dietrich gestured with the cigar he had lit. 'The other two can go dig the garden…'
Wary of Vinz's Luger, Martel took out his pack slowly, inserted a cigarette in his holder and lit it. He sat down in a leather, button-backed chair in front of a huge Empire desk. An ashtray of Steuben crystal was filled with cigar butts.
'You may sit down, Martel,' Dietrich said sarcastically. 'We can dispense with the charade of Philip Johnson, I suggest…'
'We all seem to be making ourselves at home…'
Martel gestured to Klara Beck who had perched herself on the arm of his chair. She crossed her legs and even the trousers could not disguise their excellent shape. Taking off her jacket, she revealed more of her superb breasts. Dietrich glared at her, went behind his desk and sank heavily into his chair, his voice harsh when he addressed his visitor.
'What suicidal motive drove you to come here? And don't tell me that if you're not away from the schloss in half an hour Stoller and his minions will rush to the rescue. I read the papers. The BND commissar is flying to Bonn – doubtless to escape the humiliation of witnessing my victory at the polls…'
'Your defeat..
Martel was watching Beck as he spoke and caught the flicker of surprise in her dark eyes. Surprise – not alarm or disbelief. Dietrich exploded.
'You bloody amateur! What do you know of politics in Germany? I hope you don't imagine you will leave this place alive? Where is the witness to prove you were ever inside the grounds, let alone the schloss? Why the hell did you come here…'
`To tell you that you are being conned, Dietrich,' Martel replied harshly. He ground out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray and lit another. 'You have been manipulated. Right from the start you've been a pawn in a game you were never equipped to play…'
The atmosphere in the library had changed. Martel could sense the change and, resting against the back of his chair, he was watching everyone in the room under the guise of an attitude of nonchalance. He could feel Beck's nervous reaction, the tensing of her muscles which subtly shifted the chair leather.
Vinz reacted differently. He tried to freeze his emotions but he shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Dietrich, who was no fool, noticed the movement. He frowned but concentrated his ire on Martel.
`Bloody hell! What are you talking about…'
`I'm talking about your betrayal,' Martel continued in the same even tone. 'Betrayal by someone you trusted. Why does Stoller keep locating the Delta arms dumps so easily and swiftly? He has an informant – that is the only answer…'
Vinz took a step forward and waved the Luger. 'You are asking for a mouthful of broken teeth…'
He got no further. Dietrich stood up and moved round his desk with surprising agility. With the back of his hand he struck Vinz across the face. The German stood very still as Dietrich stormed.
`Shut your trap! Who do you think is in charge here? Get out of this room and go fishing!'
Martel waited until Vinz had left and then went on speaking. `Ask yourself the question, Dietrich. Is there one other person only who knows the location of the dumps? If so, that has to be Stoller's informant. Maybe a series of anonymous phone calls? If you are wondering why, every newspaper headline reporting discovery of another dump swings the polls a few points more against you. I say you are being manipulated by a mastermind…'
There was a flurry of activity. The door into the library burst open and one of the guards rushed in. Dietrich glared at the intruder.
`What is it, Karl?'
'The gate. They have just phoned through. A convoy of cars is approaching the entrance – they think it is the police
Dietrich stood considering the news for a few seconds, staring at Martel. Then he barked out an order and two more men appeared from the hall through the open door.
`Put him in the cellar – he can shout his head off down there and no one will hear him. Search him first…'
He moved across to a bookcase and removed a volume. Behind it was a button which he pressed. A section slid back with a purr of hydraulics, an addition to the schloss no doubt built by his Stuttgart technicians. Martel carefully did not look at Beck as he extracted the smoked cigarette from his holder and stubbed out the butt in the messy ashtray.
'On your feet!'
Karl had spoken and his Luger was aimed point-blank. Beyond the dark well exposed by the secret door Martel could see a staircase curving down out of sight. He followed one of the guards across the shag carpet as Karl gestured with his gun, walking slowly. The muzzle was rammed into his back. As he stepped through the opening he heard Klara Beck speak urgently.
'Empty that ashtray – it contains his cigarette stubs…'
Trust lovely Klara not to overlook any little detail, the bitch. A smell of damp, of mustiness rose to meet him as he descended the spiral with the guard in front and Karl behind. Dietrich called out a final threat.
