'It's a nightmare,' Howard said. 'What does it mean?'
There were pouches under his eyes betraying his fatigue. The underlying strain of mutual suspicion and mistrust was beginning to take its toll on the three security chiefs. Flandres had flow joined them and was mopping moisture off his forehead with a silk handkerchief. The atmosphere was becoming claustrophobic. Each man was conscious of being cooped up inside a confined space he could not escape. Only Tweed seemed relaxed as they re- examined the signal.
'He has given us less than ten minutes' warning. It's just not good enough. What does it mean?' Howard repeated.
`It appears to mean,' Tweed suggested, that Stoller is using his considerable ingenuity to protect his leader. That is,' he added, `assuming Chancellor Langer is the assassin's target…'
He was watching the three men as he spoke, searching for a clue in his blunt reference to the assassin. The American chewed at his cigar and spilt ash down his front.
`You're not making sense,' he complained irritably.
The timetable of the western leaders for their journey to Vienna has been widely publicised,' Tweed- explained patiently. 'Including the fact that Langer was scheduled to board the train at Munich when he had made his brief speech outstide the Hauptbahnof. By coming aboard much earlier this unexpected change may throw the unknown assassin off balance.' He stared round the trio hovering over him. 'It has already thrown you off balance…'
'You're assuming Langer is the target,' Howard pointed out. `True,' Tweed agreed. 'The target may already be on board. I am not sure…'
Just as you're not sure of any of us,' Flandres said amiably. 'True again. And the train is slowing down – we are at Kehl.
So the fourth suspect, Stoller, should join the happy band…'
There was a further surprise when the express drew into Kehl and Flandres opened the door of Voiture Four to find Chancellor Kurt Langer staring up at him, his lean face wearing an expression of amusement. Like the French security chief, the German spoke fluent English and, wearing his well-cut business suit, could have passed for an Englishman.
'Alain Flandres, how pleasant to see you again. I trust my early arrival did not get you out of bed?'
'None of us have had much sleep…'
Flandres ushered the Chancellor quickly aboard into the corridor and away from the open doorway. He peered briefly out into the early morning. The gloomy platform, glowing with sepulchral lamps, was lined with BND men facing away from the express. Flandres frowned and turned to speak to the Chancellor.
`Where is Erich Stoller, Chancellor? Surely he is accompanying you?'
'I have no idea where he is,' Langer answered affably. 'He is as elusive as a lark. The train can leave when you are ready – I go this way? Thank you…'
Flandres signalled to the guard and closed the door. The train began to move again, picking up speed, the coaches swaying slightly as they started to cross Germany, heading for Bavaria. Flandres wasted no time making sure Langer was comfortable: the Chancellor was notorious for his dislike of fuss. He hurried back into the foetid atmosphere of the communications coach where the others sat waiting for him.
'Stoller did not come aboard,' he announced. 'And Langer tells me he has no idea as to his present whereabouts…'
`That's crazy,' O'Meara protested.
'It could also be very serious,' said Tweed.
His remark did nothing to lighten the highly nervous mood which had now spread to the communications technicians. Howard left the coach to take up his duty roster, glaring at Tweed as he passed him hunched in his swivel chair.
The early hours when morale is at its lowest crawled and no one spoke unless it was absolutely unavoidable. Friendly cooperation had long since given way to raw-edged nerves and outbursts of irritation over trivia. Only Tweed remained detached and watchful – like a man awaiting an event he has foreseen and which is inevitable.
When they had at last settled down into some kind of neutral silence the second signal came in from Berne.
Subject: Irma Romer. Height: 5ft. 4 ins. Weight 120 lbs. Colour of eyes: brown. Age: 64. Married to industrialist, Axel Romer, 34 years. Destination: Lisbon. Arnold, Berne.
The second signal promised from Berne reached the communications car of the Summit Express as it was pulling into Ulm Hauptbahnhof at 0805 hours. Tweed automatically converted the details from the metric system as he read the message and passed it to Howard.
`The elegantly-dressed woman who came aboard at the last moment at Paris,' he commented. 'The one you said was of no significance. The description doesn't tally in one single detail…'
'We had better go to the sleeper coach at once,' Flandres said. 'With armed guards,' he added. He looked at Tweed. 'Coming?'
The two men passed through the restaurant coach where breakfast was being laid for the four western leaders to the end door which was kept permanently locked, sealing off the coaches occupied by the public. A guard unlocked the door and Flandres, followed by Tweed, hurried along the corridor of the sleeping car.
'Come with us,' Flandres ordered two of the guards standing in the corridor. 'Have your weapons ready. Good, there is the attendant…'
The uniformed attendant in charge of the sleeper was making the morning coffee and looked up in some trepidation as Flandres began questioning him. He then explained that the passenger, Irma Romer, had left the express at Stuttgart after complaining that she felt unwell.
Stuttgart… The timetable details flashed into Tweed's mind. Arrive 0651; Depart 0703. A twelve-minute stop, the longest of the whole trip except for Munich. Flandres looked at Tweed and made a gesture along the corridor.
`So, once again you are right, my friend. We should examine her compartment?'
`Yes,' said Tweed.
The attendant opened the door which he had locked after the passenger had left. Tweed stepped inside followed by Flandres. The Englishman raised the wash-basin lid.
'The soap is untouched. She hardly used the place…'
'The bed has not been slept in,' Flandres pointed out. `So she sat up all night…'
`Waiting until she reached Stuttgart,' Tweed said thoughtfully. 'I don't like this, Alain, I don't like it at all. Why should she book a sleeper, spend the night in it from Paris to Stuttgart and then get off? This business of feeling ill is nonsense.'
`Well, she is off the train – and we are moving again, thank God. I hate these stops. Let us go back and check with Howard and our American colleague…'
It was only a two-minute stop at Ulm. An essential element in the overall security was that at each stop one of the security chiefs climbed down on to the platform to check who was leaving or boarding the public section of the train. As they made their way back through the restaurant car Tweed asked his question.
`Who was watching the platform at Stuttgart?'
`O'Meara volunteered for the job…'
`And he wouldn't recognise Irma Romer,' Tweed remarked. 'He has never seen her.'
'And there was a fair amount of activity at Stuttgart. It will remain a mystery.
In the first-class day coach a woman passenger sat reading a copy of American Vogue. Her hair had a tinted rinse and she wore horn-rimmed glasses which were also tinted. She was dressed in an American trouser suit and perched on the luggage rack above her was a case with a bright tartan cover.
She was travelling on an American passport in the name of Pamela Davis and her occupation was given as journalist.
Taking out a pack of Lucky Strike she lit a fresh cigarette. By her side the ash-tray was crammed with half- smoked butts – but on top in view were fully-smoked stubs.
After complaining to the sleeping-car attendant of feeling ill, Reinhard Dietrich's mistress, Klara Beck, had got off the express at Stuttgart carrying her large Gucci suitcase. It was, she knew, a twelve-minute stop. She made
