looked around, frustrated and dazed.
The tram was still hidden in the smoke but its silhouette was becoming clearer. No sign of the driver. Sensibly he had remained inside his cab. Martel felt sure he had kept the automatic doors closed to protect his passengers. Nearby was a pathetic sight – two cases standing on the pavement.
At any moment the tram driver was going to emerge from his cab. Martel scraped his shoes back and forth on the edge of the kerb to remove blood from the soles. Then he picked up the two suitcases and left the scene of the nightmare as he heard the distant scream of a patrol-car siren.
The blast from the explosion sent a shock wave down the funnel of Bahnhofstrasse which thumped Martel in the back. He turned down a side street towards the Old Town, taking a roundabout route to the Hauptbahnhof. He didn't think anyone aboard the tram had seen him but a man carrying two suitcases at that hour was conspicuous.
What had caused the explosion he had no idea. He wasn't too interested. At that moment he had three objectives. To hide Hofer's suitcase in a left-luggage locker at the station. Next, to book himself temporarily into a hotel near the station – if he returned to the Baur au Lac he could walk straight into the arms of the opposition. Finally, to phone Ferdy Arnold's headquarters in Berne.
Martel felt he was on the edge of a whirlpool. He could hardly credit what had happened in Bahnhofstrasse. And Swiss security was renowned for its ruthless efficiency. What the hell had gone so horribly wrong?
When a woman replied to his call to the Berne number Arnold had given him he opened with the identification phrase and she didn't react.
`What was that you said? Who are you calling? You know what time of night it is…'
'I'm sorry,' Martel replied. 'I was calling…' He repeated the number Arnold had provided him and risked it: after all. Arnold was a common name.
`No one here of that name – you have the wrong number. This is the number you said you were calling but – for the second time – there is no one here of that name. Good night!'
Martel sat staring at the receiver and replaced it. He was inside a third-floor bedroom he had booked at the Schweizer hof – which faced the Hauptbahnhof. Hofer's suitcase was parked in one of the station lockers, the key for which he had in his pocket. Why had Ferdy Arnold given him a meaningless phone number when he visited the apartment in Centralhof? The obvious conclusion was that he was not the real Ferdy Arnold – whom Martel had never met.
If this same man had organised the savage onslaught on himself and Hofer it explained his anxiety to leave the apartment urgently: He had known what was waiting for them outside. So he had to be well clear of the place when Martel came out with Hofer. But in that case why had Hofer accepted him as Arnold? Martel felt the sensation of being swept inside a whirlpool growing.
Leaving his room, he went down the staircase, again instinctively ignoring the lift. Crossing the street to the station he found a row of phone booths, went inside one and dialled the Ferdy Arnold number Tweed had given him in London.
He had realised 'Arnold' had provided a different number, but he had assumed it was a security precaution and Tweed had not been immediately informed of the change. This time the reaction at the Berne number was different. He used the code-phrase, a girl asked him to wait just a moment.
'Who is this?'
The voice was crisp, almost curt, and had a ring of competence, of no nonsense about it. Martel identified himself. 'Where are you calling from?' Arnold demanded.
'That doesn't matter at the moment,' Martel replied. 'I have regretfully to report that your assistant, Claire Hofer, has been kidnapped by Delta…'
'You were part of that massacre in Bahnhofstrasse in Zurich?' `Massacre?'
'Delta – if it was Delta – bungled a major bank raid. A limpet mine was attached to the main door of a certain bank. It detonated and some people alighting from a tram which had been stopped were badly injured. What was that about Claire Hofer? And I'd still like to know where you're calling from…'
'Skip that. This call is going through your switchboard…'
`That's crazy.' Ferdy Arnold's voice reflected indignation and disbelief. 'Our security…'
'You said something about a bungled bank raid.' Martel was bewildered. `I'm limiting this call to two minutes so talk…'
`I've just told you – a bomb, presumably with a quick-acting timer, was attached to the entrance to a bank. It blew the door but no one followed it up. The driver of the tram which was stopped saw nothing because smoke bombs were used…'
'What about the Rolls Royce that stopped him by driving across his bows?'
'I don't know anything about that. On the pavement we found a small silver badge shaped like a triangle-or a delta…'
'Send out an all points bulletin alarm for Claire Hofer.'
Martel was checking the length of the call by the second-hand on his watch. I'm very worried about her…'
'You can stop worrying.' Arnold paused and there was something in his tone Martel didn't like. 'We know what happened to her part of the story anyway.'
'Then for Christ's sake tell me -and fast. In the short time we were together I came to like – admire – the girl…'
'Her body was discovered floating down the Limmat less than half an hour ago. She had been brutally and professionally tortured before they dumped her in the river. I want you to come in, Martel. I want you to come to an address in Berne…'
Arnold stopped speaking. Martel had broken the connection.
CHAPTER 5
Wednesday May 27
If Arnold had kept the conversation going so his tracers could locate the source of the call Martel was confident he had rung off in time. He was no happier about the real Arnold knowing his whereabouts than he was for the fake Arnold to obtain the same information. And the news of Claire Hofer had hit him hard.
Leaving the booth he walked round the huge Hauptbahnhof, stopping to study the departure board like a man waiting for his train. This great station – along with its counterpart in Munich – had fascinated the murdered Warner. Why?
Martel made a swift inventory of the place. Gleise 1-16: sixteen platforms, all of the tracks ending here. The long row of phone booths for communication and, he realised as he strolled round the hushed concourse, numerous exits. There was a kino – cinema – the Cine-Rex, and a Snack-Buffet.
He walked down one of the broad aisles leading away from the platforms past a large luggage storage counter facing a door marked Kanton-Polzzei. Two men emerged dressed in blue uniforms with berets, their trousers tucked into boots. They had the look of paratroopers.
He passed Quick, a first-class restaurant which provided two more exits and came out into the street. The Hauptbahnhof was a place you could get out of swiftly – a place you could linger inside for a long time unobtrusively. An idea formed at the back of his mind and receded. He crossed two roads and gazed down into the back water of the Limmat river. Dizzying reflections from street lamps danced in the night.
These were the waters which within the past hour had carried the mutilated body of poor Claire Hofer. Martel was not a sentimental man but he decided someone was going to pay for that barbaric act.
Glancing round he noticed the huge greystone bulk of a four-storey building to his right on the Bahnhofquai. The Stacitpolizei – police headquarters. The working quarters of a friend, David Nagel, Chief Inspector of Intelligence. He checked his watch. 2245 hours.
While at the Hotel Schweizerhof he had borrowed a rail timetable and found that the last train from the Hauptbahnhof left at 2339, reaching St. Gallen at 0049 hours. He had less than one hour to catch that train – to get out of Zurich which was becoming a death-trap.
