other seaborne traffic. He had the Baltic to himself as he guided the dinghy up the channel, past the Maritim, past the old tall brick-built edifice which had served as a lighthouse before they transferred the lamp to the summit of the multi-storey hotel.
Back from the dead. That was his thought as he cruised deep inside the channel. He saw the Sudwind moored to its landing stage and hardly gave it a thought. He was cold, miserable, relieved at the same time. All he wanted was a hot bath and a change of clothes.
Afterwards, he could never work out why, but he guided the dinghy to a certain landing-stage, his speed now reduced to a modest pace. After midnight, but there were lights aboard the sloop. He cut the engine and the dinghy drifted the last few yards under its own momentum.
Ann Grayle came out on deck, holding a glass, wearing white slacks and a blouse. The sky had cleared on his way in and it was a balmy night. She stood very erect, staring down at him.
`Good God! It's Bob Newman. You look wet through. Come on board and we'll sort you out. Ben!' she called. 'Put on the kettle. Hot coffee.' She stared again at Newman. 'What you reporters will do just for a story…'
Lysenko made the call to Moscow the following morning. Again he used the phone in his apartment so he wouldn't be overheard by Markus Wolf. Gorbachev came on the line immediately.
`The cargo was safely transhipped yesterday evening. Balkan arrived back from London just in time to take it over…'
`No codewords over the phone,' Gorbachev reprimanded him. 'I heard you use two. Watch it.'
Lysenko swore inwardly. The General Secretary was referring to his slip in naming London. He'd better be more careful.
`There will be a delay of two or three weeks,' he continued. `That is, before it moves on to its ultimate destination. For the time being the cargo is safely under cover.'
`Any news of Tweed?' Gorbachev enquired.
`Arrival imminent…'
`That problem must be solved. Quickly. Keep me informed.'
The connection was broken. Lysenko slammed down the receiver, rubbed the stubble of his unshaven jaw, stared at the rumpled bedclothes. Helene, the German girl he'd met, had been good – very good. Make the most of it while you're away from the wife, he told himself. But bedtime romps and vodka didn't seem to go together too well any more. Maybe he was getting too old for it; hence that stupid slip on the phone. As he ambled to the bathroom he decided he'd give it up – not Helene, just mixing her with vodka.
Tweed disembarked from Flight LH 041 with Diana at Hamburg. Ahead of him Pete Nield was going through Passport Control. Behind him Harry Butler strolled, carrying his suitcase, his eyes studying the other passengers. Who, he was asking himself, was Tweed's glamorous blonde companion?
The foxy devil hadn't mentioned her. And from what Butler had observed during the flight they knew each other pretty well. Still, it was good cover – a couple attracted less attention than a single man alighting from an aircraft on his own.
Outside the exit hall Nield was getting inside a taxi when Tweed emerged with Diana. A man wearing a shabby raincoat and standing by a bookstall, pretending to look at a paperback, watched them. Martin Vollmer shoved the book back on to the rack of the revolver and hurried after them.
Butler, who never missed a trick, had just come out of the Customs and saw Vollmer's reaction. He followed him. Tweed was helping Diana into the rear of a cab, got inside himself and told the driver, 'Four Seasons Hotel, please…'
Butler watched Vollmer take the next waiting cab. Inside it the German gave his directions. 'Follow that cab. Don't lose it. That man owes me money.'
`And he'll go on owing. They always do. Anything you say.'
The convoy proceeded along the boulevard-like highway leading to the city. Nield first. Then Tweed and Diana. Behind them followed Vollmer's cab. And two vehicles behind Vollmer, Butler brought up the rear. His instructions to his driver had been explicit as he handed him a ten-deutschmark note.
`That's your tip,' he said in German. 'The fare's separate. That cab the thin man in the brown raincoat got inside. Tab him. I want to find out where he's going.'
Inside the city the convoy crossed the highway bridge which divides the two lakes-with the Binnenalster on the left. On the far side it turned down the Neuer Jungfernstieg, moving down the western shore of the lake. The fussy little water buses were scuttering across the smooth surface. The sky had a few clouds which seemed to hang motionless in a sea of blue as the sun blazed down.
Nield was inside the hotel when Tweed's cab pulled up at the entrance. A hundred or so metres back Butler watched as Vollmer's cab slowed to cruising pace. He saw the occupant peer out of the window as Tweed and Diana disappeared inside the hotel. Vollmer's cab then picked up speed and Butler settled back against his seat. Sooner or later he'd track down Brown Raincoat's destination.
At reception Tweed registered both himself and Diana in their real names. The two rooms Monica had reserved were ready and he paused to show her the luxurious reception hall and the dining-room, feeling glad to be back.
`It's a marvellous place,' she enthused. 'Simply divine.'
`Possibly the best hotel in all Germany.' He led her away from the reception counter, lowering his voice. 'I have some phone calls to make. The plane was on time – 12.55. Can you wait a little longer for lunch?'
`I have to unpack. I'll stay in my room until you come for me…'
Tweed had asked for – and been given – the same double room he'd occupied on his previous visit to Hamburg when he had identified the body of Ian Fergusson. Number 412. He tipped the porter who brought up his case and then, alone, stood for a moment gazing out of the window at the view. The foliage was still on the trees below him and beyond stretched the placid waters of the Binnenalster.
It was still holiday time. Crowds stood on the landing stage area at the end of the lake, not so far from where the police had discovered Fergusson's floating body by the lock-gates in the early hours. There was a queue for ice cream cones. He was thinking of poor Ian Fergusson. He shook his head, went to the phone, asked for the room number Nield was occupying, a detail he'd noticed in the hotel register. He asked Nield to come up and see him.
Tweed was standing in the middle of the living-room when Nield entered. The moment he arrived Nield knew something was going to happen. Tweed stood very erect, his voice was crisp, decisive.
`We're leaving here this evening after dinner. We're heading straight for Lubeck by train. After you've had lunch get a cab to the Hauptbahnhof, buy four single first-class tickets for Lubeck.
`That's quick…'
`I'm going to surprise the opposition by moving faster than they'll expect. After you've bought the rail tickets, phone the Hotel Jensen in Lubeck and book three rooms. Myself, Harry and one in the name of Diana Chadwick. Then call the Movenpick in Lubeck and book yourself a room there. You're back-up – out of sight.'
`Anything else?'
`Not at the moment.'
`Then I'd better get downstairs and grab a bite to eat.'
The phone began ringing almost as soon as Nield had left the room. Tweed picked up the receiver.
`Who is it?' he asked cautiously.
`Harry. Harry Butler. I tracked him. It's Altona.
`Get back here as fast as you can.'
In Lubeck Munzel had made his daily call to Vollmer at the usual time. Noon. He'd got the ringing tone from the flat in Altona but no reply. Swearing to himself, he left the station and walked back across the street to the International Hotel. He had no way of knowing that at that moment Vollmer was waiting at Hamburg Airport, checking arrivals from London. His man who normally carried out this assignment had gone down with an attack of gastritis.
Munzel took Lydia Fischer to the Movenpick for lunch. He felt he needed a change of surroundings, of menu. As they talked and ate their grilled sole and chipped potatoes Munzel was unaware he was being watched by Sue Templeton, the American girl friend of Ted Smith – the couple who had shown Kuhlmann where Munzel had thrown his motor-cycle into the river Trave.
`I'd recognize that man again if he'd grown a beard,' she had said jokingly to her English boy friend.
