It was still the middle of the night when Klein stopped the truck. He had turned off the highway up a side track – in the headlight beams the Turk could see straight ahead a thin copse of pine trees. He looked in the wing mirror on his side. The headlights of Hipper's Volvo had stopped a few metres behind.
'What is happening?'
'I have to take a leak.' Klein patted his crotch. 'Now you can take over the wheel. You back the truck the short distance we came off the highway and continue north. You are near Clervaux. And I will pay you the rest of the money in a minute…'
More money? The Turk kept his face expressionless. He'd understood at Vevey he'd be paid one thousand francs. Had this man not known he had already been paid? The prospect of another one thousand franc note filled him with joy. He would buy his wife a present…
'Here you are.'
Klein had suddenly opened the other door, climbed up into the passenger seat. He held an envelope in his left hand. His right hand grabbed the Turk's long hair and jerked his head back. The Turk felt certain the hand couldn't hold his slippery mane. He lunged forward. Which was exactly the reaction Klein was expecting. His hand opened, the palm shoved the head forward with all his force. There was a thud as the Turk cracked his skull on the wheel and lay still. Klein checked the neck pulse. Nothing. He nodded to Hipper who stood outside the foot of the passenger door, holding an inflated plastic bag.
'Dead.'
Klein spoke the single word as he jumped down from the cab, leaving the door open. He walked cautiously to the copse he had found a week earlier, looking for the right place. Beyond the sapling pines the earth dropped away sheer into an abyss.
'Let's get on with it. We have to get back to La Montagne. See what Chabot's been up to. He must be a marathon walker.'
Hipper went round to the driver's side where the Turk slumped over the wheel. He would never see Ankara, his waiting family again. Hipper perched on the edge of the cab, reached over, turned on the ignition. Klein had taken a small sachet of cocaine he'd bought on the Paris streets for an absurd sum, ripped the packet and scattered the contents inside the cab. Something for the forensic fanatics to think about – assuming any traces of the stuff survived.
Hipper waited while Klein checked the plastic bag of petrol the Luxembourger had handed him. A fuse protruded from the neck of the bag. He'd have to act fast. He took his lighter out, nodded again to Hipper standing in the cab. He really was a very small man.
Hipper adjusted the gear, jumped to the ground and grasped the brake. Klein nodded a third time as he lit the fuse. As Hipper released the brake and slammed the cab door shut Klein threw in the bag, slamming his own door shut. The vehicle was already moving down the slope.
There was a whooshing sound and light flared inside the cab. The truck trundled on downhill as Klein followed. It brushed aside the feeble trees, upended and vanished. Klein and Hipper ran to the edge. The truck plunged straight down the abyss past the rock face, went down a good hundred feet and hit the rocks at the bottom with a distant thud. For a few seconds it was very quiet. Then the base of the abyss exploded with a dull roar. Flames flared. Smoke drifted in the windless night up the side of the precipice. Klein sniffed. Smelt like burning flesh and petrol fumes.
His precautions were a waste of time. Inside the inferno the Turk was incinerated into almost a blackened skeleton.
'Better get back,' Klein commented. 'Another loose end dealt with. I'll drive.'
17
Tweed, like Paula, was an owl. Both were at their most alert when most of the world was going to bed. They had a late and leisurely dinner in Le Pavilion, talking about Alain Charvet, about why they were there.
'I just can't get a grip on a single hard fact,' Tweed complained. 'Maybe there isn't one to get hold of.' He drank more coffee, called for the bill and signed it.
'Why didn't you show Charvet the picture of Zarov?' Paula enquired.
'Because the fewer people who see it the better. That is, until we have something concrete to go on. The odd thing,' he ruminated, 'is I have used the word phantom several times – which shows I don't really believe in his existence. Then on the phone when I called Charvet to ask if the so-called Recruiter has a name, Charvet himself used the word ghost. You see?'
'See what?'
'Phantom. Ghost. Neither of us really believe in the existence of a mysterious mastermind. Zarov.'
'If he was really brilliant wouldn't he set out to make you think just that?'
Before he could reply the concierge from reception came to the table and whispered in Tweed's ear. 'Thank you,' he said. Tell him we'll be out there very shortly.' He waited until they were alone. 'Blast the man!'
'What's the matter now?'
'It's Arthur Beck again. Chief of the Federal Police. Waiting in the lobby to see me. At this hour. I suppose we'd better take him up to my room. Although what he can want I can't imagine.'
Seated on a couch by herself in Tweed's room Paula studied Beck. Not a bit like my idea of a top policeman, she thought. Dressed in a light grey business suit, a blue-striped shirt, a blue tie which carried a kingfisher emblem woven into the fabric, he looked more like a clever banker. Plump-cheeked, his most arresting feature was his alert grey eyes beneath thick dark brows the same colour as his thick hair. In his mid-forties, she guessed, his complexion was ruddy, that of a man who spent as much time as possible outdoors.
His movements were quick and he fiddled with a silver pencil as he watched Tweed, who had already made introductions. He showed rare surprise when Tweed spoke.
'I should tell you, Arthur, that I'm now a commander with the Anti-Terrorist Squad at Scotland Yard. Here is my warrant card.'
'I don't believe it.' Beck stared at the card and handed it back. 'You mean you've left the Service?'
'More complicated than that.' Tweed was mildly pleased with the shock he'd given his old friend. 'I also still hold my position with the Service. I'm working on a weird investigation. What I would like to know is why you took the trouble to fly from Berne to see me. And how you knew I was here.'
'Answer to first question, I didn't. I'm working on a murder case. A bit grisly.' He glanced at Paula. 'Answer to second question, the Passport Control man at Cointrin thought your name rang a bell, checked it against his list, called me.'
'What murder case?' Tweed enquired. 'You don't get many of them here.'
'Well…' Beck smiled slightly. 'Seeing as you're now also with Scotland Yard means I can talk to you about anything.' Again he glanced at Paula.
'You used the word 'grisly',' she said. 'Not to worry. I've a pretty strong stomach.'
'Funny business. Murdered chap discovered in a train at Cornavin which had finished its journey. Cleaning woman finds a lavatory locked, calls guard. He opens up. Inside, parked on the lavatory seat lid is this body of a man. Small and fat, head lolling to one side, mouth open…' He was looking towards Paula again. '… his throat slit from ear to ear, blood all down his shirt front…'
'Like a butchered pig,' Paula said, looking straight back at him. 'Like some more champers? Of course you would…'
'Why champagne?' Beck asked.
'To celebrate the company of such an agreeable guest,' she said, still gazing at him when she'd refilled his glass.
My God, Tweed thought, she's got him eating out of the palm of her hand. Arthur Beck! He saw the Swiss' hand rise from his lap and fall again. He'd been going to check his tie was neat, had stopped himself just in time.
'Any identification?' Tweed asked for something to say.
'Oh, yes. Which doesn't help. Research Director of Montres Ribaud, one of the top watch manufacturers up at
