chum, a German arms dealer on a barge along the waterfront. He told me business had tailed off something shocking since the Berlin Wall went down. I got this lot for a song – plus Walthers for Butler and Nield. And an Armalite for myself. All a question of knowing the right people.'
`Or the wrong ones,' Tweed rebuked him. 'Now I'm going to walk up that drive. Bob, Paula, you can follow at a distance. I don't want to startle Westendorf.'
`I'll find somewhere to park the car,' Marler decided.
Tweed walked slowly up the tarred drive, his footsteps making no sound. He stepped over the dragon's teeth chain – which would rip a vehicle's tyres to pieces and stop it in seconds. It was too quiet.
He could see the old two-storey stone villa in the distance. Lights on in the ground-floor windows behind closed curtains. On either side of the drive high, dense banks of rhododendron bushes concealed the grounds. He reasoned that the oppressive silence was due to the German occupying the villa by himself. Like Andover. Like Delvaux…'
The muzzle of a gun was rammed into the back of his neck. At the same moment a hand descended on his shoulder, a voice growled the command in English.
`Make one wrong move and I'll blow your head off.'
Inside the Four Seasons, Pete Nield, smartly dressed as always in a business suit, wandered into the spacious lounge area adjoining reception. A very attractive woman with a blonde mane, wearing a form-fitting black dress, sat on a couch. The dress was slit up one side and she had her elegant legs crossed. Lee Holmes.
Nield paused by a table of German newspapers and magazines. He pretended to be looking for something to read. Lee called out to him in her husky voice.
`Don't I know you? Surely you were at the Hilton back in Brussels? You were.' She patted the seat beside her. `Do please come and sit with me. I'm bored to distraction. I desperately need some entertaining man. You fit the bill.'
I would have thought there'd be a queue of men – waiting to distract you.' Nield fingered his trim moustache as he sat close to her. 'And of course I do remember seeing you, but you were always chaperoned by some man. Severe-looking type. My bad luck, I thought.'
`A gallant man.' She sighed, her bosom rising. 'How rare these days.' Her bare arm touched his sleeve as she took out her jewelled cigarette holder, inserted a cigarette. Nield flicked his lighter into flame. She shook her head and smiled warmly. 'I'm giving it up – this is testing my will-power. Absolutely silly, really.'
Nield smiled. He had known about her technique, but wanted her to feel he knew nothing about her.
`Why are you so bored?' he asked. 'I saw you with a military type who seemed very distinguished.'
`Brigadier Burgoyne. Distinguished for wanting his own way. Now he's trotted off on some official business, indulging in one of his investigations. He regards me as a piece of the furniture.' She smiled again. 'The only compensation is the pay is good.'
`Thank Heaven for small mercies. What would you like to drink?'
`Champers! To celebrate the beginning of our friendship.'
Tweed froze, remained quite still. The gun muzzle against his neck felt cold as ice. The hand on his shoulder was large and had a strong grip. Then he heard a new voice.
`This gun is pressed into your spine. Drop your own or you'll be a cripple for life. At the best,' Newman concluded.
Tweed heard a tiny click: the safety catch being put on. Then a much louder sound as the weapon hit the tar. He turned round slowly. The first voice had sounded familiar, so he was not too surprised to face Chief Inspector Otto Kuhlmann of the Criminal Police from Wiesbaden.
`A nice warm friendly welcome to Germany, Otto,' he said genially. 'But what the hell are you doing here?'
Newman had holstered his weapon. Kuhlmann bent down, retrieved his own gun, straightened up, and glared at Newman. The German police chief was short in stature but had very wide shoulders. He always reminded Newman of old films he'd seen starring Edward G. Robinson. The same wide mouth, tough face, thick dark hair and eyebrows. The same alert eyes and dynamic energy. A powerhouse of a police chief – and one of Tweed's old friends.
`My apologies,' Kuhlmann began, 'but we get a call from a man who says he is Tweed. That is, one of my officers took that call. Can we be sure of your identity? And in the dark you were just a shadow. We are taking no chances.'
`Neither am I,' Newman told him. 'Like you, I just saw a shadow with a gun. I'm not apologizing.'
`You have a permit for that weapon?' Kuhlmann asked in a gentle voice.
`He hasn't,' Tweed said quickly. 'But if I am right about what has been experienced by Hugo Westendorf protection was in order.'
`I may forgive you, Newman.' Kuhlmann turned to Tweed. 'Shall we see what is going on inside Schloss Tannenberg – before we freeze to death out here…?'
Tweed braced himself for his first sight of Westendorf. He remembered him well from the time the German Minister, as he then was, had visited Britain incognito to attend a meeting of INCOMSIN – the International Committee of Strategic Insight.
The German had been six foot two inches tall, of slim build, and with a strong-boned face and a high forehead. His mind had been like quicksilver, his manner courteous, and his energy phenomenal. Tweed dreaded what he was about to witness.
Kuhlmann pressed the bell beside the heavy closed door four times in quick succession, then once again after a pause. As it was, when the door was opened a few inches the first thing Tweed saw was the muzzle of a Heckler and Koch 9mm sub-machine-gun. The man holding it came into view, a plain-clothes detective without a smile. Was this the voice which had answered him on the phone, Tweed wondered.
They were admitted with Kuhlmann ushering in Paula, whom he hugged, and then the other two. Tweed then had the shock of his life.
'We shouldn't talk,' Tweed warned quickly. 'This place is probably bugged.'
'It was,' Kuhlmann replied. 'I ripped out every listening device myself.'
But it was Hugo Westendorf Tweed was staring at. The German had crossed the large hall with a brisk step, holding out his hand. He carried himself erect, his grip was strong. There were no signs of strain on his face and he greeted his visitor with a warm smile.
`Welcome to Schloss Tannenberg, my friend. It is so very good to see you.'
'And I thought someone – maybe your son, Franz – had been kidnapped.'
`But he has been. Three months ago. Which is why I resigned. It was a demand of the kidnappers – which I at once acceded to.'
36
They were sitting in a comfortable library Westendorf had suggested as a good place to talk. Their German host stood in front of a blazing log fire inside a huge stone alcove. The walls were lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling and Tweed had the impression the books were read. He was mystified by the situation and phrased his question with care.
`As far as you know, is Franz in good health?'
`You mean,' Kuhlmann intervened, 'has Westendorf received a severed arm or hand – like Andover and Delvaux. The answer is no. Westendorf communicated with me as soon as Franz had been kidnapped. I have worked in great secrecy. The press have no idea of what happened.'
`What action did you take?' Tweed asked.
`I launched the greatest dragnet ever mounted in the Federal Republic. I turned over Germany. Always in secrecy. I contacted informants in the underground criminal world and they started looking. Like so many respectable citizens, they hate the alien refugees – many of whom compete in the rackets.'
`The object was to locate Franz if you could?'
`Only partly.' It was Westendorf who explained. 'I had heard from Andover and Delvaux the dreadful
