Marler waited. The fog had closed in again, blotting out all sight of the Cadillac. He reached under his seat for the Armalite he had assembled while waiting outside Schloss Tannenberg. Locking the car quietly, he walked along slowly to where the car had parked. It was gone.
`Sorry about the fog,' Westendorf said, leading the way to the harbour. 'The met forecast got it wrong.'
The fog lifted again and Paula saw a small oblong basin fenced off from the Elbe by a jetty wall which ran out a short distance, turned at right angles, continued parallel to the silent river.
It was crammed with yachts. Most of them were cocooned for winter in protective blue-plastic covers. Westendorf had reached the end of the short wall, had turned left along the main rampart. He looked back at Paula.
`The Holsten V is moored by the outer wall. No room in the harbour when I brought her back in.'
Tweed followed close behind Paula while Kuhlmann and Newman brought up the rear. Westendorf took Paula's hand to help her aboard a large luxurious motor yacht. He showed her the way with a torch beam, unlocked a door, ran down a flight of companionway steps, opened a second door. He switched on lights and they were inside a well-furnished saloon. Gleaming brass rails, the wood polished so she could see her face in it.
`Sit yourselves down,' he invited. 'Anyone like a drink to drive out the cold?'
Paula didn't sit. She stood near a window, peering out at the fog which was now a solid grey curtain drawn across the glass. Westendorf sensed her restlessness. He took her by the arm.
`You might find it interesting on the bridge. I'll switch on the radar.'
Another companionway at the far end of the saloon led up to the compact bridge. Westendorf pointed to a screen, turned on the radar. She gazed at the screen. Blank.
`Nothing will be out on the river tonight,' Westendorf remarked. 'Not in this fog. I will leave the door open so you can hear us. Come back into the saloon when you feel like it…'
He went back down the steps, took a bottle of Laurent Perrier champagne from the fridge. Tweed was relaxing on a comfortable leather banquette next to Kuhlmann. Newman was gazing out of a window. Westendorf handed round glasses, took one to Paula.
`It stimulates the brain cells,' he said when he returned. `At least, that is my excuse. Prost!'
`You made a reference to refugees,' Tweed began. `Have you ever met a Dr Wand?'
`Once.' Westendorf sat down, crossed his long legs. 'A curious man. I didn't like him. He has established a branch of his organization in Germany, another in Denmark. He said he was anxious that only talented refugees who would be an asset to the West should be allowed in. My impression was that he was lying. I said nothing. He went away. End of story.'
`But not end of the refugee story,' Tweed persisted. 'I remember you held strong views as Minister when you attended a meeting of INCOMSIN in London.'
`That is so. There are literally millions of refugees from all over the East – including gypsy hordes – who are waiting on the other side of the Oder-Neisse frontier ready to swarm in on us. They see Western Europe as a treasure-house of good things and if this tidal wave was to come they would destroy Europe's economy. I proposed taking a leaf out of the old Soviet Union's book – when they stopped their citizens fleeing here. They, of course, were very different, more civilized people.'
`Exactly how would it have worked?'
`To put it bluntly, I wanted to create a new death belt from the Baltic to the Adriatic. The refugee masses would be warned illegal crossing was verboten – would be lethal. I wanted a half-mile zone of no passage. Watch- towers on our side with guards armed with swivel-mounted machine-guns. Armed patrols with fierce dogs. And the lacing of the zone with anti-personnel mines. Also warships would patrol the coasts, checking any vessel from the East night and day. I would have saved Europe – but many illegals are now in our midst.'
`Did it occur to you,' Tweed asked, 'that a hostile power might smuggle in saboteurs and spies among the refugees?'
`It did.'
Tweed produced a copy of the photograph of the German coast, the islands, and the River Elbe including Hamburg. Showing it first to Kuhlmann, he then handed it to Westendorf.
`Does that cross marking a location downriver mean anything to you? A village, perhaps?'
`Oh, this must be Neustadt-Something – I forget the exact name. A new colony of houses. Inhabited, so I hear, by macho young executive types who drive Porsches and similar expensive cars. They keep very much to themselves.'
`How recently was the place occupied? The houses sold?'
`A few months ago. I'm not sure when. But recently.'
`I think Otto should have that photo.' Tweed turned to Kuhlmann. 'May I suggest you go nowhere near the place until I give you the signal. Then you raid it before dawn. I know of a similar colony on the south coast of Britain and another near Ghent in Belgium. It will be very important that we all synchronize the raids – to give no time for one lot to warn another.'
`There is a similar and larger development near the west coast of Denmark,' Westendorf commented. 'In Jutland – between the port of Esbjerg and the German frontier. A lonely area – especially in winter.'
`You mean about here,' Tweed suggested, producing another photograph. 'But how do you know about it?'
`Yes, apparently about there where the cross is marked. How do I know? Andover tracked it down. He travelled a lot, posing as a bird-watcher. He was very clever. At my most recent meeting with him in Liege he said this new development in Jutland was still unoccupied, although all the houses had been sold and furnished. He said because it faced the open sea – and Denmark is such a peaceful country – that the headquarters of a frightening subversive organization would be established there soon.'
`I have grim news,' Tweed said. 'Andover is dead – murdered in Liege. And the body of Delvaux's wife, Lucie, was discovered the other day floating in the Meuse. The attack on our way of life is accelerating.'
When he found the Cadillac had disappeared Marler moved fast. The fog lifted long enough over the harbour for him to see Tweed and the others boarding a ship. To his left – beyond the harbour – a stone wall bordered a wide footpath off from a steep green slope.
He ran past the harbour, the Armalite looped over his shoulder. Hoisting himself over the wall, he dropped on to deep soggy grass. He climbed the slope a short distance, turned round, leaning against the trunk of a tree. He was just in time to see the exact position of the motor yacht. Raising the rifle equipped with a night scope, he aimed it above the deck, which then vanished.
Marler settled down to wait, a task he was well accustomed to.
`I am shocked and appalled at this news,' Westendorf said to Tweed. 'Andover was one of the few first-class brains we had in the West. He saw the world globally.'
`And this is a global organization we are up against,' Tweed replied. 'A woman called Hilary Vane was murdered as she had disembarked from a transatlantic flight from Washington. Which could only mean someone at Dulles Airport in Washington had seen her board the flight, had relayed the news to London. One of my own people was nearly killed when an aircraft left Bangkok and blew up in mid-air. Fortunately I warned him to fly a different route at the last moment. Global,' he repeated. `Worldwide.'
Paula was still on the bridge, sipping her champagne. Her eyes were glued alternately to the blank radar screen and the fog hanging over the invisible Elbe.
Only half listening to the conversation in the saloon, she was tense, keyed up. She began concentrating on the fogbound river. She frowned, leaned forward. The fog was swirling, creating strange shapes. Then she saw a vague outline, a faint shape coming towards the Holsten V.
She hammered her glass down on a ledge, turned, and ran down the steps into the saloon.
`Leave this ship!' she shouted. 'Now! Don't hesitate! Move, damn you…!'
Westendorf reacted instantly. He grabbed her round the waist with one arm, used the other to lift up her legs, ran up the exit companionway, stepped swiftly ashore as the cold clammy fog hit him, continued running along the jetty.
Behind them as he carried her up the companionway Paula heard Tweed shouting something, the clatter of footsteps rushing up on deck. Westendorf reached the shore, put her down as the others – Tweed, Kuhlmann and Newman – arrived, breathing hard.
`What the hell…!' Newman began.
