was wondering – what do we do now about Westendorf?'
`Nothing. And you really must, if I may suggest it, rid yourself of this habit of wondering. As you have raised the matter I will explain briefly. Westendorf was not a complete success and for some months he will undoubtedly be heavily guarded. After some time has passed we may eliminate him.' Wand leaned forward into the light thrown by his desk lamp, the sole illumination. His expression was unpleasant but he spoke in his normal detached tone.
`Concentrate your mind now, Jules, on Miss Grey. I will not tolerate another fiasco. She must be in Denmark before midnight – I repeat, before midnight.'
Before leaving Blankenese Tweed had given Marler orders via Newman to drive immediately with his team across the Danish frontier. That left him only Paula, Newman, and Cardon to accompany him to Copenhagen. He felt sure it would be more than enough.
He had a stroke of luck when they arrived back at the Four Seasons. Saying goodbye to Westendorf, who drove off in his limo, he climbed the steps and the first person he saw was Willie Fanshawe.
`Leave me alone with him,' he whispered to Paula and Newman.
`I say! Am I glad to see you,' Willie began. 'Hate being on my own. Look, we're only three paces from the Sambri bar. Be a good chap. Join me in a glass of champers. Bit early for a sundowner, but what the hell. Oh, your friends have gone off. They'd have been more than welcome…'
`They had an appointment,' Tweed said, edging his way into the flood of words which went on.
`Well, we can have just a man-to-man conversation. I love the ladies, God bless 'em, but sometimes it makes a change to have a nice chat on our own. Champers, of course!'
Tweed reluctantly agreed. They were already inside the empty bar under Wilie's enthusiastic impetus. He ordered two glasses from the barman and they sat down on the banquette furthest from the door.
`What's happened to Brigadier Burgoyne?' Tweed asked casually as he raised his glass, took a sip., put down the glass.
`Oh, the Brig.'s off haggling over some little deal, I'm sure. He loves it. Always on parade, is his motto. What he doesn't love is the present state of England.'
`Indeed? What's wrong with it?'
`Everything…' Willie became emphatic. 'According to the Brig. No self-discipline any more. Morale has collapsed. The welfare state has undermined the strong fibre we were once noted for. Everyone's holding their hands out for a freebie. They have a slight headache and rush to the doctor because it's supposed to be something for nothing. According to the Brig., that is. Half the country wants to be nannied. The young, instead of struggling to make a career on their own, want it all handed to them on a plate. And now the cranks want to break up the old UK into separate bits. A good dose of iron government is what is needed – so the Brig. thinks. Shock treatment is the only answer, he keeps saying.'
`I suppose it's his military background,' Tweed suggested.
`That's another thing! Conscription should be introduced again. That would instil some discipline into these louts who bang old ladies over the head to grab a few pounds. And often for what? To finance their beastly drug habit. Very hot on that, is the Brig.'
`And what do you think?' Tweed enquired.
Willie beamed. 'Have another glass. I'm going to…'
`I haven't finished my present drink, thank you.'
Tweed felt sure this was Willie's second visit to the Sambri bar this morning. His face was even more flushed than usual as he ordered a fresh glass for himself.
'My view?' Willie pursed his wide mouth. 'The Brig. does rather go over the top. Up Guards and at 'em. But he was a brilliant soldier, so I just listen. Not much choice once he gets going. A real martinet. But there's never a dull moment when he's around.'
`He's staying on in Hamburg for a while?'
`Never can tell with him. He's like the proverbial grasshopper. We could be off to Vienna at the drop of a hat. The Brig.'s hat.' Willie chuckled, drank some more champagne. 'What about you?'
'My programme is vague. Depends on how events unfold. I hope you'll excuse me. I also have an appointment…'
It was a very thoughtful Tweed who went up to his room.
`There's your chance, Bob,' Paula said after they had left Tweed and wandered into the lobby. 'Tweed said get next to Helen – and there she is. Looking this way and practically sending out a siren call to you. I'm going to get a bath. Have fun…'
Helen Claybourne, seated on a couch, was writing in a notebook with her large elegant fountain-pen. She tucked the cap over the nib and gave Newman her cool smile as he sat beside her.
'Unless you're busy,' he suggested.
'Very glad not to be.' She'd closed her notebook with a snap. 'Willie has the wildest schemes for making money. I spend half my time persuading him not to invest in some hare-brained scheme. He's a sucker for con-men – unlike Maurice. You wouldn't get a penny out of the Brigadier until he'd interrogated you into the ground.'
Helen looked smart as paint, as always. She wore a grey pleated skirt which ended just above her shapely knees. A well-cut grey jacket hugged her figure and underneath she was clad in a white blouse with a high- necked collar.
Perched in a corner of the couch, she tucked her legs under her like a cat and turned to face Newman. She flicked a speck of cigarette ash off his lapel and stared straight at him with appraising eyes as she asked the question.
`Just what are you up to, Mr Newman? You seem to be on the go most of the time. I saw you leave earlier about nine with Paula and Tweed. Are you after a juicy story? Or shouldn't I ask?' she teased him.
`We've been exploring Hamburg, taking in one business call. You're staying on here?'
`God knows. Maurice is talking of moving on to Copenhagen. Do you know a decent hotel there?'
`The d'Angleterre,' Newman said promptly.
`Maybe we could have lunch?' she suggested, her eyes still holding his. 'I suppose you do know nowadays it's not thought too forward for the woman to chase the man?'
`We might do that – have lunch. If we can avoid Willie and the Brigadier.'
`Talk of the devil, here comes Maurice. Save me from a fate worse than death.'
Burgoyne, spruce in a check sports jacket, navy blue trousers, hand-made brogues, and with a crimson cravat at his neck, pulled up a chair. Sitting in it very erect he tugged at his moustache and gazed at both of them.
`Hope I'm not intruding – or are you beginning to start an affair?'
`I live in hope,' Newman replied in a neutral tone.
Helen's reaction was savage. She straightened up, leaned forward. Her grey eyes blazed and her tone was venomous.
`That's an outrageous suggestion. You'd do well to watch your tongue. You're not in the Army now. Bad manners in the officers' mess don't go down well in these surroundings.'
Did I drop a great big boulder in the pond?' Burgoyne asked ironically. 'It was a joke. You do know the word, Helen? Spelt j-o-k-e.'
'In the worst possible taste,' Helen fumed.
'Anyone for coffee?' Burgoyne enquired, quite unperturbed.
'I thought you were going to say anyone for tennis,' Helen continued her onslaught. 'You do realize that half the time you talk like old China hands back in Hong Kong – language thirty years out of date?'
Newman noticed a flash of fury in Burgoyne's eyes at the phrase 'old China hands'. It lasted only for a second. Burgoyne continued to be anything but conciliatory.
`I suspect I touched a raw nerve with my use of the word affair. You really must learn to conduct these things more circumspectly.'
`And you,' Helen told him, 'might learn not to butt in where you're not wanted. Half the time, back in the New Forest, you're dragging Willie and I off somewhere we don't want to go. Or hadn't you caught on?'
`Willie,' Burgoyne observed, 'will tag on to go anywhere – provided someone else is paying for the drinks, food, and accommodation.'
`For a pseudo-Brigadier you have a crude way of expressing yourself,' Helen rapped back. She looked at
