`Yes, do that,' Tweed agreed with a faraway look.
Paula woke up feeling terrible. She gritted her teeth as a wave of nausea swept over her, fought it down, kept her eyes closed. The van had been moving at speed and then it slowed. She peered through half-opened eyes, saw the back of Starmberg perched on a flap seat.
She was stretched out along a leather seat at the front of the vehicle, her head rested on a hard pillow. Moving her right hand very slowly, she found it was pinioned at the wrist with what felt like a strap. Same with the left hand.
She wriggled her feet very cautiously, found that they also were imprisoned by straps. The van was slowing down even more, then stopped. Starmberg glanced round suddenly, realized she was awake. He pressed his large hand over her mouth. With his free hand he produced a wide strip of sticky plaster, plastered it roughly over her mouth, gagging her. She listened.
Conversation outside the van and from the direction of the driver's cab. It was very quiet otherwise. She listened hard. The two voices engaged in conversation sounded to be talking in some Scandinavian language. She thought about hammering her head against the rear of the driver's cab, knew it was hopeless.
Starmberg stood over her, his stance tense. At the first sign of movement on her part he'd probably apply more of the ether. A second dose she could do without. The voices continued, sounded to be joking. There was laughter as the engine was switched on. It began to move forward again.
After a few minutes it accelerated. God, she thought – where the hell are they taking me? How long, roughly, have I been unconscious? She couldn't even guess at the time span. What worried her most was that her captor had not used a blindfold, had let her see his face, so she'd have been able to identify him. What that suggested was chilling.
`I'm going downstairs to have a word with the doorman,' Newman said.
`We should have thought of that before,' Tweed agreed.
It was quite some time after he had received the call from the woman with the muffled voice who might have been Paula. Left alone with Cardon, who sat silently on a couch in the bedroom, Tweed stood gazing out of the window. He stared at the illuminated fountain in the lake Paula had admired.
He stood very still, hands clasped behind his back, showing none of the mounting anxiety he was feeling. He had thought of contacting Kuhlmann, but Newman had objected.
`We have no proof yet that anything has happened to her,' he pointed out. 'No solid proof Kuhlmann would need. And you'd have to tell him about the phone call – and go on to tell him Paula has acted on her own initiative before.'
`I suppose so,' Tweed had said. 'You're right. We must wait a little longer.'
Inside, the waiting was killing him. His sixth sense told him something was dreadfully wrong. He recalled the earlier attempt in Brussels to kidnap her when she had been saved by the intervention of Newman and Nield. But he still couldn't imagine the circumstances under which she might hale been tricked. The atmosphere in the room was hellish.
In the lobby downstairs Newman found a different doorman was on duty, standing on the steps. He walked down as the doorman ran outside to open a taxi door and a young German couple entered the hotel. The night air seemed even more biting.
`Just come on duty, have you?' Newman asked casually.
`Well, Mr Newman, I'm not supposed to be on duty at all. One of our men has disappeared – the man who was supposed to be on duty. He has vanished. A complete mystery.'
`When did this happen?'
`Quite some time ago. And Edgar is always reliable.'
He opened the door again to admit an elderly couple. The husband looked a military type, Newman thought. His wife appeared displeased.
`Really, John, it was hardly worth venturing into the cold. The Reuters seemed to be in a bad mood tonight. And I see that television film lot have gone. Those awful lights…'
`Excuse me,' Newman said, tut when did you see the television crew?'
`You're Robert Newman,' the husband said. 'The foreign correspondent chappie. Often seen. your picture in the newspapers. Not so much recently.'
Normally it would have irritated Newman to be recognized. Now he seized on this familiarity to press his questions.
`This could be very important. How long ago was it when you saw these TV people?'
`I'm Colonel Winterton. My wife, Edith. Oh, it was quite a while ago when we went out. Inter-Vision and Radio. I remember the name on the sides of their vans. In German of course. They were filming a rather violent scene – a girl being dragged into one of the vans. The producer was pleased with himself – said it was the opening shot and you had to grab the audience from the word go.'
`I prefer musicals,' Edith sniffed.
`Can you describe the girl?' Newman requested. `Colour of her hair, roughly her age, how she was dressed?'
`Rather attractive – to a man of your age,' Edith broke in, darting a glance at her husband. 'Late twenties, early thirties. What they call raven-black hair. Slim. She wore a navy blue suit. A calf-level hem – not one of those disgusting miniskirts which makes girls nowadays look undressed. I must say she's a very good actress – it was a frighteningly convincing fight she put up with the two men she was struggling with. Her face had good bone structure.'
`How did you see all this so clearly?' Newman queried. `I must say your description was very precise.' His old reporter's scepticism prompted the question.
`Well!' Edith reared up. 'They had one of those beastly lights shining inside the van and a camera filming the scene. I could see her as clearly as I can see you. Nothing wrong with my eyesight!'
`I'm sure there isn't, and I'm very grateful to you.' He turned to Colonel Winterton. 'Would you mind repeating the name you saw on the sides of the vans?'
`Inter-Vision TV and Radio GmbH – to give it to you in German. Is something wrong?'
`I don't think so.' Newman smiled. 'But I've heard they are working on a secret project and there might be a good story in it. I do a piece occasionally – to keep my hand in. Thanks a lot.'
Edith tugged at her husband's arm. `I'm tired, John. I want to go to our room. The central heating seems to be efficient here…'
Newman waited until they had disappeared into the lobby. The doorman looked at him.
`There is something wrong, isn't there? All this – and Edgar disappearing.'
`I don't think there is for a moment. And there might be a story in it for me.' He handed the doorman a generous tip. 'Good-night…'
`You'd better brace yourself,' Newman said grimly to Tweed as he closed the bedroom door. 'I've just been talking-'
He stopped speaking as the phone rang. Tweed walked swiftly to the phone. He reached out to grab it, then made himself wait while it rang several more times before he lifted the receiver.
`Mr Tweed?' a man's voice asked.
`Speaking. Who is-'
`Shut up and listen! We have Miss Grey-'
`I can't hear you properly. Wait a second…'
Tweed covered the mouthpiece. He looked at Newman, nodded towards the phone.
`Quick! What is it, Bob?'
`They've got Paula. No doubt about it.'
Tweed removed his hand. He banged the mouthpiece against the desktop.
`That's better. Who is this? What did you say-'
`I said shut your bloody trap!' Speaking in English, the voice had a guttural accent. 'We have Miss Grey. If you ever want to see her again resign your public position tonight. You have two hours. If you don't resign you will get her back. In four pieces…' need proof of life. She could be-'
`Resign, I said! Or you'll get proof of death. And don't contact the police. If you do, the result will be the same. We'll know if you've obeyed our instructions. Retire! Now! That's it. Two hours…'
