Jaegersborg Alle. Painted on the outside was the name of an interior decoration firm: just the sort of vehicle which might be parked in this wealthy district while a team refurbished one of the elegant rooms inside a villa.
A rather different team occupied the interior of the van. Equipped with large windows made of one-way glass, very unusual equipment for an interior decorator was arranged inside. Long-distance video cameras were aimed at the entrance to No. 988.
They had already recorded the arrival of Dr Wand earlier, driving his own limo. One camera had taken close- up pictures as Wand's heavily built figure had climbed out to open the gate, prior to driving the limo down the short distance into a garage with electronic doors operated by remote control.
Ulf Kilde, leader of the three-man Police Intelligence undercover team, used a high-powered transmitter to report back to Inspector Nielsen at intervals. In case Wand left the villa to drive to a fresh destination Kilde had a back-up vehicle parked in a nearby side street.
This vehicle was quite a contrast to the gleaming white van. It was battered old Fiat with a souped-up engine. Kilde was in touch with the waiting driver by radio.
`Still no sign of activity,' Kilde reported to HQ. 'The villa looks unoccupied – all the shutters are closed. But our friend is definitely inside…'
During the early morning of that day Newman, behind the wheel of a black Mercedes supplied by Kuhlmann, had driven north from Hamburg through pleasant countryside towards the ancient Hanseatic town of Lubeck. His ultimate objective was to board one of the huge car ferries at the Puttgarden terminal on the edge of the Baltic.
`Tweed has fallen asleep,' remarked Cardon, referring to their passenger in the back.
`Thank God for that,' Newman replied. 'He's exhausted with worrying about Paula. I can understand that.'
Both men could not have been more wrong. Tweed had his eyes closed but his brain was racing. Mentally he checked over what he must do when he reached Nielsen's HQ in Copenhagen.
Nielsen would have a scrambler. The first priority was to contact Commander Noble at the Admiralty in London. Tweed hoped to heaven Noble had managed to dispatch one of Delvaux's advanced radar systems to Tug Wilson, commander of the missile-armed frigate Minotaur patrolling the North Sea.
Perhaps an equal priority was to try and call Marler at the Tonder phone number he'd transmitted to them at Berliner Tor. What were the chances that Marler's team could trace the unspeakable Dr Hyde in time? He coughed so as not to startle Newman.
`Bob, did you say Helen Claybourne told you the Burgoyne Quartet, as Paula nicknamed them, might be moving on to Copenhagen?'
`Yes. And, I told her we'd be staying at the d'Angleterre. I hope I did the right thing?'
`You did. If those four turn up again I will be pleased beyond expression.'
`Why? They're a peculiar crowd.'
`Why?' Tweed repeated. 'Because among other targets I want to get my hands on Vulcan.'
`And you think either Fanshawe or Burgoyne is Vulcan?'
`I don't think. I'm convinced of it. And that devil is a key figure in Wand's plans – according to what you told us, Philip.'
`He is,' Cardon confirmed. 'My source was a mint one.' `Wake me when we're coming into Lubeck for breakfast,' requested Tweed.
He closed his eyes again but sleep wouldn't come. He kept recalling what Fieldway, the MOD officer, had told him about Burgoyne. The Brigadier had disappeared for some four months while fighting on the battlefield in Korea. Vanished off the face of the earth, was the phrase Fieldway had used. Then Burgoyne had suddenly reappeared. An odd business, that.
Tweed's mind changed gear. He was also convinced that either Helen Claybourne or Lee Holmes was a professional assassin. He had witnessed the first killing of Hilary Vane, coming off the Washington flight at London Airport. Cyanosis.
The same woman – whoever it was – had killed a cab driver in Brussels to steal his cab. Cyanosis. And the smell of a perfume. Guerlain Samsara. The same woman had driven down Sir Gerald Andover in Liege. And had probably killed Joseph Mordaunt. Cyanosis. Yes, he hoped that the Burgoyne Quartet turned up at the d'Angleterre.
At the tip of the German island of Fehmarn, at Puttgarden, Newman drove the Mercedes inside the giant maw of the huge ferry. Arriving early, he had positioned himself at the head of the vehicle queue. Parking next to the side of the lowest deck, he switched off the engine.
`I think I'll stay with the Merc.,' Cardon said. 'Then I can make sure no one tampers with it. I'll tuck myself inside that alcove.
Thirty minutes later, Tweed stood alongside Newman on the main deck near the prow. He had taken a Dramamine after eating breakfast in ancient Lubeck, a town he loved out of season. The massive ferry moved out into the Baltic in the face of a strong wind. Large surf-tipped waves rolled towards them.
`You usually stay inside,' Newman commented. 'It's going to he a rough crossing.'
`I need the fresh air to keep my brain moving…'
Sunk deep in thought, the passage seemed over in a flash to Tweed. They drove off at Rodby and were in Denmark.
Still sunk deep in thought, the car drive to Copenhagen also passed in a flash for Tweed. They drove past the old pre-First World War railway station and into a part of Copenhagen few tourists ever visited.
Following Tweed's instructions, they drove past the grim and grey triangular building which is police headquarters. They turned on to Hambrosgade, a long wide anonymous street running past one side of the triangular building. Newman stared when Tweed pointed to a collection of single-storey wooden cabins.
`Nielsen works here. Park.'
Newman gazed at a very long cabin built of wooden planks and painted bright red. The legend on the side read KRIMINAL POLITIET. Cardon said again he would stay with the Merc. as Newman followed Tweed, who walked up to the door, pressed the bell. Inspector Lars Nielsen, Chief of Police Intelligence, opened the door himself.
`Welcome to Copenhagen, Tweed. And I recognize you,' he said, studying Newman. 'The foreign correspondent. Come inside. Everything is happening.'
Nielsen was a small thin-faced Dane with strong features and alert blue eyes which seemed to look inside you. The office he led them into was comfortably furnished, to Newman's surprise.
`How did you come to be expecting me?' Tweed asked after a warm shaking of hands.
`Otto Kuhlmann phoned me, estimated very accurately when you would arrive. You have to phone him urgently. That phone is scrambler. You'd both like coffee? Good. Have you eaten? Good. I'll be back. Make your call…'
`Kuhlmann here. Ah, Tweed. Where are you speaking from? You've arrived at Nielsen's log cabin? Marler called me. You should call him now. You have the number? Do it now. Call me back whenever I can help
…'
Tweed dialled the number in Tonder. He prepared himself to speak carefully to the hotel proprietor. Marler came straight on to the line.
`I'm speaking from my lodging house,' he warned.
Marler had no reason to think his landlady, Mrs Pedersen, now working behind a closed door in the kitchen, was listening in. But he was still going to be careful what he said.
`I'm with Nielsen in Copenhagen,' Tweed replied. `Have you discovered any sign of our missing package?'
Tweed held his breath. Package wasn't a very flattering way of referring to Paula, but he also was being cautious.
`No,' Marler told him bluntly. 'And we've had a delay over finding transport for Butler and Nield. I had to drive them to Avis in Esbjerg – the locals call it Espay, something like that. Both Nield and Butler are trying to locate our friendly doctor. Butler is the one likely to do the job.'
`There isn't much time left,' Tweed reminded him. `From now on you can get in touch with me either through Nielsen or at the Hotel d'Angleterre in Copenhagen. As soon as events dictate, I expect to arrive in Jutland
