coffee. But seeing the time when you looked at your watch made me realize I was behind schedule. Another time?'
'Yes, please,' Eve said in a whisper. She ran a hand through her hair slowly, her eyes half-closed as she stared at him. 'I get so lonely.'
'I do understand. There is always another time,' Tweed assured her.
Paula and Newman collected their coats from the concierge who then helped Tweed put on his heavy overcoat. As they went outside and Tweed turned right Paula asked her question.
'What appointment? Or was she moving in too close for comfort?'
'An appointment with a walk so I can think. We could be close to discovering something important – even the key to the mystery.'
As they walked uphill and along the deserted street called Blumenrain Tweed told them about his conversation with Cord Dillon. They passed a short side-street which, Newman pointed out, led to the landing point for the strange little ferry shuttling back and forth across the Rhine. Another narrow street of ancient buildings continued on parallel to the river. Totentanz. Tweed stopped briefly in the piercing wind to look at the different dates. 1215.1195.1175.
'One of the oldest cities in Europe,' he commented.
'It's early Middle Ages,' Paula added.
The wind dropped suddenly and it became very silent and still. Paula's mood changed to one of premonition. The narrow street was still deserted – they were the only people walking in the silence.
The ancient stone houses were tall and slim, all joined together to form an endless wall. Each house had a heavy wooden door flush with the wall and she had the feeling no one lived there. The old pavement was very narrow, so narrow they moved in single file.
Tweed, hands deep inside his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, was in front. Paula followed on his heels while Newman brought up the rear. It was like a city abandoned by the inhabitants who had fled from the plague. Creepy.
The sun had vanished. The sky was a low ceiling of grey clouds which suggested snow. It did nothing to dispel Paula's premonition of imminent doom. Do pull yourself together, she thought. At that moment she heard the car coming ahead of them, the first vehicle they'd seen since starting out on their walk. It's the time of day, she reassured herself – mid-afternoon in March and most people inside offices at work…
Tweed had stopped, put out a hand to grasp her arm as he searched desperately for a protective alcove to thrust her into. Newman had no time to whip out his Smith amp; Wesson. Racing towards them on the opposite side of the street was a large grey Volvo. The driver wore a helmet and goggles. Newman had a glimpse of other men inside the car as it swerved across towards them, mounted their pavement, hurtled forward like a torpedo.
Nowhere to run. They were hemmed in by the wall of houses. It was going to mow them down, drive on over their bodies. Tweed grasped Paula round the waist, prepared to try and throw her out of the way across the street. He doubted whether he'd manage it. The Volvo was almost on top of them. The driver wearing the sinister goggles accelerated. They were dead.
The white Mercedes appeared out of nowhere, rocketing down the street from the same direction the Volvo had appeared. It drew alongside the Volvo. The driver swung his wheel over, his brakes screeched as he stopped just before he hit the wall.
The Volvo, unable to stop, slammed into the side of the Mercedes. Four uniformed policemen, guns in their hands, left the Mercedes as it rocked under the impact. As three of them leapt to the doors of the Volvo, guns aimed, the fourth man waved as he grinned at Tweed, waved again for him to go away.
'Back to the Drei Konige,' Tweed said, his arm round Paula, who was shaking like a leaf in the wind.
29
In a state of shock, no one spoke until the Drei Konige came into sight. Tweed was the first to recover. He glanced at Paula. The colour had returned to her face. They could talk now.
'That was Beck who saved us,' he said. 'He told me he was carrying out a sweep of the whole city.'
'But it was sheer luck that unmarked police car turned up in the nick of time,' Newman objected.
'Organized luck. Don't stare at him,' Tweed warned, 'but see that man standing near the bridge over the Rhine? Note he's carrying a walkie-talkie by his side, that from where he's standing he would see us leaving the hotel. He was standing there when we started out on our walk. Obviously he radioed to Beck at HQ. So now the question is – who signalled to the opposition that we were staying here, maybe even reported when we were leaving for the stroll?'
Pushing his way through the revolving door, he noticed the concierge had gone off duty. A girl he had not seen before was on duty behind the counter. He leaned on the counter as he asked for the key, waited until she handed it to him.
'You have an English friend of mine staying here – or you will have. Has he arrived yet? A Mr Gregory Gaunt?'
'Oh yes, sir. Mr Gaunt checked in early this morning. Do you want me to see if he's in his room now?'
'Don't bother him, thank you. I'm going up to have a rest. I'll surprise him at dinner.'
'So Gaunt has been here for quite several hours,' Tweed remarked as they entered the elevator.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon in Basle when Tweed narrowly escaped with his life.
In Washington it was nine o'clock in the morning. Bradford March had a black stubble all over his jaw and upper lip. Which told Sara Maranoff that neither Ms Hamilton nor any other attractive woman would be visiting the President in the Oval Office today.
When she had bad news she always tried to tell March in the morning. He was fresher then and less inclined to react viciously. Standing by the window, March glanced at her, scratched with his thumbnail at his stubble. He had guessed from her expression that something he didn't want to hear was coming.
'Go on, spit it out, Sara,' he snapped.
'Tom Harmer, who contributed a sizeable proportion of the big bucks you sent to Europe by courier, has been on the phone.'
'So Tom wants what?' he demanded.
'The money he gave you back. Apparently a large loan he took out has been called in. Needs the money back inside fourteen days.'
'Does he now.' March hitched up his pants and smiled unpleasantly. 'You've got those photos of Tom screwing that bimbo – use one of them. Tom's wife would find them interesting souvenirs on her coming wedding anniversary.'
'You mean send one to her? Brad, that will get you no place.'
'Slept badly last night, did you? Wake up, Sara. I mean you send a copy – choose a good one yourself – to his office marked for his confidential and personal attention. Soon as it's arrived call him. Ask him how he likes his picture. Then tell him the money he gave was a contribution to party funds, can't be sent back.'
'I think he's desperate, Brad. He has to repay that loan or he's in deep trouble.'
That's his problem. Handle it the way I told you.'
Sara, her black hair perfectly coiffured, wore a plain grey dress belted at the waist. As long as she looked neat she never bothered much about clothes. March's 'hatchet' woman from his early days of obscurity in the South, she tried to watch every angle to protect her boss. She bit on the end of her pen, decided to take the plunge.
'I hear a team of Unit One has returned from Europe, a large team. At your request to Norton, I presume.'
'So what?' March demanded impatiently.
'I didn't know they were taking over the duties of the Secret Service. You never consulted me.'
It was a tradition that the President's safety was in the sole hands of the Secret Service. They sent men ahead to any destination the President was flying to, checking out the lie of the land in advance, with full powers to override the local police. They were professionals to their fingertips.
