Knowledge which might come in useful later. It was very cold, very silent.
Near the end of the long alley he paused. To his left there was a cafe, Wirschaft. It was closed, as everywhere else would be now. He had heard footsteps behind him. Slow, cautious footsteps. Whoever he was, the damned fool had metal studs in the soles of his shoes. When he paused he no longer heard the footsteps. He was careful not to look back.
He walked out of the alley and stared ahead in surprise. Ahead was the last thing he had expected to see in the Old City. A weird complex of very modern concrete houses were stepped steeply up the side of a hill. They appeared to be detached residences and were the sort of structures he'd have expected to find in America.
The complex – with houses on either side – was divided into two sections by a long flight of wide concrete steps. Apart from those at street level, you had to climb the steps to reach the houses, which were on different levels. Behind them, higher still, loomed dense tree-clad slopes. He imagined this was the verge of the Black Forest. He could hear the footsteps behind him again, moving more rapidly.
He began climbing the steps quickly. The footsteps hurried now. Suddenly turning round, he looked down. It was the small thin man, wearing an anorak. Marler was almost at the top level. In his right hand his tail carried a gun. Marler smiled.
'What's all this about?'
'We kinda don't like spies.'
'What makes you think I am a spy?'
'Saw you leavin' the Three Kings in Basel. With your friend, Paula Grey.'
'You're not threatening me?' said Marler, still smiling. 'I'm kinda goin' to kill you.'
Marler stared down behind the gunman. It was the oldest trick in the world. He smiled again as though he hadn't a care in the universe.
'I like to know who's pointing a gun at me. You got a name?:
'Bernie Warner. Guess you might as well know the name of the last guy you'll ever see in this world.'
Marler was still staring fixedly behind Bernie. The thug was beginning to notice this. Also the fact that Marler kept smiling bothered him. You don't keep smiling when you're expecting a bullet in the chest. Marler nodded his head.
'Take him, Mike,' he called out.
Bernie swung round, saw there was no one behind him, turned back to shoot. In the two seconds it had taken him to check his rear Marler jumped on to the top step, dived sideways behind a concrete pillar. Crouched down, he found himself hemmed in by a collection of large, filled rubbish sacks with a sheaf of folded spares under his knees. Obviously when it became daylight the dustcart was due.
Jumping up the last few steps, Bernie stopped, swivelled the muzzle of his gun to where Marler crouched. A shot rang out. A red spot like an Eastern caste mark appeared on his forehead. Still gripping the Walther automatic in his hand, Marler watched Bernie collapse backwards, sprawling down the top steps.
Standing tip, he walked down a couple of steps, checked the neck pulse. Nothing. Marler then became very active. He took one of the large spare sacks, walked down the two steps to where Bernie's head rested. He eased the head inside the sack first, then manoeuvred the shoulders inside. He had trouble getting the arms in but he managed it. Then he lifted the sack carefully and the rest of the corpse slithered in, leaving space at the top.
'Lucky he was a small man,' Marler said to himself.
He used a handkerchief to pick up Bernie's Beretta pistol, which still had his fingerprints on it, then dropped it into the sack. He next went back to the piled sacks, opened one, took out rubbish, stuffed it inside Bernie's sack. Fastening it, he heaved it over his shoulders, dumped it with the other sacks awaiting collection. His last precaution was to use his handkerchief to remove the few spots of blood on the steps.
For the third time he glanced quickly round the concrete villas No sign of lights, of life. It would be daylight soon. If anyone had heard the shot they'd probably thought it was a car backfiring.
He hurried down the steps. At the bottom he turned left and soon saw a main highway. He guessed that would to the route they'd take when they left Freiburg. Then he saw what he was looking for – a street drain.
Screwing up the blood-stained handkerchief, he pushed it down into the drain. He had once bought it while in Berlin, as one of a set. There was no way it could be traced back to him.
Turning back, he walked down Munzgasse to the hotel. He entered by the door leading into the restaurant.
Five of the thugs were still seated in their booth – with the thin man Marler had picked out as the boss. Then he, recalled Keith Kent's description of the man with Ronstadt in the Zurcher Kredit Bank. A tall thin man with a hard, thin bony face. The description fitted. And Newman had identified him as Vernon Kolkowski. Vernon had two empty steins in front of him and was halfway through a third. He was glowering when Marler walked in. His expression changed to one of disbelief when he saw Marler.
'Goodnight,' said Marler as he passed close to their table. 'Or, rather, good morning.'
Vernon's glower returned. He said nothing as Marler walked on, went up the curving staircase to his room. As soon as he was inside, the door relocked, Marler sat on his bed. He took from his pocket the small mobile, pressed numbers without consulting the piece of paper Tweed had provided with the number of the Colombi. When the night operator came on he asked to be put through to Tweed.
`Marler here. There were twelve little black men. Now there are eleven. And I'm coming to the Colombi – to attach another tracking gizmo to Ronstadt's Audi. Earlier in Basel he had a Citroen.'
'Thank you for keeping me informed…'
Tweed, still up, making notes on a pad, knew what Marler had meant. The twelve men in black Audis had now been reduced to eleven.
34
The repercussions of Marler's encounter with Bernie Warner were far more widespread than he could ever have anticipated. Jake Ronstadt, unable to sleep in his luxurious bedroom at the Colombi, was still up long after a grey and gloomy dawn light had spread over Freiburg. He sat in a chair, wearing an oriental dressing gown with dragons rampant. He was trying to make up his mind whether to move on to Hollental that day, or whether to wait for twenty-four hours.
On the one hand he was very short of time. On the other he knew his troops were fatigued, and by no means at their fighting best. The short, barrel-chested figure wedged in the armchair was also not in good shape. The fact that he had been drinking generous slugs of the precious bourbon he kept in a hip flask had not helped.
He'd had a shock earlier when, hidden in the bar, he'd seen Tweed, Newman and Paula Grey sitting with Sharon and Sir Guy. Where were Tweed's other men? He'd expected they would all head for the Schwarzwalder Hof. They appeared to have split into two forces, which worried him.
He was helping himself to another slug of bourbon when his phone rang. He clambered out of his chair, picked up the instrument.
'Yeah?'
'It's Vernon, Chief. We have a problem.'
'That I could do without. What problem? Spit it out.'
'Bernie has gone missin' – we've looked everywhere and he's just gone…'
'I don't believe you!' Ronstadt yelled down the phone.
'He has to be with you. Goddamn it, he's the printer. I need him as a double-check.'
'I don't get that.'
'You're not supposed to. What the hell are you talkie' about?' he raved. 'Maybe you'll get around to tellin' me what's goin' on.'
'Give me a chance, Chief. We're eatin' in the restaurant here. Bernie recognized one of Tweed's men. Saw him comin' out of the Three Kings place. I thought it was a good moment to cut down the opposition. This guy goes for a walk in the night, I send Bernie after him. The guy comes back! About half an hour later. Bernie never comes back.'
'You shouldn't have sent Bernie, you friggin' idiot.' 'He was the one who recognized him.'
