Chanel tie and carried an expensive brief-case.
Once aboard the executive jet and settled in his seat he heard the engines starting up. An attractive stewardess brought him a glass of champagne and he leaned back to enjoy himself. The pilot had earlier filed a flight plan for Schiphol Airport near Amsterdam.
The flight took less than an hour. Landing at Schiphol, the passenger left the machine and stepped into a waiting limo. It drove him to the best hotel in the city where he alighted while the chauffeur, who had collected his case which had been aboard the jet before he'd arrived, handed it to a porter.
He registered at the desk. Victor Rondel. Once alone in his suite he noted with satisfaction a bottle of champagne waiting in an ice bucket. He went into the bathroom, locked the door.
Removing the blond wig carefully, he exposed thick dark hair. He checked the time. Have a sleep here first, he decided, then a good dinner downstairs. When it was nightfall he would leave the hotel and wander down a certain street Amsterdam was famous for. Beautiful girls, wearing very little, would be sitting in showcase windows. He would take his time selecting the one he preferred.
Earlier, back at Heathrow, the other passenger who had alighted from the helicopter strode across the field towards his terminal, carrying an ordinary case. He wore a beret and a dark overcoat as he stepped it out. When the passenger trolley returned from the jet he climbed aboard and was transported to the terminal. He showed his passport in the name of Rene Pinaud and was just in time to board his next flight.
It was a boring trip of about fifty minutes to his destination. Glancing now and then out of the window he saw nothing but a sea of cloud. He refused all refreshments. When the plane landed he was among the first off. After passing swiftly through the formalities he climbed inside a company car waiting for him. It drove him to the area for private planes and he boarded the twelve-passenger Gulfstream private jet. Its interior had been luxuriously refurbished and he sank with relief into a leather armchair. The male steward in a fresh white uniform approached him. He spoke in German.
'Would sir like something to drink?'
'Just a brandy,' the passenger replied in the same language. 'Also a bottle of mineral water. Flying dehydrates…'
When the steward returned, his passenger had removed the beret he had worn pulled down tightly over his head. He took out a mirror and combed his blond hair.
'Something to eat also, sir?' the steward enquired.
'Nothing, Hans. A meal will be waiting for me when we get there. ..'
He glanced out of the window and again saw nothing except a sea of cloud. Alone, he took out a special mobile phone – special because it had a device which made interception impossible and was safe to use in flight. He pressed a series of numbers. At the other end a voice said 'Yes?' in German.
'Rondel speaking. I'll land in about a half-hour. I have to say the situation is building up dangerously. They are assembling formidable-'
'I prefer you to wait until you have arrived…'
There was a click and Rondel realized the connection had been broken. The voice had been, as always, authoritative but without a trace of arrogance. It had spoken slowly and each word was exceptionally clear. It was the voice of a very remarkable brain.
The sun came out as they were crossing the coast and Rondel concentrated on gazing down at the rippling blue of the Baltic Sea. On the mainland he had a glimpse of Travemunde and then it was nothing but blue sea.
The Gulfstream was losing height and he stared down for a sight of the island. Berg Insel – or Mountain Island- was located well clear of all shipping routes, a private fastness. The plane lost more height and he caught his first glimpse. A sloping mountain peak reared up at its centre.
On the southern side sheer granite cliffs fell into the Baltic – the harbour and runway were on the northern shore.
As the machine dropped even lower he saw at the summit of the mountain the lighthouse which always functioned as dusk fell, or when fog covered the island in daylight. A short distance below it he saw the tall stone chimney-like edifice that housed the most advanced scientific system in the world.
'I still can't reach the man I must see,' Lisa protested. 'I have called several times and he's always out.'
'Whoever it is, you must persist,' Herb advised.
They were were eating lunch in an isolated room behind the bar at The Hangman's Noose. Herb was doing his best to calm her down but without much success.
'I have persisted, damnit,' Lisa snapped, banging down her fork.
'Have you an address?' Herb enquired.
'Yes, I have.'
'Is he the sort of man you can just call on, then?'
'No, I don't think so. I should make an appointment.'
'Then do that when you can.'
'Don't you think I have tried time and again? Seeing Delgado prowling round was the last straw.' She had raised her voice. 'Something very violent is being planned…'
She stopped speaking. The door from the bar had opened and a man stood looking at them. Delgado. Lisa reached under her jacket, gripped the Beretta behind her belt. The giant walked in closer.
'Heard my name. What you two doing?'
'This is a private room,' Herb said.
'What you two doing?' repeated Delgado, coming closer.
Behind him Millie rushed into the room, dashed into the kitchen, came out with a large rolling pin in her hand. Her face was very red. She brandished the rolling pin.
'Get out. Get back to the other side of the bar. Then get back out of the pub before I smash your stupid skull in, you scum.'
She seemed larger than Lisa had thought her to be. The giant took a step back, then another as Millie followed him. She yelled at him at the top of her voice. He ran back through the door, leapt to the other side of the bar. Herb was on his feet, just behind Millie. Delgado glared at him.
'Your place will be first to go up in flames…'
Then he rushed to the outer door, knocking over a table as he passed it. Customers' beer was spilt over the floor and he was gone.
'Sorry, gentlemen,' Herb said calmly. 'Ad too much, he 'ad. What he knocked over was lager. More comin' up. On the 'ouse…'
He closed the door to the room, leaving Lisa inside. She picked up a phone and pressed numbers. She was breathing heavily and held her throat when the same woman answered and she asked for Tweed, giving her name.
'He's here now. Sony you've had so much trouble…'
'Tweed here. Who is this?'
'Lisa. We met yesterday at Lord Barford's party. Do you remember me?'
'Of course I do. You wanted to come and see me about something.'
Herb had come into the room. He was carrying a pail and a cloth he'd used to clean up the spilt lager. He paused, unsure if she wanted privacy. She smiled at him, went on talking.
'If I could come at six o'clock? It will be dark then and might be safer.'
'Safer from what?'
'Mr Tweed, large organized gangs of refugeees are prowling the city, choosing the places which will be targets when they start devastating riots. I don't think they're ready yet but I can point out the targets they've chosen so far.'
'Are you sure about this?'
'I've seen them with my own eyes. It's a huge operation and, at the moment, covers London from the West End to the East End. Have you a few men, tough men, you could bring with you? Just in case.'
'I think we might handle that problem, but first, could you get here at, say, 5.30 p.m. so we can have a chat? You have the address.'
'I'll be there at 5.30 on the dot. Don't be surprised how I'm dressed.'
'I'll look forward to seeing you…'
