Rhinoceros

'It is.'

'I do my homework. I know quite a lot about you. I'm not referring to that smokescreen you put up – a negotiator in an insurance company specializing in covering wealthy people against the contingency of their being kidnapped. You are the Deputy Director of the SIS.'

'If you say so.'

'Mr Tweed, I'd like us to meet. At a convenient – to you – destination on the Continent. At a time convenient to you.'

'Before I considered agreeing I'd have to know the subject you propose discussing.'

'Of course.' The voice chuckled. 'I can see why you hold the position you do. The subject is what steps we can take to prevent the collapse of the West. I refer to the recent riots aimed at destabilizing the present system. I want to find out who is organizing them, who is paying a lot of money to finance this very dangerous onslaught on our way of life.'

'Can you give me a number where I can call you?'

'Ah!' Another chuckle. 'The trouble is, I travel about a lot. Sometimes I don't know where I shall be myself tomorrow! May I call you again soon?'

'Please do. And thank you for contacting me…'

Tweed put down his phone, looked at Keith Kent who was drinking a third cup of coffee.

'Ever heard of a man called Rondel?'

'No, I haven't.'

'Was that really him on the phone?' Paula asked.

'It was.'

'What did he sound like?'

'Able, quick-witted, humorous, very pleasant. I'd say he has a very strong personality.' He transferred his gaze back to Kent. 'You were telling us about Rhinoceros. How does he operate?'

'In great secrecy. He lives somewhere in a secluded base

– its location unknown.'

'You mean like Howard Hughes, the American millionaire who stayed locked up and guarded away from the world. A hermit?'

'Not at all. He travels about a lot. Always using a pseudonym – a different one each time. He uses commercial flights a lot, sometimes travelling Club Class, sometimes Economy. Never First Class. I've picked up that much about his habits and no more.'

'Is Rhinoceros honest? I did ask you how he operates.'

'He operates just like the Frankenheims of long ago- as the Rothschilds sometimes did. He rarely gives a loan. Very rich people trust his bank. They deposit huge sums of money there, knowing it will be safe. He charges a stiff fee but they don't care. They pay for peace of mind. Is he honest? He's the most trustworthy banker in the world. Which is why I'm staggered at what I've discovered.'

'Which is?'

'Huge amounts of laundered money, source unknown, are passing through the Zurcher Kredit. I can't believe it, but it is so.'

'Doesn't sound like the portrait of Rhinoceros you painted.'

'It goes against all his principles. Clever accountancy is covering up what's happening. I stumbled on it. That's all I know.'

'And as regards who is financing these worldwide riots?'

'Can't help you. I'll keep looking.'

'One more question. How much is the Zurcher Kredit worth?'

'Eighy billion dollars. More than Microsoft…'

CHAPTER 11

'M. Bleu', as he was known to a small circle of French security, already responsible for the murders of Jason Schulz in Washington and Jeremy Mordaunt at Alfriston, fiddled with his motorcycle, perched by the kerb a short distance from the Elysee in Paris.

He gave the impression he was repairing his high-powered machine. Tall and slim, he appeared to be more heavily built, clad in black leather trousers and jacket, his crash helmet pulled well down over his head. From under his visor he kept glancing at the exit from the Elysee, official residence of the French President.

He was waiting for the appearance of Louis Lospin, chief aide to the Prime Minister and his most confidential adviser. Walking towards him was a Frenchman, a mechanic by trade. He stopped by the motorcyclist, offered to help.

'Merdel' Bleu snarled the insulting response.

The mechanic shrugged, resumed his stroll. You couldn't even offer to help some people. Behind him M. Bleu glanced up as a car emerged from the Elysee courtyard. He noted the number plate. It was Louis Lospin's car. He pulled his visor down further, straddled his machine which started as soon as he turned the key. He began to follow the car at a discreet distance.

Lospin's car followed the same route it had taken the previous day. When it eventually pulled up in front of an apartment building in the select district of Neuilly, the motorcyclist stopped, parked by the kerb, watched.

In his left hand he held a stopwatch. He was checking the exact time it took Lospin to emerge from his car, climb the steps to the front door. He also noticed the chauffeur who had driven the car moved off quickly, as he had done before. Lospin was taking out his key to open the front door when the car vanished at speed round a bend. The same routine as yesterday.

M. Bleu was infinitely thorough in his preparations, tracking his target day by day, looking for a pattern, a routine. It was only when he had discovered one, had checked the timing by his stopwatch, located an escape route, that he decided he could approach his victim, do what had to be done quickly, then vanish.

What he didn't know was that at Interpol, situated inside a fortress building in a city a long way from Paris, there was a file on M. Bleu. In his tiny office inside the building Pierre Marin was examining his copy of the file. The French embassies in Washington and London had wired data on their subject to Interpol.

Why? Because the French never stop worrying. They didn't know of any connection between Schulz and Mordaunt, but they suspected there was one. So did Marin. He had read the file very slowly three times, even though there was very little data. Tweed would have appreciated Marin.

Eventually Marin decided this man did not concern him or his country. French security was too tight. Germany was the next likely target. He scribbled a note in French on the last page. Not for us, could be for you. He then told an assistant to send a copy of the file by courier to Otto Kuhlmann, chief of the Federal Police in Germany.

Kuhlmann, a quick-witted man, read the file once, read the comment Marin had scrawled on the last page. Taking out a pen he scribbled through the comment, wrote one word next to it. Dummkopf. Which is the German word for 'idiot'.

On the same day, at Park Crescent, Tweed received a call from his old friend and sparring partner, Superintendent Roy Buchanan. At times they agreed, then disagreed, but Buchanan was probably the most efficient detective in Britain.

'Come over, now if you want,' Tweed suggested.

'That's me knocking on your door. I've something to show you.'

No more than fifteen minutes later he walked into the office, carrying a large cardboard-backed envelope. In his forties, Buchanan was a tall, lean-faced, lean-bodied man. His hair was dark brown and below his long nose was a neat moustache of the same colour. His eyes were shrewd, swept round the room at its occupants, all of whom he knew. Monica, Paula, behind her desk, Newman in an armchair and Marler, leaning against a wall.

'I've left Sergeant Warden downstairs,' he remarked.

Tweed invited him to sit down and Monica bustled out to fetch coffee. A stranger's impression of the lanky Buchanan would have been that he was relaxed, easygoing – which was a mistake many a villain had made.

'Is it about the riots, Roy?' Tweed enquired.