It was disturbingly quiet as they walked downhill. Not a soul in sight anywhere. She looked back, hoping for a comforting sight of Harry. Nothing. But when Harry followed you he was the Invisible Man. It was unnervingly silent, then she heard the faint swish of water as they reached the bottom of the hill. They had reached the docks, the Elbe. Tweed led them to his right. She saw a street sign. Elbstr.
To her left as they walked slowly in the heat she had her first sight of the river. About as wide as the Thames in London. Above them loomed immensely tall cranes. Halfway up the huge structures she saw control cabins. There seemed to be dozens of the cranes. All motionless. She thought they looked like Martians which had just landed. She saw one vast structure, squatter, resting on railway lines so its position could be moved when barges arrived. Lights high up gave spasmodic illumination, emphasizing the black shadows. There was no moon to see – the sky had a heavy overcast which must have drifted in recently.
She felt tiny, and a little nervous, walking below these monsters.
'When the Germans build they build big,' she commented.
'Hence the enormous Panther tanks they used in the Second World War that I've read about,' said Tweed. 'I've seen pictures of them. They fought like tigers and caused us a lot of trouble during the Normandy landings.'
'Just so long as we don't see one coming down the street,' she retorted.
'Rather unlikely,' Newman assured her.
Across the far side of the river Paula saw another army of cranes deployed. More lights glowed from a great height. Two freighters were moored for the night with several large barges.
'It just goes on and on,' she commented.
'They are,' Tweed informed her, 'the second largest docks on the Continent. The only bigger system is Europort down in Holland. But these docks are catching up.'
A chain clanked in the night. She nearly jumped out of her skin. It was the first sound she had heard since they'd begun their long plod along Elbstrasse.
'Just a barge being moved by the current,' Newman remarked. 'That would be its mooring chain.'
'Creepy down here,' Paula commented.
She had stopped looking up at the cranes. But she found herself very aware of their presence. At least they were immobile. Tweed raised an arm, pointed ahead.
'See that grassy bank, the row of terrace houses on top of it. That's where Dr Kefler must live. And there's the footpath he told us to climb. All we have to do is find No. 23.'
'Lovely view he's got,' Paula said. 'Looking out on those cranes which rise up higher than the houses.'
They began climbing the narrow footpath with Tweed in the lead. The huddle of small old houses bunched together along the terrace did not look very upmarket. Paula was wondering why a man of Kefler's eminence lived like this.
No. 23 was close to where they had left the footpath, where they were perched on top of the slope. Tweed looked up at a first-floor window where lights shone behind net curtains. A window was raised. Before Tweed could see the figure leaning out, the beam of a powerful torch shone in his face. It was switched off quickly.
Very quickly he heard steps running down stairs inside. Behind him Newman was shuffling his feet impatiently. Their position, standing on top of the slope, was very exposed. His eyes swept the metal forest of cranes but he could see no movement. Then the two new locks Tweed had noticed on the heavy old wooden door of Kefler's house were turned from inside. The door was pulled inward and a small figure stood in the dark. Why no lights?
'Come in immediately, please,' a deep voice said in English.
They filed into the gloom, the door was closed, locks turned. Light flooded a small hall. The small plump man held out a hand to Tweed.
'I apologize,' he began in English, 'for shining the torch in your eyes. I had to be sure it was you. Keith Kent's description fits you perfectly. Oh, I am Dr Kefler…'
Tweed introduced his two colleagues. Paula thought Kent's picture of Kefler as a teddy bear was perfect. The German had brown hair en brosse, eyes like buttpns which gazed at her through glasses with the thickest lenses she had ever seen. He smiled warmly, was cuddly, she felt, then dismissed the word as silly but appropriate. He wore a velvet smoking jacket, his short legs were clad in dark blue slacks and he almost danced with pleasure as he ushered them into a room on the first floor at the front. They had to be careful climbing the narrow twisting staircase. Paula guessed that the room he showed them into was his study.
'I have bought a jar of English coffee,' he confided to her. 'I know the German coffee is very strong…'
'That was very thoughtful of you,' she told him.
'It is nothing. I turned on the kettle before I came down. I will fetch it now. Yes? Make yourselves comfortable. Sit down everyone. I fetch the kettle. I have the papers for you, Herr Tweed…'
Before Tweed could ask what papers he was referring to, Kefler had trotted off into the kitchen. Relaxing in her armchair, Paula looked round the room. You can tell a man from his study. On a large old desk, which didn't look German, was a fax machine, a computer, a printer – and an ancient Remington typewriter which looked out of place. She also thought the modern equipment looked very new, hardly used. Along one wall were floor-to-ceiling bookcases. She stood up to look at them.
'Not my choice of armchair,' Newman whispered.
'You're too tall,' Paula whispered back.
Which was true. The armchairs had low seats and Newman had to stretch out his legs in front of him. It struck Tweed, who was just about comfortable, that Kefler with his short legs had chosen furniture that suited himself. An understandable lack of thought for guests – domestic matters would be a nuisance to him.
'He's got six old volumes on the history of the Frankenheim Dynasty,' Paula observed, indicating the bookcases.
'I am so sorry I take so long time,' Kefler began as he reappeared and laid a tray on a low table. The coffee pot, the cream jug, the cups and saucers were Meissen. He's got out the best china, Paula thought. 'You serve yourselves, please? Then you have the coffee the way you like it,' the German suggested, smiling all the time. Paula did the honours.
'You know something?' Kefler said as he perched on a stool. 'You noticed the two new locks on my front door, Mr Tweed?'
'Yes, I…'
'Refugees. Turks, Croats, Kosovars – God knows who else or why we ever let them in. Many are criminals. A house near mine was burgled a week ago. They take everything. And would you believe it…' Once again the teddy bear was in full verbal flood. '… they take a parrot!'
'A parrot? Difficult to take away…' Paula began.
'No, not at all…' Kefler gave a bubbling laugh. '… It was a cheap piece of pottery. Now where they sell a thing like that? Crazy. Is the coffee any good?'
They all agreed sincerely it was marvellous. Kefler nodded dubiously as though he thought they were just being polite.
'You're well equipped,' Paula remarked, looking at the old desk.
'I don't use any of it. I do like my Remington, though. Scientists are dangerous. They invent things without first thinking: what will be the consequences? That time bomb, the Internet. Great, they say. Brings the world closer together. Nations get too close to each other, disagree, quarrel, then make war.'
'I'm inclined to agree with you,' Tweed slipped into the pause. 'Now, earlier you mentioned some papers.'
'Ach! The Zurcher Kredit Bank is the best, the most honest in the world. It is notl Miss Grey, you were looking at my old desk. Not so German, eh? I bought it in your Portobello Road in London. I love it. But I divert…' Kefler stared at Tweed as though making sure he trusted him.'… Vast sums of money are being laundered through that bank – or they do the walk with the money from rich clients, maybe send it to a secret account at Vaduz in Liechtenstein…'
'You know that definitely?' Tweed interjected.
'No, nein. I only know three hundred million marks walk off.'
Paula did a quick calculation in her head, was stunned. Very roughly, one hundred million pounds sterling. Hardly chicken-feed.
