'I found this boarding pass from Berlin to Hamburg lying on the floor. It must have slipped out of the case.'
'That belongs to Danzer, the chauffeur who greeted you. He flew to Berlin and back again yesterday.' Rondel grinned. 'He has a new girlfriend. He collects and dismisses them as though they were playing cards… Please excuse my attire. I have an engagement to go riding
… Want to come?' he asked Paula.
'It's a long time since I sat on a horse. Thank you, but I think I need a quiet day. Yesterday was rather hectic. I did enjoy the dinner, though.'
'You couldn't have enjoyed it as much as I revelled in having a chat with you… I couldn't sleep last night. Your image kept coming into my mind…'
He was talking as he had at the restaurant. In rapid bursts that demonstrated the extraordinary quickness of his mind. He waved towards the interior of the house.
'My partner is waiting for you. Or rather, he would like to see Tweed alone, if that is not too impolite… Paula, you and Bob can come with me… we will enjoy a drink together. I am hoping Bob, the famous international foreign correspondent, can tell us what is wrong with the world. If both of you would like to make yourselves comfortable in this room…' He was leading them towards a closed door. '… I will be back in a tick.'
He turned to Tweed, who had slipped the boarding pass under the handle of the case.
'Please, Mr Tweed, let me escort you…'
Inside the room she had been shown into with Newman, Paula remained standing. It kept going through her head. Lisa concussed, after the blow Delgado had struck her back home at Reefers Wharf. The message she had desperately tried to get across, hardly able to speak.
Ham… Dan… Four S.
Ham had been Hamburg. Four S had been Four Seasons Hotel. Dan. Couldn't that have been Danzer, the chauffeur who had shown them in?
After opening another door at the rear of the hall, where gilt-framed portraits of men of earlier times were hung, Rondel accompanied Tweed down a long hall to a door at the far end. This opened on to a large conservatory full of different plants. His partner sat facing them in a wickerwork chair with a high straight back.
In front of the chair on a glass-topped table were the remains of a meal. His partner had been holding the silver box close to his mouth while he manipulated one of the ivory toothpicks. He closed the lid quickly, tucked it inside a pocket of his linen jacket.
'The gentleman you are so anxious to see,' Rondel said.
'Thank you. Do not let his two colleagues leave. I wish to pay my respects to them later,' the seated man ordered.
'Let us go into the garden, Mr Tweed,' the partner suggested, rising, holding out his hand. 'There we can talk without inhibition. May I offer you a drink?'
He was speaking slowly, each word enunciated with clarity. Not from age, Tweed guessed, but from temperament. A very careful man.
'Just water, please…'
His host opened a door, ushered Tweed, holding his glass of water, into what seemed more like a beautiful park with an abundance of flowers. Especially hydrangeas. Paved walkways wended their way in all directions, disappearing round curves. They strolled slowly and Tweed kept quiet, leaving his strange host to choose a subject.
'I will tell you something very few people in the world know. My name is Milo Slavic. Which shows I trust you.'
'Why should you?' Tweed asked outright.
'Because before I get even a little close to someone I have him checked out meticulously.' He drew out the word as m-e-t-i-c-u-l-o-u-s~l-y. 'I have had you checked out on two continents. You are a unique man. I never flatter.'
'So what did you want with me?'
'Direct, too. Do you believe that, with all the weakness of present Western governments, we need something stronger?'
'Depends on how strong. In the last century we have had Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Josef Stalin. Do we need men as strong as that?'
'There was chaos when those men took power. The masses were frightened, looked for strength. Perhaps it may have to happen again?'
'Are you related to an earlier member of the Frankenheim Dynasty?' Tweed asked suddenly.
'Ah!' His host chuckled, an odd sound. 'History sometimes does repeat itself. You know about the Frankenheims – I can tell. The first Frankenheim took the name, pretended to be a Jew, made himself indispensable to Mayer Amschel, that brilliant man who created Rothschild. We are back in the late 1790s. Frankenheim, as he continued to call himself, then learnt all the tricks of the profession from his mentor – left him, founded his own bank in Paris. Jump forward to 1940. As a very young man I met the last of the Frankenheims, who had no son, no heir. I was naturally gifted in mathematics, in accountancy and solved for him a problem he had found insoluble. He obtained a Swiss passport for rne, as he had for himself, and soon I was Director of his bank in Zurich. When he died I found he had appointed me his heir. I have simplified a rather complicated history.'
'So where do you come from?'
'Slovenia.'
'The northernmost state of what used to be Yugoslavia in the time of Marshal Tito. Adjoins the border with Austria. Has gained its complete independence.'
'Not everyone would know that. Are you concerned with what is happening?'
'Yes. We could be on the edge of a catastrophe.'
Tweed looked at Slavic. He was broader across the shoulder than he had realized, looking down on him at the restaurant. He emanated physical strength as well as mental power. Tweed was still unsure.
'Your mutual chauffeur is an unusual man,' he remarked.
'Danzer. He is my chauffeur. Blondel prefers to drive his own Bugatti, Maserati – whatever is his latest toy. Shall we turn back? We are close to the house.'
'You said 'Blondel'. I thought your partner's name was Rondel.'
'Ah.' Slavic chuckled unpleasantly. 'Vanity. He has blond hair, so dislikes his real name. Calls himself Rondel. Had a French father, a German mother. We must meet again soon. My headquarters are in the far north. I like privacy.'
'How shall I know where you are?'
'I, Mr Tweed, will always know where you are.'
'I may need to call you something to the closest members of my team. So what name do I use?'
'Simply call me Milo. It sounds as though they are enjoying themselves.'
They had almost reached a side door open to the park.
Tweed could hear Paula laughing with Rondel. A middle-aged woman with blue-rinse hair appeared out of nowhere, carrying in her hands large clusters of hydrangeas. Milo Slavic waved her away. She looked disappointed as she retreated.
'That is Mrs Gina France, my chief accountant. A most professional accountant but with a volcanic personality.' He paused. 'You do believe, then, in iron governments?'
'Depends on how strong they are,' Tweed replied.
'We must meet again.' Slavic sounded urgent. 'I will contact you when the moment arrives. Then you must come quickly.' His voice changed, became mellow as they walked in through open doors into the room where Rondel sat with Paula and Newman. Slavic remained standing.
'I think we should leave now,' said Tweed.
'So early!' Rondel jumped up. 'This charming lady and I are just getting to know each other.'
'There will be another time, Victor,' Paula said, smiling as she stood up and Newman followed.
Tweed turned to thank his host, but the man from Slovenia had vanished. Instead he looked at Rondel.
'Please tell your partner I found the conversation most illuminating. I look forward to the possibility sometime of repeating the experience…'
