Rhinoceros

'Cancel it! You know something, Bernard,' Thunder rapped out nastily, 'you're not yet Supreme Governor of the military areas Britain will be divided into.'

'I am aware of that.'

'My dear Bernard…'Thunder's mood changed abruptly, became very friendly. '… No one blames you for not wiping out Tweed. He's a cunning devil. You have been labouring under a lot of strain and stress. This I understand. Two of the Special Reserve, incidentally, are British – they were in the SAS. They came to the States, adopted American nationality, were recruited into the Special Reserve. That ought to make you feel better about the whole operation.'

'I'm exhausted. I think I'll go to bed.' 'Do that. You'll feel so much better in the morning.' When Barford had left, Thunder sipped at his brandy. He had always had a flair for talking people round to his point of view.

Tweed was still up, sitting at a desk with his doodle pad, long after Mrs France had come and gone, followed later by Paula's visit. He had added Mrs France to his pad, with a circle round her. He had drawn a line linking Lisa with Mrs France. The vast mosaic was becoming clearer to him. His mobile phone started buzzing. He swore, picked it up.

'Yes?'

'Mr Tweed?'

'Yes. Who it it?'

'You will be in mortal danger tomorrow. Lucky to survive.'

The voice sounded like that of a woman, or of someone talking with a sweet in their mouth and speaking with a silk handkerchief over the phone.

'Thanks a lot,' Tweed said.

'This is serious. Seven professional killers in three jeeps will follow your car. At the right tactical moment they will kill all of you. They are trained assassins.'

'Where are they based?'

Tweed had decided this had betterbe taken seriously. The phone clicked, went dead. Who the devil eould that have been, he asked himself, relaxing back in his chair. Too many people had his mobile phone number. But there had been something disturbing about the warning. He wished he could call Harry, but had no intention of waking him up at this hour, despite the fact Harry hardly ever seemed to sleep.

As though in answer to his wish there was a tapping at his door. When he opened it, his Walther in his hand, Harry, fully dressed, walked in.

'Thought you'd still be up. Wanted to discuss tactics for today's expedition.'

'You should be getting some sleep.'

'Sleep dulls the brain.'

Tweed offered him coffee or an alcoholic drink. Harry refused both. He just wanted to get on with it, to work out tactics. Tweed decided to tell him about the strange warning call he'd received. Harry, silting forward in a chair, listened.

'You take it seriously?' he asked when Tweed had concluded.

'At first I thought it was a bit of psychological warfare, to rattle me. Then I recalled how specific the caller had been. Seven men, three jeeps. I am taking it seriously. On the way we have to look for somewhere we can use as a fortress-like position. Somewhere they have to come in and attack us while we're entrenched.'

'Got myself a motorbike,' Harry said tersely.

'How on earth did you get that in Tonder at the dead of night?'

'I was prowling round, looking for trouble – any sign of the enemy. Came across this chap oiling his machine in front of a garage. Asked him how much. Thought I was joking, so he names a price. Double what it's worth. I said yes. A Dane, I think, but spoke good English. I hauled put a wad of marks, did a quick calculation, gave him the money and rode off on it.'

'You never cease to amaze me.'

'Sometimes I amaze myself,' Harry replied, making a rare joke. 'Point is, I could follow the car – then at other times overtake and ride ahead of you. Call me your scout.'

'That improves our situation enormously. I was worried that again we'd all be crammed in one car.'

'Like to go now. Want to soup up the engine a bit. Six in the morning.' He turned at the door. 'Oh, I'll have the Uzi with me…'

Tweed decided it was time to take a shower, then get into bed. As he switched out the light and rested his head on the pillow, his brain was still hurtling over various questions to which he didn't know the answers.

Who was Number Five – the man referred to in the exchange between the FBI agent at the windmill and the man who had run out of the wood? Was the dire warning he'd received on his mobile to frighten or in deadly earnest? Who could have called him, using his mobile number? It all went back to Monica, who had insisted once that it should be given to key people. She'd shown him the list and reluctantly he'd let her go ahead. But he was so tired he couldn't recall all the names on that list. Who was Rhinoceros?

His brain suddenly switched off and he fell into a deep sleep.

In the middle of the night Oskar was woken by the buzzing of his mobile phone. Swearing, he switched on his bedside light, picked up the phone.

'Yes? Who the hell is it at this hour?'

'Gavin Thunder. And when you are addressing me I like some polite acknowledgement of who I am.'

'You're Gavin Thunder.'

Oskar was in no mood to be conciliatory, to kowtow. Not if it had been the President in the Oval Office.

'I'm emphasizing the importance of not losing Tweed. I'm sure he will leave Tonder in the morning. You must tail him. Now do you understand my order?'

'Already dealt with. Barton and Panko will follow him from the air

…'

Oskar switched off the mobile. Thunder was a man given to issuing the same order three times. He'd better damn well take a sleeping pill, Oskar thought, switched out the light and fell fast asleep.

Early in the morning he knocked on Barton's door. No reply. He tried the handle, walked in. No one there. Bed left like a rubbish dump. Nothing in the bathroom. Then he noticed the absence of a case. He went downstairs to enquire at reception about his two friends.

'They had asked for packed breakfasts and a flask of coffee to be ready very early. They left the hotel some time ago.' The receptionist stood straighter. 'They said you would be settling their bill.'

'And so I will…'

Oskar went into the dining room and deliberately had a leisurely full English breakfast. He had been up very late – or very early – and still felt sleepy. He drank two large glasses of orange juice and they seemed to start to get him going. He paid the bill, went upstairs to pack.

An hour earlier, just after dawn, Barton and Panko had left for the airfield. Not wishing to have Oskar chauffeuring them to the airfield, Barton had bribed the porter to drive them there. They travelled in an old Skoda which rasped and groaned but got them to their destination. As the car drove off, Barton approached the light aircraft.

It was surprisingly cool in broad daylight. A hint of mist like a flimsy tablecloth hung above the trees. That would go quickly when the sun climbed higher. Barton, thickset and muscular, scanned the deserted airfield. Holding a. 45 Colt in his large right hand he crept up to the hut. He liked the weapon. It was self-loading and the magazine carried seven rounds.

Barton was a cautious killer. He checked out everything. He had once stalked a man for ten weeks before completing the job. He turned the handle of the hut's door slowly, then threw the door open and dived inside, swinging his automatic in all directions. The place was empty. He had thought it would be but he never took a chance.

Panko, who had carried both their bags from the Skoda, stood watching this performance from a distance. To him it was all unnecessary. He waited while Barton walked over to the plane. The previous evening, when they had left the machine, he had shut the door and attached a piece of sticky tape near the bottom, covering the edge of the door and a small part of the fuselage. The tape was still there but was curling up a fraction. Sticky tape did that in the sort of heat they'd endured the evening before. He removed it, opened the door, climbed inside, sat behind the pilot's controls.