‘Two watchers circled. False names no doubt. The thin one was called Gasser, Swiss, and the other, Duboir, is a French national. Definitely not playing on any national team. So who for? Release organised by Herr D.G.Schuter – lawyer of dubious background, but recent links put him as an occasional subcontracted advocate for Munchen Dag AG, a Bavarian holding company, and the Geneva law firm of Wald Dressen. Address in the phone book. The watchers dropped at the tower of executive apartments on Feldstrasse. Lift went to the seventh floor. Two apartments only. Clean up crew on the number on the back. Ask for Pauli. Call Bremen tonight.’
Geneva! The name leapt out of the page at him. He tried to place the name of the law firm but couldn’t. They’ll be representing clients anyway, he thought. Maybe even Munchen Dag. He started the car, then drove back onto the street to find a shop that sold maps of the city. He wanted the Feldstrasse. The two watchers would be pulled out quickly, now they were blown – but more would arrive. Be there when the change over happens, he thought. Nice to have a little chat with one first.
He stopped at a magazine stand, bought a map, and then crossed the street to a quick printing shop where he could borrow phone book. Schuters’ name and address were there, just as Kurt had promised. He copied it down and handed the book back to the girl behind the counter with a smile, then walked back to the car map in hand. Now he wanted a list of the directors of both the holding company in Bavaria and the Swiss law firm, and he would ask Kurt for one more favour. Driving into the city, he found yet another friendly shopkeeper, who looked up enquiry agents on his behalf.
Twenty minutes later, he sat opposite a jowly ex-policeman in a shabby Formica and plastic office suite.
“My clients in England have been recommended a law firm in Geneva. It is their custom to check these things carefully. I want a full list of directors and senior partners, established clients and a feel for their reputation. Any hint of, shall we say anything untoward, would be most prejudicial to my clients interests.”
“I understand, Herr..?”
“Collins.”
“And the firm recommended?”
“Wald Dressen.”
The man sat back in his chair, disappointment on his face. He was essentially an honest man and he felt bad about taking a client’s money for nothing.
“Herr Collins, Wald Dressen is a very reputable well-established firm. They also have offices in Munich and Berlin. As a law firm they are above reproach. I would be stealing your money to do a search on them.”
“Nevertheless, I have my brief from my client. Are you prepared to take the commission? If so, what is your fee structure?”
“If you insist. Of course. What currency?”
“US Dollars. Cash.”
“Five hundred a day plus expenses. That buys you my expertise and some people on the ground.”
“Here’s fours days in advance. I have a second commission, same brief on a company called Munchen Dag AG in Bavaria. I don’t have their address…”
“We’ll find it.”
Quayle stood. “I’ll be in touch in forty-eight hours. Please have the task complete. For five hundred a day in cash – which we both know will never be put through the books for the Federal Government to tax – I expect confidentiality. Total and complete confidentiality. Do I make myself understood?”
The big man smiled. “Mr Collins, I forgot you were even here.”
Quayle drove straight to the short stay executive apartments and parked the car up on a side street nearby. Slinging his bag in the boot and rubbing his tired eyes, he walked round to the front and entered the building.
The management office was on the ground floor and a bespectacled young man was delighted to show him a vacant apartment on the tenth floor.
“You have nothing lower?” Quayle asked.
“I’m sorry sir, only one on the eighth floor. The remainder are occupied until the end of the month at the earliest.”
“Well,” Quayle smiled, “the eighth floor should be fine. Same layout?”
“All identical, sir, other than the penthouse up on twelve. That’s larger and has a sunken bath.”
“Good. I shall pay you a month’s deposit now, and take the keys with me.”
As they turned towards the door, Quayle silently dropped his car keys onto the thick carpet.
A few minutes later, as they sat in the office, the young manager filling out the registration forms and receipt, Quayle’s eyes swept the small room, the desk top and the wall planner. Finally, he saw what he was looking for. It wasn’t on the wall at all. It was on the small computer screen. The house list and reservations diary.
He patted his pockets meaningfully.
“Oh dear,” he said, “I seem to have dropped my keys. Must have been up in the apartment we looked at.”
“If you would wait here sir, I could go up and get them?”
The manager was pleased. This booking put him on ninety per cent occupancy –and that was his trigger level for bonus from the company.
“That would be very kind,” Quayle said – and, as the man left the office, he stepped behind the desk and sat down at the keyboard.
The menu was easy and simply asked him for the room number, or date requirement. He tapped in 701 and a name flashed back at him. Morse.Nationality English. He came out and went in again, this time entering 702. The name Keppler came back at him, but the address was familiar. He pulled out his jotted notes. It was the same as Schuter, the lawyer. Must be close to home. They were being careless. He smiled grimly, came out and tapped in 801. Another name came back, so he tried 802. Vacant. It must have been the apartment he had just taken. That meant he was in luck. He was directly overhead. ‘Captain art though sleeping down below,’ suddenly flashed though his mind. It was part of Drake’s
