Double Jeopardy (15 page)

`I could never see the difference. Both are inhuman dictatorships. Both rule through secret police – KGB or Gestapo. They are interchangeable – as are the systems. I prefer Chancellor Langer's party. And now, if you will excuse me…'

'Take a cigar with you-they are Havanas

`From Cuba?' Martel was standing, his expression ironical as he stared down at the German. 'Thank you – but I smoke only cigarettes. It has been most illuminating meeting you. Goodnight.'

It has been most illuminating meeting you… The words disturbed Dietrich because he sensed a hidden meaning. He watched the Englishman stroll to the lift, his eyes narrowed as he recalled the conversation word for word, trying to decide whether he had made a slip.

A girl who had been talking to the receptionist had reached the lift first and was entering it when Martel called out, asking her in German, please could she hold it? The lift ascended out of sight with both passengers aboard.

The third floor landing was deserted as Martel escorted Claire out of the lift. Unlocking the door of his own room, he ushered her inside, closed the door and gripped her arm. She remained quite still in the darkness while Martel checked the bathroom. He then closed all the curtains and turned on the bedside lights which gave out a shaded glow. She began reporting at once.

'I worked the same trick when those two werewolves arrived. I saw their registration forms and the one who seems to be boss is Erwin Vinz. His sidekick-the driver of the car in Bregenz know…'

'He goes under the name Rolf Gross. Both registered as coming from Munich…'

'Which is probably a lie. They're trained killers. Things are developing as I hoped – but faster than I expected. The enemy is here in force. My guess is Dietrich is here to see they don't botch the job of eliminating me as they did in Zurich, St. Gallen and Bregenz. Vinz and Gross do the job. Klara Beck provides back-up…'

'She's a reptile,' Claire commented savagely. 'You should watch out for her – the others may be diversions. And why did you set out to provoke Dietrich? I heard every word both of you said – it was like a duel…'

'It was a duel. He was weighing me up- I was doing the same with him. I thought he was a stiff-necked has-been, but he's no fool. He believes in what he's doing. He's ruthless and he's decisive. We have to be very careful…'

'He might take action tonight?'

'No – because he's staying at the hotel. He won't risk being present when his dirty tricks squad goes into action. We'll still take precautions. You stay here for the night and we'll take turns – one sleeping, one in a chair with a gun handy.'

'And tomorrow?'

'First thing we approach this Sergeant Dorner of the Lindau Water Police – the man who brought in Warner's body.' 'And the second thing?' she asked, watching him closely. 'Lay a trap for Delta.

'I'm still not happy about tonight,' she persisted. 'In this hotel we have two men who are almost certainly killers – and one woman who is pure poison. You said Dietrich was decisive- I've the strongest feeling he'll move faster than you expect…'

Thursday May 28

At eleven o'clock at night Martel realised Claire had been right. He had underestimated Reinhard Dietrich. The bedroom was in darkness, he was taking the first turn on guard and Claire was lying on the bed fast asleep. He heard sounds of activity at the entrance to the hotel.

Pulling aside the curtain over the side window he looked down. Below, outside the hotel entrance, a black, six-seater Mercedes was parked by the kerb, its engine gently ticking. A uniformed chauffeur stood by the rear door in the mist, a mist blurring the street lights which were vague haloes in the drifting vapour. A familiar figure emerged from the hotel, the rear door was opened and Reinhard Dietrich climbed inside.

Within a minute the large vehicle had driven away and a hushed silence descended. From the harbour direction came the mournful moan of gulls, like the sirens of ships at sea destined never to reach a port. A distant foghorn sighed. And there was a third sound – the creak of a door opening or closing from the Hauptbahnhof.

He moved to his suitcase, felt inside, extracted a light raincoat and slipped it on. The bedsprings stirred and Claire called out, no more than a whisper.

'Something has happened, Keith?'

He went over to the bed where she lay fully dressed and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He could smell the faint aroma of perfume. What was it about women that never made them forget their personal impact, when they were exhausted – when they were living on their nerves?

'You were right,' he said. 'Dietrich has tricked us. He gave the impression he was staying the night and now he has left in a chauffeur-driven limousine. Something is going to happen…'

'What do we do?' she asked calmly.

'One trump card is they don't know there are two of us – they think I'm on my own…'

`So?'

'Slip back to your own room – be careful no one sees you.' 'And what are you going to be doing?'

'Contacting the local police. It's late but I want to talk with Sergeant Dorner. My guess is he's the only man in Lindau we can trust …'

'You're going out in this fog? It is still foggy?'

'Thicker than ever. Which is helpful. More difficult for anyone to see me leaving and where I go. It's only a short distance – you showed me on the map…'

'I'm coming with you!' She sat up in bed and felt for her shoes' on the floor. 'I can watch your back…'

`Go to your room before I belt you…'

'You are a very stupid man and I don't like you much. Bloody well take care…'

He waited until she had gone before venturing out. And he had deliberately not mentioned the creaking door. If she had known about that he would never have got rid of her.

The atmosphere of menace hit Martel the moment he walked out into the night. Mist globules settled on his face. The damp chill penetrated his thin coat. He could just make out the bulk of the Hauptbahnhof as he turned right and headed for Ludwigstrasse, a narrow, cobbled street which was the direct route to police headquarters.

There was no one visible but he heard it again, the sound he had detected from his bedroom window three floors up – the creak of one of the station doors being opened. He was careful not to glance in that direction as he turned right again and proceeded along the centre of Ludwigstrasse – as far away as possible from the darkened alcoves of doorway recesses.

His rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the cobbles although he had to place his feet firmly on their surface – the street was slimy with dampness. He wore his grey-coloured raincoat, which merged with the atmosphere, unbuttoned. Anyone grabbing him would find themselves holding only the fabric of the coat. And he had easy access to the Colt in his- shoulder holster. He stopped.

The sound of the foghorn out on the lake. But his acute hearing had caught a second sound -the whispering slither of a padded sleeve moving against a coat, something like Gannex material. Behind him.

The watcher waiting inside the Hauptbahnhof had heard nothing, he was convinced. But even in the mist he could have seen Martel's silhouette outlined for a few seconds against the glow of lights in the lounge as he left the hotel.

He stood motionless in a shadowed area and the whispering stopped. Somewhere behind him his follower realised that Martel had also paused. The trouble was the bastards probably knew every inch of Lindau. Their problem was they could not be sure of his destination.

He started walking again suddenly, sensing there were several men somewhere in the mist. There would be several: Delta operated in strength. He had not forgotten Zurich where men had poured out of the two cars. He had been counting side-turnings and came to a street light, a milky globe supported by a wall-bracket. Krummgasse.

Martel had no option. To reach the main street, Maximilianstrasse, he had to leave the dubious safety of the narrow Ludwigstrasse and make his way along the even narrower alley of Krummgasse. Moving away from the blurred glow of the light he stared into the well of darkness. Once he negotiated Krummgasse he was within shouting distance of the police station.

Behind him he heard again the slither of sleeve against cloth. They were moving in. Reinhard Dietrich would be miles away – his previous presence totally unlinked with the murder of a second Englishman in the Lindau area. Martel went inside Krummgasse – taking longer strides to confuse the man behind him, accustomed to his earlier, slower pace.

Martel's vision was exceptional and he was peering ahead. For the moment he had out-distanced the follower behind. He stopped again and heard no whispering slither. His tactic was to get to the more open Maximilianstrasse and then sprint for police headquarters. Ahead of him he heard the squeak of a shoe.

The mouse in the trap. Himself. A man – men? – coming up behind. And the enemy also in front just when he was close to the end of Krummgasse. Delta had planned well. The moment he entered Ludwigstrasse they had guessed his destination – or assumed the one place he must never be allowed to reach. The police station.

So at the end of each alley leading from Ludwigstrasse to the parallel street, Maximilianstrasse, they had positioned a soldier. The squeaking shoe suggested the man in front was advancing down Krummgasse towards him, closing the pincer movement. Martel darted into the shadowed recess of a doorway and prayed that Squeaky Shoe would arrive quickly.

Something solid emerged from the swirling mist, right hand projected forward like a fencer about to lunge. With his left hand Martel extracted a Swiss five-franc coin from his pocket and tossed it across the street. Clunk!

In the hushed silence the sound was surprisingly loud and the man, who seemed familiar – something about his marionette-like movements – stopped next to the Englishman's doorway, glancing the other way. There was still no repetition of the slither – so the follower behind was a distance away. Martel moved.

The man sensed danger, turned and held his right hand ready to ram it forward. The barrel of Martel's Colt crashed down on the would-be assassin's head with tremendous force. Martel felt the barrel hammer through a hat, strike the skull and reverberate off it. The attacker slumped and lay in a twisted heap on the cobbles like a pile of old clothes.

Martel ran. Reaching the end of the alley he turned right and by the glow of a street lantern read the legend Stadtpolizei on a wall-plate. The entrance was round the corner in Bismarckplatz. He shoved open the door and stopped in front of a counter behind which a startled policeman gazed at him.

He slammed down a piece of plastic like a credit card on to the counter and slipped the Colt back inside its holster as the policeman surreptitiously unbuttoned his hip holster. Still short of breath, he gasped out the words.

'Sergeant Dorner! And bloody quick! If he's at home get him out of bed. There's my identification. And send a couple of men to Krummgasse. There should be a body for them to trip over…'

'We've had an alert out for you, Martel – they should have seen you when you crossed the Bavarian border…'

Martel was impressed by Sergeant Dorner. A short, burly man in his early forties, he had sandy hair, shrewd grey eyes with a hint of humour, and a general air of a man who knew what he was doing, a man not frightened to take decisions.

Martel was seated across a table from the police officer on the second floor of the building overlooking Bismarckplatz, drinking a cup of strong coffee. It was very good coffee.

They had found the body lying in Krummgasse, the body Martel had identified as Rolf Gross, the second man who had arrived late at the Bayerischer Hof. They had found more than that. Underneath the corpse – Martel's powerful blow had split Gross's skull – was lying what Dorner called a 'flick hypodermic'. He held up the weapon with the needle projecting inside a plastic bag.

'You were lucky,' Dorner commented. 'And this clears you. The fingerprint boys checked Gross's against those on the handle. It must look like a felt-tip pen before this button is pressed and the needle shoots out. Forensic were dragged out of bed to tell me what it contains…'

`And what is inside it?'

'Potassium cyanide in solution. It's the kind of weapon you'd expect the Soviets to have dreamt up…'

`Maybe they did…'

But these people are Delta – neo-Nazis. I've never seen any weapon like it before…'

'I have. It's a Delta special,' Martel replied with grim humour. `So how do you account for the fact that neo-Nazis are using it?'

'I don't,' Dorner admitted. 'Nothing makes sense about what is going on. We're finding the caches of their weapons and uniforms with Delta badges too easily…'

'Too easily?'

`Yes. Erich Stoller of the BND is on his way here. I got him out of bed, too…' Dorner lowered his voice. 'When Stoller flew here after Warner's body was found he told me he has an informant who regularly passes on the location of these arms dumps. Always in an uninhabited place – an abandoned farm building, an empty villa.'

'In other words you get the arms, the uniforms – the news in the press – but you never grab a single person?'

'Weird, isn't it?' Dorner stood up and lit a cheroot, staring out of the window he had closed against the mist. 'We get no individual, no record of a property owner we can trace. Just as we've been unable to locate any colleague of Gross's…'

'I told you Erwin Vinz is staying at the Bayerischer Hof…'

'Paid for his room and left ten minutes before my men got there. Said an urgent business message had called him away. I've put my best man on guard outside Claire Hofer's room – dressed as a porter, he's whiling away the night cleaning shoes.'

`Thanks.' Martel, almost dropping from lack of sleep, was beginning to approve of Sergeant Dorner more and more. `And as I told you, Reinhard Dietrich was staying at the same hotel…'