Double Jeopardy (17 page)

'No. An international anarchist called Manfred.' Martel was inside the wheelhouse, about to start up the engine. 'And I should never have agreed to your coming…'

'But you did!'

`So put on your face-mask and shut up,' he told her brusquely, then fired the engine.

The mist had cleared in the west where the vast waters of the lake stretched away like an oil blue sheet. On the eastern mole of Lindau harbour the Lion of Bavaria was a massive silhouette as they got under way.

Claire had adjusted the face-mask and after checking her pistol tucked the weapon inside the top of her pants. Martel's instructions – given to her earlier in his room at the hotel – had been precise.

'If they come – as they came for Warner – I need one man alive so I can work on him. After what they did to Warner, the rest can drown

…'

Martel kept down the launch's speed, heading out direct across the lake towards the distant Rhine delta. That, he was convinced, was the lonely country where Warner had intended to make his landfall.

One thing bothered him. The grey pall to the east between the launch and the Austrian shoreline was persisting. How could anyone moving in from that direction locate him? And if they did they would be on top of the launch almost before he saw them. Looking again towards Austria he saw movement in the mist.

Werner Hagen gripped his sail with one hand while he checked the compact device attached to the mast. It was a miniature radar set designed at Dietrich's electronics factory in Arizona. Martel's launch showed clearly on the screen.

He's following Warner's route, Hagen thought.

He made a gesture to the other five windsurfers who were closer together than would be their normal tactic: it was vital they did not lose sight of each other. The gesture told them the target had been sighted. And the mist was lifting as they glided across the rippled waters of the lake.

Hagen timed it nicely, keeping one eye on the radar screen, the other on the dispersing wall of vapour ahead. He held on to the sail with his left hand and dropped his right, unsheathing the razor-edge knife which had carved out of Warner's back the crude outline of Delta's symbol. Then he saw the launch, made a fresh gesture and the team curved in a semi-circle to force Martel to stop.

It happened too fast for comfort. One moment the views from the wheelhouse showed a vague disturbance in the wall of mist, shapes which could have been a mirage. Then six windsurfers appeared, three of them steering their sails across the course Martel was following, compelling him to stop the engine.

'They're here,' he yelled to Claire and pushed the signal button.

'I've seen them!'

She knelt with her back to the wheelhouse, holding the pistol out of sight, gripping the butt with both hands.

'They're under attack!'

Crouched inside the wheelhouse of the police launch Sergeant Dorner watched the winking bleep which had suddenly appeared on his specially adapted radar screen. Standing up in full view, he switched on the powerful engine which flared with a roar.

Dorner knew that at this moment there would be no lake steamer approaching the entrance but he obeyed regulations, sounding his siren as the launch rushed from its berth – the mooring rope had been surreptitiously slipped free when he sneaked on board.

Parallel to the exit, he stopped the forward rush and swung his wheel well over, turning the craft through ninety degrees, thrashing up a wake which transformed the harbour into a turmoil of waves and froth. With his bow aimed between the two moles he opened the throttle, his siren screaming non-stop. The launch shot forward as he increased speed, checking the blip on his screen.

`Get me there in time,' Dorner prayed.

Klara Beck had decided not to leave the excitement to Braun so she had occupied the same seat on the front. Confident, now that she had made her vital telephone call, she had been relaxing and gazing round like a tourist. The sudden departure of the police launch appalled her.

She hurried along the promenade, dashed across the street and into the Hauptbahnhof. She was half-way to the row of telephone booths when she stopped. Across the window of each booth a gummed sticker carried the legend Out of Order. A uniformed policeman strolled up to her and she fought down a moment of panic.

`You wished to use the phone?' he enquired.

'They can't all be out of order,' she protested.

The notice is clear enough,' he replied less politely. 'They are working on the fault now.'

`Thank you…'

She made herself walk out of the Hauptbahnhof slowly. Her pace quickened as she went across to the Bayerischer Hof. Once in her room she picked up the receiver to dial a number. A girl's voice came on the line.

'I am very sorry but there is a temporary breakdown in the phone system. Would you like to give me a number and I will call you as soon as…'

`It's not important…'

Exerting her exceptional self-control Klara Beck put down the receiver and lit a cigarette. God, would she be blamed for not warning Dietrich. What the bloody hell was going on?

'Cut all the lines to the mainland…'

At the police station Erich Stoller gave the order immediately he received Martel's signal. In the same room with him a policeman sat with the phone to his ear – the line held open to the exchange where they were waiting for precisely this order. The turning of three switches isolated Lindau island from all telephonic communication with the outside world.

On hearing the order a second policeman left the room and ran to the radio-control office. A signal went out to patrol-cars strategically placed in advance. The road bridge to the mainland was blocked. Other patrol-cars appeared at the mainland end of the rail embankment, closing off the cycle track and footpath.

A 'fault' developed in the signal box controlling rail traffic to Lindau, stopping all trains. Only a man with Stoller's authority could have achieved this result. Now his main worry was what might be happening out on the lake.

Werner Hagen was supremely confident as he led his team of windsurfers to encircle and engulf the launch. The element of surprise was everything. The blond giant was the first to reach the port side of the stationary launch and he placed one bare foot over the side prior to temporarily abandoning his sail. His right hand held the large-bladed knife ready for the first lunge.

He was surprised to see a girl, her features concealed behind a face-mask, and then he was otherwise occupied. Martel came out of the wheelhouse wielding a boat-hook. He had guessed Hagen was the leader – it was written all over him.

The swing of the boat-hook ended as it struck Hagen a vicious blow at the side of the head. He sprawled full-length inside the launch, lifting his head in time to meet the carefully calculated thud of Martel's gun barrel. He collapsed unconscious.

A second man was coming aboard, knife in hand, when Claire aimed her pistol and shot him three times in the chest. Blood spurted and formed a pool below the deck-planks. Martel looked round and summed up the situation. Four killers left. Three still forming a crescent round his bow, another coming up behind the stern. He heaved Claire's target overboard, dashed back inside the wheelhouse and opened up full throttle.

The trio blocking his passage could not react in time. The launch moved too suddenly, too fast. One moment it was stationary, then it was a projectile hurtling towards them, its bow smashing their frail craft, weathered wood hanimering into pliable flesh.

One man, giving, a final scream, was literally keel-hauled as the launch beat his already-broken body to pulp. The other two men lay floating close together in a patch of lake which suddenly became red, their bodies crumpled like the relics of their sails.

`There's the man behind us,' Claire called out.

Martel was already taking appropriate action as he put the engine into reverse and moved backwards at speed, steering by glancing over his shoulder. The stern of the launch struck the surviving killer, he fell and the propeller passed over him.

`We'll run for it,' he told Claire. 'I think I see Dorner on the way…'

Friday May 29

It was a sunny, hot, sweaty day in Paris when Howard flew in to Charles de Gaulle. He was attending the conference to finalise security aboard the Summit Express. Typically he travelled alone. Typically he wore country tweeds.

From the airport a car sent by Alain Flandres drove him to No. 11, rue des Saussaies, official headquarters of the Surete. This narrow, twisting street, only a few minutes' walk from the Elysee, is rarely noticed by tourists. Inside an archway uniformed policemen watch the entrance.

Flandres often chose the complex of sombre old buildings for a clandestine meeting. The place was well-guarded, there was much coming and going by plain-clothes detectives – so the arrival of three civilians in separate cars was unlikely to attract attention. The head of the French Secret Service was waiting to greet Howard in a second-floor room equipped with a table, chairs and little else.

'Good to see you, Alain,' Howard said tersely.

'I am delighted to welcome you to Paris, my friend,' Flandres replied enthusiastically as he shook hands and turned to a man already seated at the table.

'You know Tim O'Meara, of course? Just in from Washington…'

'We had the pleasure of meeting once,' the American interjected. He shook hands without rising from his chair and resumed smoking his cigar.

They sat round the highly polished table while Flandres poured drinks. Howard fiddled with the new pad and pencil in front of him, sitting stiff-backed. O'Meara did not improve on further acquaintance he was thinking. Heavily built, in his early fifties, the American had a large head, was clean-shaven, wore rimless glasses and exuded self-confidence. He did not behave as the 'new boy'.

The fact was Tim O'Meara had only been chief of the American Secret Service detachment which guarded his President for a year. In his loud check sports jacket – he also was obviously playing the tourist – he settled his bulk in his chair as though he had been a member of the club for a decade.

As he poured the drinks Alain Flandres observed all this with a hint of Gallic amusement. Short and of slim build, Flandres was impeccably dressed in a lounge suit despite the heat. Also in his early fifties, the Frenchman's features were finely chiselled and he sported a trim, pencil-style moustache the same colour as his well-brushed dark hair.

'Erich Stoller from Germany is due any moment,' he announced as he settled in his own chair and lifted his glass. 'Gentlemen – welcome!'

He sipped at his cognac, noted that Howard took a big gulp while O'Meara swallowed half his glass of neat Scotch. There was tension under the surface, Flandres observed. This was a gathering of nervous men. Who was the catalyst?

The door opened and Erich Stoller was ushered into the room. His tall, thin figure was in extreme contrast to the other three, as was his manner. He tended to listen, to say very little. He apologised for his late arrival.

'An unexpected problem required my urgent attention…'

He left it at that. It was mid-afternoon and he had no wish to reveal that in the morning he had been in Lindau, sealing off the island while Martel took his launch on to the lake. He'd had the devil of a rush to reach Paris – involving a helicopter flight to Munich airport where a plane had waited for him.

'Only some beer,' he told Flandres, sitting bolt upright in his chair. An excellent psychologist, he proceeded to throw Howard completely off Martel's scent by irritating him. 'And how is my friend, Tweed?' he enquired. 'I expected to see him here…'

'Tweed is home-based these days,' Howard said curtly, his face very bony. 'Getting on in years, you know…'

'Really? I thought you were both the same age,' Stoller remarked blandly and drank some beer.

`This isn't his territory,' Howard snapped. 'Maybe we can get on with the subject which brought us to Paris?'

'But, of course!' Flandres agreed, even more amused by this exchange. 'I have the route of the Summit Express…' He proceeded to unroll'a large-scale map of Northern Europe with the route marked in red. He sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette watching the others study the sheet.

Alain Flandres, whose handsome features and easy charm proved so irresistible to women, also had a flair for the dramatic. He made the remark casually and three heads bent over the map jerked up.

'A sighting of Carlos – Manfred – call him what you like, was reported in London this morning – in Piccadilly to be precise

'Manfred! How the hell do you know what's happening in London? And will someone tell me whether he really is Carlos?'

It was Howard who had exploded. Flandres noted he was edgier than he had realised. Why, he wondered? In a casual tone of voice the Frenchman explained.

'A girl operative of mine, Renee Duval, is working at the French Embassy for the moment. This telex just came in from her with an extract from your midday paper.' While Howard read the strip the Frenchman handed him, Erich Stoller commented on Carlos.

'Carlos has no known base. Manfred has no known base. No one is sure of the real appearance of Carlos. The same applies to Manfred. Carlos has been known to take temporary refuge behind the Iron Curtain – as has Manfred. Both are independents who cooperate with the KGB only when it suits them.'

`So there are two of them?' Howard broke in.

'Or,' O'Meara intervened in his gravelly voice, 'has Carlos invented two of them – if so, which is the real one? You omitted, Erich, to add that both men – if two exist – are brilliant assassins.

Flandres studied the American more closely. That is a most telling point you have made, my friend, he was thinking. Howard coloured with annoyance at Stoller's next question.