Rhinoceros (44 page)

Ham
had been Hamburg.
Four S
had been Four Sea
sons 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 clar
ity. 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 weak
ness 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 some
times does repeat itself. You know about the Frankenheims
- I can tell. The first Frankenheim took the name, pre
tended 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 . . .'

Rondel led the way along a devious route through the
complex mansion until they emerged into the hall and he
opened the double doors. As he did so, another figure appeared at the back of the hall, watching them. The
chauffeur. Danzer.

'Safe journey,' Rondel wished them and then they were
outside and the doors closed behind them.

They were moving slowly down the drive when Tweed
glanced back, saw Mrs France dashing after them, still
clutching her hydrangeas.

'Stop the car,' he ordered, lowering his window.

'It's Floral Dress,' said Newman, looking back. 'The
lady who was feeding ducks, who spoke to you as we walked along the edge of the Alster.'

Mrs France was almost out of breath when she reached
them. She thrust the flowers through the open window and
Paula took hold of them. She smiled at the plump-faced lady who had a high colour. Mrs France peered through
her huge thick-lensed spectacles.

'These are really beautiful.'

'That is very kind of you,' said Tweed, smiling.

The woman pushed her face inside the window. She was
very nervous and her hands were trembling. She tried to
speak, then had to start again.

'Mr Tweed, I need to come and see you on my own.
Something is happening which is very serious, which you
should know about. I expect they are watching me from
the house.'

'Four Seasons Hotel,' Tweed said quickly, keeping his
back to the house. He gave her his suite number. 'You would like to come and see me soon? This afternoon? Three o'clock any good to you?'

'I will be there at three. Oh, thank you so much. You
are a nice man. I must go now. They will question me.
I will say I heard Miss Grey comment when you arrived
how much she admired the
hydrangeas.'

'I do . . .' Paula began.

Mrs France didn't hear her. She was hurrying back up the drive to the house.

'That,' said Newman, 'is one very frightened lady.'

CHAPTER 25

On the day Tweed was driven to Millionaires' Row, in London Gavin Thunder stood in his Whitehall office and
gave orders to Montagu Carrington, the aide who had
replaced Jeremy Mordaunt.

'You will, nominally, be in charge while I am away. I
am flying abroad on holiday for five days. Try not to make
too big a mess of things in my absence.'

The heatwave was intensifying and Thunder wore tropical kit. His sharp features seemed even more pronounced,
as though he was in a state of tension. His temper was on
a short fuse.

'A sudden decision, sir,' commented Carrington, a pale-faced man in his thirties who regarded himself as a high
flier. 'May I ask where you are going so I can contact
you?'

'You damned well may not. How can I get a quiet
holiday if people like you are bothering me? My desti
nation is both private and secret. Has your thick head
grasped that?'

'I can at least arrange for a limousine to drive you to the
airport . . .'

'You bloody well won't. I'm driving myself. Got it?'

Carrington, clad in a grey suit quite unsuitable for the weather, frowned. He shifted his feet.

'You are a Minister, sir. You should at least have two bodyguards wherever you are going. Somewhere hot?'

'I know I'm a Minister, you idiot. Has anyone ever told
you that you're like a mangy dog which keeps on chewing
its bone?'

'No, sir, they haven't. . .'

'Well, I'm telling you now.' Thunder's mouth was
tight, his eyes impaled Carrington's. 'No bodyguards. No
limousine. No nothing. Shall I write it down for you?'

'Not necessary, sir.' Carrington had been told wrongly
that as a civil servant it was important to stand up to a Minister. 'Supposing there's an emergency while you're
away,' he suggested in a subdued voice.