'You worked this out pretty well,' Claire commented. 'Because from the Warner killing I know we're up against a first-class brain who thinks out his plans well…'
'Reinhard Dietrich?'
'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.