Pariito Strasbourg – French. From Strasbourg via Stuttgart and Munich to Salzburg – German. The last stage, Salzburg to Vienna – American, with nominal cooperation from the Austrians. Alain Flandres, in sparkling good humour, did most of the talking.
Howard was allocated a 'mobile' role – his team would cover all three sectors. Flandres went over his sector in detail, pointing out potential danger points from terrorist attack – embankments, bridges. O'Meara, puffing his cigar, decided the Frenchman knew his job.
Then it was Erich Stoller's turn and again O'Meara was impressed. The German paused as he reached a certain point on the map and was silent for a short time. Something in his manner heightened the tension inside the airless room as he prodded with his finger.
'Here the express crosses into Bavaria. There is a certain instability in this area. It is unfortunate the state elections take place the day after the train crosses this sector…'
The neo-Nazi business? Delta?' Howard enquired.
`Tofler,' O'Meara said with great conviction. 'His support is growing with each fresh discovery of more Delta arms and uniforms. And Tofler is a near-Communist. His programme includes plans for detaching Bavaria from West Germany and making it a "neutral" province or state like Austria. That would smash NATO and hand Western Europe to the Soviets on a platter…'
'Chancellor Langer is fully aware of the problem,' Stoller said quietly. 'His advisers tell him Tofler will not win…'
Flandres arranged for excellent food and drink to be brought in and they continued going over the route untile late in the evening. The Frenchman sipped at his glass of wine as he looked round at his colleagues, all of whom were now in shirt-sleeves. The evening was warm and clammy. The bombshell fell after he made his remark.
I am beginning to think, gentlemen, that the main requirement for our job is stamina…'
He broke off as an armed guard entered the room and handed him a message. He read it, frowned and looked at Howard. 'This says the British ambassador is outside with an urgent signal which he must pass to you at once.'
The Ambassador?' Howard was shaken but nothing showed in his expression. 'You mean he has sent a messenger…'
'I mean the Ambassador in person,' Flandres said firmly. 'And I understand he wishes to hand you the signal himself while you are present at this meeting.'
'Please ask him to come in,' Howard requested the guard.
A tall distinguished man with a white moustache entered the room holding a folded slip of paper. Everyone stood, brief introductions took place, and Sir Henry Crawford handed the folded slip'to Howard.
'Came direct to me, Anthony – in my personal code. No one except myself knows about it. It was accompanied by a request that I came here myself. Reasonable enough – when you read the contents.' He looked round the room. 'A pleasure to meet you all and now, if you will excuse me…'
Howard had unfolded the slip and read it several times before he sat down and gazed round the table. His expresssion was unfathomable but the atmosphere had changed. The Englishman spoke quietly, without a trace of emotion.
'This signal is from Tweed in London. He makes an assertion – I emphasise he gives no clue as to his source. Only the gravity of the assertion compels me to pass it on to you under such circumstances …'
`If Tweed makes an assertion,' Flandres commented, 'then we can be sure he has grounds for doing so. The more serious the assertion the less likely he is to reveal the source. It might endanger the informant's life…'
`Quite so.' Howard was aware that his armpits were stained with dampness. He cleared his throat, glanced at each man and read out the contents of the signal.
Reliable source has just reported unknown assassin will attempt to eliminate one – rePeat one – of four VIP's aboard Summit Express. No indication yet as to which of four will be target. Tweed.
CHAPTER
Friday May 29
On the morning of the day when the four security chiefs met in Paris for their afternoon conference, Martel's launch headed for a remote landing-stage on the eastern shore of Lake Konstanz.
Werner Hagen, sole survivor of the windsurfer execution squad, lay helpless in the bottom of the launch. His mouth was gagged, wrists, knees and ankles were bound with strong rope and a band of cloth was tied round his eyes. All he could hear was the chugging of the engine, all he could feel was the compression of the ropes and the glow of the sun on his face.
Inside the wheelhouse Martel steered the craft closer to their objective, guided by Claire who stood alongside him. The mist had dispersed, the shoreline was clear, and he slowed down until they were almost drifting as he scanned the deserted stony beach, the crumbling relic of a wooden landing-stage.
'You're sure we won't run into someone – campers, people like that,' he checked as the momentum carried them forward in a glide.
'Stop fussing,' she chided. 'I told you – I know this area. I used to meet Warner here when he came down from Munich. And last night I parked the hired Audi among those trees before I walked to the nearest railway station to catch a train back to Lindau.'
'I don't see the Audi…'
'You're not bloody meant to see it!' she exploded. 'When are you going to give me credit for being able to cope on my own? You know your trouble, Martel?'
'If I don't do a job myself I start worrying about it…'
'Right! So have a little faith. And – before you ask me – I do know the way to that old water-mill I mentioned, which is another place where Warner and I used to meet. Although why we're driving there I don't understand…'
'To interrogate Blond Boy…'
He had carried Werner Hagen to the car and dumped him on the floor in the rear, folding him up like a huge doll so no part of him protruded above window level. Then he had relaxed while Claire took the wheel and drove them some distance to another crumbling relic – the water-mill, located at a remote spot in the Bavarian countryside.
Everything was exactly as Claire had described it. There was no way of guessing the purpose the mill had once served – but the huge wheel still turned ponderously as foaming water from the rapids behind the structure revolved the wheel. Martel studied the wheel, watching the blades dip below the surface before they emerged dripping to commence another revolution.
`Yes,' he decided, 'it will work…'
'What will work?'
'My new version of the old Chinese water torture. Blond Boy has to talk…'
It took their combined strength to manhandle the German into the required position. Before they started Martel told Clair to don her face-mask again. 'To scare the living daylights out of him he has to see- which means removing his blindfold. Tuck your hair up inside the back of your mask. You're wearing the slacks left in the car – he'll think you're a man…'
With her face-mask adjusted she helped Martel as he stood on the platform above the slow-turning wheel. They spread-eagled Hagen over a part of the wheel clear of the water and moved rapidly – whipping more rope round his recently-freed ankles and attaching them to one of the huge blades.
To make it worse, Martel had laid the German with his head downwards so it submerged under the water first while the upper part of his body was still above the surface. It took them ten minutes to secure Hagen's splayed body to the wheel and then the blindfold was removed. He glared with hatred at Martel and then a look of doubt crossed his handsome face as he caught sight of the sinister figure of Claire.
Standing very erect, wearing Martel's jacket to conceal her bosom, she stared through the face-mask at the German with her arms crossed, her pistol in her right hand. She looked the epitome of a professional executioner.