Waldo was a coiled spring, hairs bristling, the softness of the growl from deep in his throat infinitely more menacing than his normal barking. Loomis glanced round to see if help was near at hand. Only a vast expanse of empty water greeted him.
He crouched low, his shotgun out of sight. If this was trouble one blast through the wheelhouse window was liable to take out anyone inside. The helmsman certainly – which meant the vessel would no longer stay on its remorseless course.
It was due to pass within yards on the port side, the side where Loomis waited. The hell of it was he couldn't initiate any action in case they were peaceful sailors going about their lawful occasions as the Brits would phrase it. The thought made him wish he had Tweed on board. He had a feeling Tweed would not just have sat and waited. But what the hell else could he do?
Stand up and address them through his loud-hailer? And present someone with a perfect target. Already he was working on the premise that the approaching cruiser was hostile – without one shred of evidence. Yes! Waldo was evidence – his reaction to the vessel was unusually violent…
They set about the task in a way Loomis had not foreseen. They were almost alongside Oasis when a flutter of dark, pineapple-shaped missiles sailed across the water separating the two vessels and landed in various places. On deck. On the foredeck. At the foot of the companionway. Grenades! Jesus Christ…!
They had slightly different time fuses. One landed underneath Waldo and detonated on impact. The dog disintegrated – into a flying mass of bloody meat and bone, smearing the woodwork. Loomis went crazy. He stood up.
'Bastards!'
His shotgun was levelled point-blank at the tinted glass of the other vessel but before he could pull the trigger a grenade which had landed just behind him exploded. All feeling suddenly left his legs and he found himself floating backwards, falling down the companionway. He landed at the bottom just as one of the grenades which had ended up in the cabin also detonated. It sliced away half his head.
A boathook grappled Oasis's side when ten separate explosions had been counted. The man holding it. wore a frogman's suit. The engine of the killer cruiser had been stopped and another man, also wearing a frogman's suit, leapt nimbly abroad holding a sub-machine gun.
He took only two minutes to search Oasis, to note that Loomis was dead, that no one else was hiding aboard. Then with the same agile movements he returned to his own cruiser, the engine started up and the vessel set on a new course which took it far away from Oasis as swiftly as possible.
In the burning-glass blue of the sky the pilot of a helicopter turned his machine and headed it away from Washington. Over his radio he spoke one word repeatedly.
Extinction… extinction… extinction…
CHAPTER 20
Sunday May 31
The headquarters of Bundesnachrichtentlienst – the BND, the German Federal Intelligence Service located at Pullach – is six miles south of Munich. Erich Stoller's nerve centre was surrounded by a wall of trees and an inner wall comprising an electrified fence. Stoller, with his dry humour, referred to it as 'my own Berlin Wall'. He had just made this remark over coffee to Martel.
Tweed, due to catch the 13.05 flight back to London, was still fast asleep aboard the Oasis owing to the difference in the time zones. They sat in Stoller's office inside a single-storey concrete blockhouse of a building. Through the armour plate-glass window a stretch of bare earth showed where armed guards patrolled. Beyond was the electrified fence and beyond that dense pine trees. It was another hot morning and the temperature was rising rapidly.
'I spent four years in Wiesbaden with the Kriminalpolizei,' the German told Martel. 'Then I transferred to the BND.' 'And after that?'
Martel watched Stoller's dark eyes as he drank some more of the strong coffee, his manner relaxed, his voice expressing friendly interest.
'A year here and then two inside the Zone…' Stoller's tone became sombre at the recollection of his time in East Germany. 'You know what it's like – going underground. It felt like ten years. Every hour of your waking day on the alert, every waking minute expecting a hand to drop on your shoulder. And you don't sleep too well,' he concluded with a wry smile. 'I thought you knew about that period…'
'Tweed doesn't tell me everything,' Martel lied easily. 'How long have you been back in civilisation?'
'Four years – if you can call Bavaria civilisation just at the moment. The riots are getting worse. The neo-Nazis march, the left-wing people counter-march, the two lots meet – and Boom!'
'The state government elections in a few days should solve all that,' Martel suggested.
– 'If Langer's moderates win. The trouble is Dietrich's party and the frequent discovery of Delta arms dumps may drive people into Toiler's left-wing bear-hug. Then he'll set up Bavaria as some kind of so-called Free State – detached from the Federal Republic…'
`You don't really believe that, Erich…'
'I do believe you've just been subjecting me to some kind of personal interrogation and I'm wondering why.'
Martel swore inwardly. He'd had to take the risk Stoller would catch on. Maybe he'd been stupid to try the experiment- facing a fellow-professional. He set out to repair the damage.
'Why so edgy? If we're to work together I like to know about a man. Maybe I can provide you with my career sheet…'
'Sorry!' Stoller raised a hand and smiled his slow, deliberate smile. The German did everything deliberately. He even sipped his coffee as though testing for a suspect ingredient.
`I am edgy,' he went on. 'You would be if you faced a crucial election – just when the Summit Express is crossing your territory with the West's top leaders aboard. My responsibility is the sector from Strasbourg through to Salzburg
`And the German Chancellor?'
`Kurt Langer boards the train at Munich Hauptbahnhof – but I still have the other three to guard through the night from Strasbourg.'
'You sound as though you expect trouble,' Martel suggested. 'I do.' Stoller stood tip behind his desk. 'Shall we collect your friend, Claire Hofer, and drive to Munich?'
`Can I make one phone call to London before I leave?' go and entertain Miss Hofer. No, no! You may prefer to talk in private.' Standing up, Martel reflected, the German was an imposing figure; not the sort of man you would expect to survive behind the Iron Curtain for two years.
'I will be in the canteen where we left her while we talked,'
Stoller informed him. 'Just ask the operator for your number, press the red button and you're on scrambler…'
While he waited for the Park Crescent number Martel studied a wall-map of Bavaria. It showed where caches of Delta arms and uniforms had been found. Flags indicated the discovery dates.
He found it strange that the rate of success was accelerating. No wonder the polls were showing increasing support for Tofler's party as Election Day approached. Each discovery increased the voters' fear of a Delta win. The phone rang and he heard McNeil at the other end of the line. He asked her to supply 'photos of the four principals…'
'Tweed is out of London,' she told him quickly. 'He asked me to give you a message, Keith. Tomorrow, Monday, catch the first available flight to Heathrow where you will be met. You can give me the flight number? Good. And the ETA? Bring a passport picture of Miss Hofer. As soon as the meeting is over you fly back to Bavaria. Time is running out..
`Don't I know it,' Martel replied.
It was a hot Sunday morning in Paris.
Howard had stayed in the city at the urging of Alain Flandres for a further discussion with O'Meara about security precautions aboard the Summit Express. The train was due to leave the Gare de l'Est late Tuesday evening, June 2 – only three days' hence.