'McNeil, stay flat!' Martel yelled again.
Three men apparently waiting for passengers had produced hand-guns.
Martel had just shot Vinz… Claire was firing at the 'pilot'…
The three new Delta professionals were aiming their weapons at the still-prostrate form of McNeil… There was panic spreading among the other passengers… A woman screamed and went on screaming and screaming…
A steady drum-fire of fresh shooting filled the hall and Martel watched in amazement as all three Delta assassins fell to the floor. Men in civilian clothes appeared from different parts of the hall armed with Walther automatics. One of them came up to Martel, an identity card held up in his left hand.
`BND, Mr Martel. Josef Gubitz at your service. The others you see are my men.'
'How the hell did you know…'
The plane's pilot transmitted the message the Englishman on the passenger list named Mason had sent, transmitted it to Stoller as instructed.'
'Who instructed him?'
'A man called Tweed in London. Any signals sent by Mason from the aircraft to be immediately transmitted to us. Stoller reacted from Bonn by sending us here. It was kind of complicated…' The German, a small, well-dressed man, looked over his shoulder at the carnage in the hall. but it worked.'
'Thank God for that – and thank you.'
Claire was helping McNeil to her feet who was looking down at her grazed knees as Martel joined them. She looked at Martel. 'You know something? My nylons are ruined. Do you think I could indent for a new pair?'
Martel, Claire and McNeil were sitting in the Englishman's room at the Hotel Clausen. The two women drank tea as Martel checked the four photocopy dossiers McNeil had brought him. McNeil sat in an armchair next to Claire and placed her cup on the table. The Swiss girl was marvelling at her placidity.
'That tea you poured me was just right,' McNeil announced. 'It was nice and strong -just a dash of milk and no sugar. You can't beat a cup of tea after a bit of a dust-up.' She paused. 'Mason tried to get me killed, didn't he?'
'Yes,' said Martel. 'And they wiped him out because by now he had served his treacherous purpose. I'm certain he bugged Tweed's office. I'm equally sure he dressed up in the wind- cheater, beret and sun-goggles, made sure he was spotted by a policeman in Piccadilly and then took off his things – probably in a lavatory – and left them with the gun on a chair in Austin Reed's…'
'Why?' Claire asked.
'To confuse us. Manfred was never within hundreds of miles of London. And it must have been Mason who followed Tweed to London Airport before he boarded Concorde – then repor- ted it back to Manfred. It's odd Howard ever took on a man like that…'
McNeil was watching Martel who had closed the last file. 'Do they tell you anything?' she asked. 'Tweed gave the impression he couldn't find anything but I believe it's there…'
Martel took a sheet of the hotel notepaper, scribbled some- thing on it and showed it to McNeil. She read what was on it, tore the sheet into small pieces, got up and walked across to the toilet. They heard her flush the loo and she came out and sat down again.
'Well?' Martel enquired.
'I thought so, too,' McNeil replied. 'You can't trust Tweed, of course – he keeps so much to himself. The trouble will he proving it …'
`So we leave you here until it's all over with Stoller's armed guard on the door. Claire has some distance to travel – and I'm heading for a different destination. What scares me is we have so little time…'
CHAPTER 26
Tuesday June 2: 2030-2335 hours
Charles de Gaulle Airport, 2030 hours. Flight BE 026 landed on schedule. Howard was among the first passengers to disembark. His special pass took him straight through Customs and Immigration and Alain Flandres was waiting for him with a large Citroen.
'This is what I call service,' Howard remarked as they settled back in the rear and the chauffeur-driven car glided away.
'We pride ourselves on our organisation,' Flandres replied with a cynical smile. 'Since the change of government we have little else to pride ourselves on.'
'As bad as that?' Howard glanced sharply at his companion who, as always, was the soul of relaxation. 'Is everything proceeding according to plan?'
'There is something I do not understand – and in the situation we are faced with incomprehensible things disturb me. I have had a signal from Bonn warning us to expect an urgent communication from Germany during the night. Stoller is not at Pullach
'Well, that's his problem…' Howard dismissed the whole thing with a curt wave of his hand.
'It might be our problem as well,' Flandres responded.
Under Flandres' instructions French security forces at both Orly and Charles de Gaulle were checking all arrivals for known faces. But they missed one person who came in on Flight LH 323 from Munich via Frankfurt. The aircraft landed at Charles de Gaulle at 2215 hours and the passenger, who had travelled first class, passed through the security checks unchallenged.
Elegantly clad in a black Givenchy dress and wearing a string of pearls, she also wore a hat with a veil. Porters carried her Gucci luggage to a waiting chauffeur-driven limousine. She raised her veil briefly for Passport Control.
'I wonder how many ingots of gold she is sitting on in the Bahnhofstrasse,' the Passport official murmured to a colleague after he had returned Irma Romer her Swiss passport and she moved away.
'I wouldn't mind having her sitting on me,' his colleague replied. 'She is a beauty…'
Settling herself in the spacious rear of the car the woman with the veil spoke to the chauffeur as the car was driven away from the airport.
'Emil, we have one hour before the train leaves – so you must drive slowly, kill some time. I must board the Summit Express. five minutes before it departs.'
'My instructions were clear, Madame,' Emil replied. 'There will be no problem.'
'There must be no problem.'
Having issued this injunction, Klara Beck crossed her long legs and relaxed. It had been a rush to drive from the Bavarian schloss to catch the plane at Munich but she was sure she had successfully eluded the man who had tried to follow her. That would be Stoller's doing, of course.
'Stick Stoller,' she thought inelegantly and checked the time by her diamond-studded watch.
Gare de l'Est, 2300 hours. The twelve-coach express stood in the station. At the front the giant locomotive which would haul its precious cargo gleamed under the lights. It had been polished and polished again like a jewel. The chief engine-driver, Jacques Foriot, was the most experienced driver in the whole of France. He stood checking his array of dials and controls and then peered out of his cab.
The first six coaches immediately behind the engine were reserved for the train's illustrious passengers. The Prime Minister of Great Britain, typically, had arrived first. She had gone to bed without delay in Voiture One, the coach attached to the locomotive:
Voiture Two would be occupied by the French President who was at this moment climbing aboard after his swift ride from the Elysee. Alain Flandres stood on the platform, his eyes everywhere as the short, stocky President mounted the steps and disappeared inside. Flandres let out an audible sigh of relief.
'One more worry off my mind,' he remarked to his deputy, Pierre Buzier, a giant of a man with a bushy moustache who towered over his chief. 'And now one more worry on my mind,' Flandres continued with a shrug of his shoulders.
'But he is safe now,' Buzier reassured him. 'It was the drive from the Elysee that bothered us…'
`And you imagine that the next seven hundred-mile ride across Europe does not worry me, my friend?' He squeezed Buzier's huge arm and smiled cynically. 'It will be a long night- followed by a long day