'Lucky he was a small man,' Marler said to himself.
He used a handkerchief to pick up Bernie's Beretta pistol, which still had his fingerprints on it, then dropped it into the sack. He next went back to the piled sacks, opened one, took out rubbish, stuffed it inside Bernie's sack. Fastening it, he heaved it over his shoulders, dumped it with the other sacks awaiting collection. His last precaution was to use his handkerchief to remove the few spots of blood on the steps.
For the third time he glanced quickly round the concrete villas No sign of lights, of life. It would be daylight soon. If anyone had heard the shot they'd probably thought it was a car backfiring.
He hurried down the steps. At the bottom he turned left and soon saw a main highway. He guessed that would to the route they'd take when they left Freiburg. Then he saw what he was looking for – a street drain.
Screwing up the blood-stained handkerchief, he pushed it down into the drain. He had once bought it while in Berlin, as one of a set. There was no way it could be traced back to him.
Turning back, he walked down Munzgasse to the hotel. He entered by the door leading into the restaurant.
Five of the thugs were still seated in their booth – with the thin man Marler had picked out as the boss. Then he, recalled Keith Kent's description of the man with Ronstadt in the Zurcher Kredit Bank. A tall thin man with a hard, thin bony face. The description fitted. And Newman had identified him as Vernon Kolkowski. Vernon had two empty steins in front of him and was halfway through a third. He was glowering when Marler walked in. His expression changed to one of disbelief when he saw Marler.
'Goodnight,' said Marler as he passed close to their table. 'Or, rather, good morning.'
Vernon's glower returned. He said nothing as Marler walked on, went up the curving staircase to his room. As soon as he was inside, the door relocked, Marler sat on his bed. He took from his pocket the small mobile, pressed numbers without consulting the piece of paper Tweed had provided with the number of the Colombi. When the night operator came on he asked to be put through to Tweed.
`Marler here. There were twelve little black men. Now there are eleven. And I'm coming to the Colombi – to attach another tracking gizmo to Ronstadt's Audi. Earlier in Basel he had a Citroen.'
'Thank you for keeping me informed…'
Tweed, still up, making notes on a pad, knew what Marler had meant. The twelve men in black Audis had now been reduced to eleven.
34
The repercussions of Marler's encounter with Bernie Warner were far more widespread than he could ever have anticipated. Jake Ronstadt, unable to sleep in his luxurious bedroom at the Colombi, was still up long after a grey and gloomy dawn light had spread over Freiburg. He sat in a chair, wearing an oriental dressing gown with dragons rampant. He was trying to make up his mind whether to move on to Hollental that day, or whether to wait for twenty-four hours.
On the one hand he was very short of time. On the other he knew his troops were fatigued, and by no means at their fighting best. The short, barrel-chested figure wedged in the armchair was also not in good shape. The fact that he had been drinking generous slugs of the precious bourbon he kept in a hip flask had not helped.
He'd had a shock earlier when, hidden in the bar, he'd seen Tweed, Newman and Paula Grey sitting with Sharon and Sir Guy. Where were Tweed's other men? He'd expected they would all head for the Schwarzwalder Hof. They appeared to have split into two forces, which worried him.
He was helping himself to another slug of bourbon when his phone rang. He clambered out of his chair, picked up the instrument.
'Yeah?'
'It's Vernon, Chief. We have a problem.'
'That I could do without. What problem? Spit it out.'
'Bernie has gone missin' – we've looked everywhere and he's just gone…'
'I don't believe you!' Ronstadt yelled down the phone.
'He has to be with you. Goddamn it, he's the printer. I need him as a double-check.'
'I don't get that.'
'You're not supposed to. What the hell are you talkie' about?' he raved. 'Maybe you'll get around to tellin' me what's goin' on.'
'Give me a chance, Chief. We're eatin' in the restaurant here. Bernie recognized one of Tweed's men. Saw him comin' out of the Three Kings place. I thought it was a good moment to cut down the opposition. This guy goes for a walk in the night, I send Bernie after him. The guy comes back! About half an hour later. Bernie never comes back.'
'You shouldn't have sent Bernie, you friggin' idiot.' 'He was the one who recognized him.'
'You said you'd looked everywhere. What in hell does that mean?' Ronstadt snarled.
'Six of us went out. I went myself. Brad nearly got knocked down by a dustcart collectin' rubbish.'
'Pity you weren't knocked down.' Ronstadt took a deep breath to get himself under control. 'Here's what you all do for today. Nothin' at all. Get it? You stay in your rooms and wait there for me to call.'
'OK, Chief. We need the rest.'
'Stick your rest. Why you had to send the printer on a job like that I don't know. Bernie was important. A damn sight more important than you!' he shouted, then slammed down the phone.
He went back to his armchair, slumped into it. He had a lot to think about. Should he try and contact Charlie? No! Charlie would crucify him. He had a deadline to keep and, in his fury, he had thrown away twenty-four hours. Unusually for Ronstadt, he wasn't sure what to do. His mind whirled. Should he ask Charlie to find a substitute for Bernie? No! Even if he risked Charlie's wrath there wasn't time. He reached for his hip flask, then left it in his hip pocket.
He'd have a bath, get dressed, then go down for breakfast. He might get an inkling of what Tweed was up to. Then he had a bright idea. They'd leave for Hollental in the middle of the night. The decision taken, he felt. better. He decided a shower might help to clear his brain. He had the mother of all headaches.
Paula woke, felt her normal alert self. She checked the time. It was only 9.30 am. Maybe they would still be serving breakfast in the dining room. She disliked room service. An American habit. Showering and dressing quickly, she went down and paused at the entrance. They were still serving breakfast.
Ed Osborne, big in a thick white polo-necked sweater and grey slacks, sat at a table by himself from where he could survey the whole room. At a remote corner table Sharon also sat by herself, eating buttered toast with one hand, marking up a file with the other. That woman never stops working, Paula thought. Osborne saw her, looked at her with a forbidding expression, then bent his head over a newspaper.
At another table for four Tweed sat with Newman. He caught her eye, gestured for her to join them. She sat down so she was facing the distant Sharon.
'When I came in,' Tweed said, 'I went over to her and suggested she'd probably sooner be on her own at breakfast. She thanked me for my intuition and consideration.'
'She's a slave-driver,' said Newman, 'the slave being herself. We didn't expect you down so early. You got some sleep?'
'I crashed out. It may not have been for long but I feel I've had the best sleep for days.' She looked up as a waiter stood by her. 'I'll have coffee, a glass of orange juice, and also croissants. Nothing else, thank you.' She looked at Tweed. 'Any idea of what we're doing today?'
'None at all. I'm waiting for Marler to press the button. Look who's just arrived.'
She stared at the entrance. Jake Ronstadt was standing there as she had, scanning the restaurant. She was staring because of the way he was dressed. Granted it was breakfast time, so she wouldn't have expected guests to dress up. But Ronstadt was wearing a brown leather jacket, heavy brown leather trousers and thick-soled shoes. Over his arm he carried a black overcoat and his left hand clutched a baseball cap.