By Stealth

35

The flight for Hamburg aboard Hamburg Airlines was due to take off at 11.15 a.m. As Paula walked alongside Tweed towards the waiting aircraft she asked the question which had been intriguing her.

`Why Hamburg?'

'To see Hugo Westendorf, the one-time Iron Man of Germany who retired three months or so ago without warning. He was Minister of the Interior.'

`Retired? Suddenly? You don't think…'

`That it's another case like Andover and Delvaux? Yes, I think exactly that,' Tweed said grimly. 'We're going to meet another broken man. I suspect the charming Dr Wand has a long list.'

Newman, followed by Nield and Butler, caught up with them as they approached the aircraft. A staircase led up to the entrance. Newman stared in disbelief.

`What are those things sticking out at the front?' `Propellers, as you well know,' Tweed replied.

`A prop aircraft? I'm not mad keen on them. I prefer a jet.'

`Aircraft with only one propeller won us the Battle of Britain,' Tweed reminded him, suppressing a smile. 'It will get us there.'

`When does this thing reach Hamburg?' Newman asked in a disgruntled tone.

`Thirteen hundred hours. I'm sure it will be prompt.' `Sounds as though it goes via Paris…'

Paula was settled next to Tweed, who had a window seat, when she nudged him. She could hardly believe her eyes.

`Look who else is coming on board. I don't understand what is happening. Are we being followed? How did they find out we'd been on this flight?'

`Too many questions,' Tweed replied, gazing out of the window.

Brigadier Burgoyne, carrying an expensive case, was walking down the aisle. He looked neither to right nor to left as he followed the steward and barked out the order.

`We want four seats at the back of the plane…'

Lee Holmes followed him at a more leisurely pace. Stopping by Paula, she leaned across her to speak to Tweed.

`What a super coincidence. I did enjoy our frolic at the Copenhagen Tavern.'

`My pleasure.' Tweed was still staring out of the window.

`Where are you staying in Hamburg?' Lee persisted, throwing a wave of blonde hair over her coat collar.

`Four Seasons Hotel,' he said brusquely.

`May see you…'

She had to move on as Helen Claybourne nudged her back with her own case. Helen walked straight past without saying one word, hurrying to catch up. Willie brought up the rear, halted with a beaming smile as he addressed Paula.

`I really had a fabulous time with you. Best company I had by far in Brussels. Everybody else seemed utterly second-rate. Love to repeat the experience at the earliest opportunity. Oh, dear, I'm holding up the troops. Until next time…'

The aircraft was equipped with thirty-six passenger seats. It was half empty when they closed the door and Paula glanced back. The Burgoyne quartet was seated at the rear, well out of earshot. Newman had his face buried in a newspaper: she suspected he hadn't looked up as the new arrivals passed him. Butler and Nield sat away from each other in separate seats. The propellers began to spin, jerkily at first, then racing into a circular blur. Slowly the machine moved forward, accelerated, and then they were airborne.

Paula waited until the pilot announced, first in German, then in English, that they would be flying at a maximum altitude of 21,000 feet and at a speed of 500 k.p.h. Paula looked back at Newman who made a gesture of disgust. The vibration was greater than on a jet.

`You didn't seem pleased to see them come aboard,' she said to Tweed.

`That was the impression I wished to create,' he replied cryptically.

`The Burgoyne quartet.' Paula rather liked the phrase. `It sounds like a jazz combo.' She chuckled.

Tweed's expression was blank. He felt sure Vulcan was on board. But who was he? To say nothing of a woman who was a professional assassin. And who was she?

He went on gazing out of the window. For the first part of the flight they might have been passing over the Arctic. Tumbled masses of white clouds gleamed in the sunlight. Here and there a towering cloud summit looked like some massive iceberg. As they came closer to Hamburg the weather cleared. Tweed looked down with interest on a mosaic of neat green and brown cultivated farmland. They passed over a blue lake, dense islands of green forest. From this lower altitude he had a much better view. The plane had begun its descent…

`Why did you tell her where we're staying?' Paula asked. 'Are you looking forward to another frolic – I think that was the word she used – with her?' she teased.

`They could have followed us in another taxi.'

`I think you want to keep an eye on them,' she probed. `I want us to be first off this plane,' he told her.

Tweed was always pleased to arrive in Hamburg. It had the reputation of being the most 'English' of all German cities. Not that it was a bit like London: the description referred to the friendly attitude of the inhabitants.

`That plane flew like a rusty sewing machine,' Newman remarked. 'And vibrated like one.'

Tweed and Paula were travelling with him in a taxi from the airport. The vehicle had been crawling in a traffic jam down a tree-lined boulevard. The air was fresh, the atmosphere rural.

`It got us here,' Tweed reminded him. 'And in interesting company.'

`Lee nearly had a row with the steward after we'd at long last taken off. She put a cigarette into that fat holder of hers. The steward told her it was a non-smoking plane. She eventually got it across to him she had no intention of lighting the cigarette. And how the blazes did they come to be aboard?'

`I think I've worked it out,' Tweed said. 'Don't ask me yet. I want to be sure.'

`It doesn't seem possible,' Paula insisted. 'You brought us the tickets. As soon as we arrived we boarded that funny little bus which dropped us close to the plane. So where did they get the time to work it out? Maybe it is a coincidence.'

`Don't believe in them,' Tweed advised.

Newman looked back through the rear window. Butler and Nield had taken separate taxis. Marler had told him before they left the Hilton that he'd be hiring a car. A man who always liked independent transport.

They arrived at the palatial entrance to the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten – the Four Seasons – and uniformed porters appeared immediately to take their luggage. Tweed hurried up the wide steps into the luxurious interior. Monica had booked rooms for them and the receptionist informed Tweed their accommodation was ready. After registering he showed Paula his room number, entered the lift by himself, then walked straight out again as he spotted the concierge who had been so helpful on his last visit.

`I want to visit a friend of mine who lives near Blankenese. Hugo Westendorf. Can you give me the exact address and his phone number?'

`The Schloss Tannenberg,' the concierge replied promptly. 'But not quite as far as Blankenese. The schloss is in the district of Nienstedten. You reach it before you arrive at Blankenese. Now, the phone number – and I will draw you a little map to locate the schloss. It is difficult on a printed map…'

Tweed had his old room, number 311, which was more like a suite. There was a lounge area near the windows overlooking the lake – the Binnen Alster. Tipping the porter, Tweed sat down to phone the number as soon as he was alone. The odd atmosphere began with his phone call. He tried speaking in English first.

`My name is Tweed. I know Mr Westendorf. I have just arrived from England and would like to speak to him.'

I understand,' the man's voice at the other end replied. `It would be helpful if you would stay on the line for a moment or two…'

Tweed waited. The butler? The voice had sounded very official but hardly that of a servant. Tweed realized the line was probably tapped – as had been Andover's and, later, Delvaux's. He had reached the stage where he wanted to stir up the opposition. The voice came back.

`Mr Westendorf will be happy to see you this evening. If you could arrive at 6 pm. May I ask where you are staying?'

`The Four Seasons Hotel, room number 311.'

`Thank you, sir. We will be expecting you. At 6 pm.'

Tweed was disturbed as he put down the phone. Nothing had been as he'd expected. He had anticipated Westendorf answering the phone – if anyone at all had responded to his call. He had pictured the German existing on his own inside the schloss – his wife had died several years ago.

Westendorf had one seventeen-year-old son. Tweed had assumed he might well have been kidnapped. Something strange had compelled the German to throw up his career without warning. What was going on in Germany? Tweed sensed the pattern he had uncovered with Andover and Delvaux was now being repeated in Hamburg. Someone tapped on the door. It was Paula.

`What a lovely room,' she enthused. 'And a super view from the window.'

`I think they've installed that lovely fountain gushing in the middle of the lake since I was last here. Maybe I've forgotten it.'

`And if I know you, you've forgotten it's time we went down and had some lunch.'

`Something quick. I don't feel like a full-dress effort. I know. The bar…'

Newman was about to knock on the door when they went into the corridor. Paula was revelling in the peace of the hotel. A chambermaid wished them `Guten Tag' as they entered the lift. The bar opened off the spacious lobby which had a large sitting area. Small and comfortably furnished with leather banquettes, the bar was empty except for the barman who came forward.

`I can make do with ham sandwiches – if that's all right with both of you,' Tweed suggested.

`And to drink, sir?' the barman enquired.

`A bottle of champagne,' Newman decided.

`Mineral water for me,' Tweed ordered.

Once the barman had gone Tweed told them about his call to the Schloss Tannenberg. He had just finished when Marler peered in. He gave a discreet thumbs-up sign and disappeared.

`That means he's got a car,' Newman said.

`It will be after dark when we get there,' Tweed ruminated aloud. 'Odd the emphasis that man put on six pm.'

`We'll find out when we get there,' Newman assured him.

At 5.15 pm. Tweed, muffled against the cold in an overcoat, collar turned up, was walking up and down outside the hotel with Paula. She also wore her coat buttoned to her neck. The night was clear, star-studded, and the temperature had dropped below zero. It was the first day of December.

Newman stood smoking a cigarette as a very large black Mercedes 600 pulled in to the kerb. Paula stared at its size as, behind the wheel, Marler called out through his open window.

`Don't just stand there freezing. Hop in.'

They had left the outskirts of Hamburg behind when Tweed asked the question. They were moving through a district of impressive two-storey villas in spacious grounds behind high railings. Hardly any other traffic.

`How on earth did you get hold of this mobile palace?' he asked.

`Oh,' Marler drawled, 'I said I was driving a top official to visit a Minister. After all, he was one – once.' He eyed Tweed in the rear-view mirror. 'This chariot is costing you a bomb. And from the map you gave me we're nearly there.'

Paula, revelling in the space, the warmth from the heaters, caught glimpses of the solid villas as the headlights swung round bends. A very expensive area.

Marler suddenly stopped, stiffened like a fox scenting danger. He had been driving slowly for the past five minutes, peering at elaborate name plates by the side of high gates and illuminated with lanterns. All the gates had been shut but this pair was open. Schloss Tannenberg. Tweed sensed his alertness.

`Something wrong?'

`I think you ought to go in equipped.' He opened a hold-all on the seat beside him, produced a. 32 Browning automatic which he handed Paula with spare ammo. For Newman he had a hip holster, a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 Special with ammo. Before replying to Tweed he waited while Newman strapped on the hip holster, checked the gun, loaded it, slipped it inside the holster, put his jacket and coat on again. Paula had slipped her Browning into her shoulder-bag after checking and loading it.

`Something is wrong,' Marler reported. 'Look out of the window. Gates wide open – and one of those dragon's teeth chains laid across the drive a few yards beyond the entrance.'

`But where did you get the weapons?' Tweed demanded.

He was annoyed: they had no permits to carry weapons inside Germany. On the other hand Benoit had warned about 'a zone of maximum danger'.

`This afternoon – while you were all having a kip – I was busy,' Marler said in an ironic tone. 'I visited a chum, a German arms dealer on a barge along the waterfront. He told me business had tailed off something shocking since the Berlin Wall went down. I got this lot for a song – plus Walthers for Butler and Nield. And an Armalite for myself. All a question of knowing the right people.'

`Or the wrong ones,' Tweed rebuked him. 'Now I'm going to walk up that drive. Bob, Paula, you can follow at a distance. I don't want to startle Westendorf.'

`I'll find somewhere to park the car,' Marler decided.

Tweed walked slowly up the tarred drive, his footsteps making no sound. He stepped over the dragon's teeth chain – which would rip a vehicle's tyres to pieces and stop it in seconds. It was too quiet.

He could see the old two-storey stone villa in the distance. Lights on in the ground-floor windows behind closed curtains. On either side of the drive high, dense banks of rhododendron bushes concealed the grounds. He reasoned that the oppressive silence was due to the German occupying the villa by himself. Like Andover. Like Delvaux…'

The muzzle of a gun was rammed into the back of his neck. At the same moment a hand descended on his shoulder, a voice growled the command in English.

`Make one wrong move and I'll blow your head off.'

Inside the Four Seasons, Pete Nield, smartly dressed as always in a business suit, wandered into the spacious lounge area adjoining reception. A very attractive woman with a blonde mane, wearing a form-fitting black dress, sat on a couch. The dress was slit up one side and she had her elegant legs crossed. Lee Holmes.

Nield paused by a table of German newspapers and magazines. He pretended to be looking for something to read. Lee called out to him in her husky voice.

`Don't I know you? Surely you were at the Hilton back in Brussels? You were.' She patted the seat beside her. `Do please come and sit with me. I'm bored to distraction. I desperately need some entertaining man. You fit the bill.'

I would have thought there'd be a queue of men – waiting to distract you.' Nield fingered his trim moustache as he sat close to her. 'And of course I do remember seeing you, but you were always chaperoned by some man. Severe-looking type. My bad luck, I thought.'

`A gallant man.' She sighed, her bosom rising. 'How rare these days.' Her bare arm touched his sleeve as she took out her jewelled cigarette holder, inserted a cigarette. Nield flicked his lighter into flame. She shook her head and smiled warmly. 'I'm giving it up – this is testing my will-power. Absolutely silly, really.'

Nield smiled. He had known about her technique, but wanted her to feel he knew nothing about her.

`Why are you so bored?' he asked. 'I saw you with a military type who seemed very distinguished.'

`Brigadier Burgoyne. Distinguished for wanting his own way. Now he's trotted off on some official business, indulging in one of his investigations. He regards me as a piece of the furniture.' She smiled again. 'The only compensation is the pay is good.'

`Thank Heaven for small mercies. What would you like to drink?'

`Champers! To celebrate the beginning of our friendship.'

Tweed froze, remained quite still. The gun muzzle against his neck felt cold as ice. The hand on his shoulder was large and had a strong grip. Then he heard a new voice.

`This gun is pressed into your spine. Drop your own or you'll be a cripple for life. At the best,' Newman concluded.

Tweed heard a tiny click: the safety catch being put on. Then a much louder sound as the weapon hit the tar. He turned round slowly. The first voice had sounded familiar, so he was not too surprised to face Chief Inspector Otto Kuhlmann of the Criminal Police from Wiesbaden.

`A nice warm friendly welcome to Germany, Otto,' he said genially. 'But what the hell are you doing here?'

Newman had holstered his weapon. Kuhlmann bent down, retrieved his own gun, straightened up, and glared at Newman. The German police chief was short in stature but had very wide shoulders. He always reminded Newman of old films he'd seen starring Edward G. Robinson. The same wide mouth, tough face, thick dark hair and eyebrows. The same alert eyes and dynamic energy. A powerhouse of a police chief – and one of Tweed's old friends.

`My apologies,' Kuhlmann began, 'but we get a call from a man who says he is Tweed. That is, one of my officers took that call. Can we be sure of your identity? And in the dark you were just a shadow. We are taking no chances.'

`Neither am I,' Newman told him. 'Like you, I just saw a shadow with a gun. I'm not apologizing.'

`You have a permit for that weapon?' Kuhlmann asked in a gentle voice.

`He hasn't,' Tweed said quickly. 'But if I am right about what has been experienced by Hugo Westendorf protection was in order.'

`I may forgive you, Newman.' Kuhlmann turned to Tweed. 'Shall we see what is going on inside Schloss Tannenberg – before we freeze to death out here…?'

Tweed braced himself for his first sight of Westendorf. He remembered him well from the time the German Minister, as he then was, had visited Britain incognito to attend a meeting of INCOMSIN – the International Committee of Strategic Insight.

The German had been six foot two inches tall, of slim build, and with a strong-boned face and a high forehead. His mind had been like quicksilver, his manner courteous, and his energy phenomenal. Tweed dreaded what he was about to witness.

Kuhlmann pressed the bell beside the heavy closed door four times in quick succession, then once again after a pause. As it was, when the door was opened a few inches the first thing Tweed saw was the muzzle of a Heckler and Koch 9mm sub-machine-gun. The man holding it came into view, a plain-clothes detective without a smile. Was this the voice which had answered him on the phone, Tweed wondered.

They were admitted with Kuhlmann ushering in Paula, whom he hugged, and then the other two. Tweed then had the shock of his life.

'We shouldn't talk,' Tweed warned quickly. 'This place is probably bugged.'

'It was,' Kuhlmann replied. 'I ripped out every listening device myself.'

But it was Hugo Westendorf Tweed was staring at. The German had crossed the large hall with a brisk step, holding out his hand. He carried himself erect, his grip was strong. There were no signs of strain on his face and he greeted his visitor with a warm smile.

`Welcome to Schloss Tannenberg, my friend. It is so very good to see you.'

'And I thought someone – maybe your son, Franz – had been kidnapped.'

`But he has been. Three months ago. Which is why I resigned. It was a demand of the kidnappers – which I at once acceded to.'