By Stealth

36

They were sitting in a comfortable library Westendorf had suggested as a good place to talk. Their German host stood in front of a blazing log fire inside a huge stone alcove. The walls were lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling and Tweed had the impression the books were read. He was mystified by the situation and phrased his question with care.

`As far as you know, is Franz in good health?'

`You mean,' Kuhlmann intervened, 'has Westendorf received a severed arm or hand – like Andover and Delvaux. The answer is no. Westendorf communicated with me as soon as Franz had been kidnapped. I have worked in great secrecy. The press have no idea of what happened.'

`What action did you take?' Tweed asked.

`I launched the greatest dragnet ever mounted in the Federal Republic. I turned over Germany. Always in secrecy. I contacted informants in the underground criminal world and they started looking. Like so many respectable citizens, they hate the alien refugees – many of whom compete in the rackets.'

`The object was to locate Franz if you could?'

`Only partly.' It was Westendorf who explained. 'I had heard from Andover and Delvaux the dreadful experience they had suffered – I travelled to meet them in Liege. Kuhlmann's main purpose was to keep the kidnappers and my kidnapped son on the move. The doctor who carried out amputations on Andover's daughter, on Delvaux's wife, would need peace and quiet – above all, security – to perform his fiendish work. Kuhlmann made sure they never had the time. He missed trapping them three times by hours – but they kept running like scared rabbits.'

`But what is the present situation?' Tweed enquired.

Kuhlmann had lit one of his cigars. He waved it in the air like a baton as he replied.

`Franz Westendorf was freed from an isolated farmhouse outside Bremen a few hours ago. His three captors were shot dead. I obtained permission from the new Minister of the Interior – a friend of Westendorf's – to use our elite anti-terrorist team.'

`That ends the chance of identifying the mastermind behind all this,' Tweed observed.

`No chance!' Kuhlmann snapped. 'The kidnappers were gypsy rubbish from the East. They'd had no idea who was controlling them. I emphasize I only took this line of action with the full consent of Westendorf.'

`It was blackmail.' The German ex-Minister stiffened as he spoke. 'I will never give in to blackmail. And Franz, who is eighteen in three days' time, holds the same view.'

`You showed a lot of courage,' Tweed remarked. 'But you did resign as Minister, as well as your membership of INCOMSIN and other organizations.'

`On Kuhlmann's advice,' Westendorf told him. 'The aim was to confuse the man behind the kidnapping. At first, he thinks I'm reacting like Andover and Delvaux. Meantime Kuhlmann is harassing the kidnappers, keeping them on the move, always looking over their shoulders.'

`How did you eventually trace Franz?' Tweed asked.

`As I'm sure you know,' Kuhlmann replied, 'from your one-time experience as Scotland Yard's youngest superintendent in Homicide, you need a little luck. But you must have the wit to know it when you are given the luck. A schoolboy identified the original vehicle used in the kidnap as a grey Audi. One of his friends found the empty Audi parked near this villa, little knowing the kidnap was in progress. The schoolboy – for a bit of fun – burst the yellow balloon his friend had attached to the rear of the Audi. I found this fact in a routine report. So I knew the Audi might still have a limp balloon dangling from it – something the kidnappers might not have noticed. I circulated the report.'

`And then?' Tweed enquired as Kuhlmann took a puff at his cigar.

`Having switched cars many times, I'm sure, the damned fools hung on to the Audi. Earlier today a motorcycle patrolman in Bremen saw an Audi stopped in the traffic – and noticed a limp yellow balloon hanging from its rear. It was foggy and he followed it into the country to this farmhouse. He used his radio to Bremen police HQ and I heard the news inside thirty minutes in the Action Centre I'd established here at Berliner Tor. A unit of the anti-terrorist team was flown to Bremen…'

`On rather a long shot,' Tweed commented.

`Not too long. I'd first phoned Bremen and the locals said the farmhouse had been rented three months ago with a bank draft from Luxemburg City. That was enough for me. I ordered the raid to go ahead. You know the result.'

`I congratulate you,' said Tweed.

Westendorf had earlier poured glasses of hock for his guests. He walked over to Paula, sitting next to Newman, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

`All this must have been very tiring for you. I have heard you go almost everywhere with Tweed. How is the hock?'

`Very refreshing,' she replied gratefully.

`Then, gentlemen, I have a suggestion.' Westendorf's blue eyes were alert, his manner decisive. 'I wish to discuss certain very important matters with Tweed. The next step we take. But I find the villa has become claustrophobic, so let us drive to my motor yacht, the Holsten V, moored at Blankenese harbour on the Elbe. And I would be glad of your company,' he said to Paula. `Intelligent women often think of angles men overlook.'

`Good idea,' agreed Tweed. 'But I'm curious about one thing, Kuhlmann. Why did you destroy all the bugs?'

Kuhlmann removed the cigar from his mouth. 'I toyed with the idea of using them – arranging rehearsed conversations. Westendorf vetoed the idea.'

`Why?' Tweed asked his host.

Westendorf made a chopping motion with his hand.

'I resented the abominable invasion of privacy. And Kuhlmann agreed for another reason.'

`I decided,' Kuhlmann explained, 'that psychologically it was another move which would confuse the man directing the kidnappers. What you call a carrot and stick manoeuvre. The carrot was Westendorf resigning all his posts – demanded by the rat who phoned him after the kidnap. Then the stick was my ripping out all the listening devices I had spotted – installed when the villa was empty.'

`Any idea where they were made?' Tweed enquired. `Hong Kong.'

Paula noticed the night had changed as they stepped into Westendorf's stretched black Mercedes limo. It was a damp cold now, the stars had disappeared and wisps of mist were drifting towards the villa across the grounds. She also saw the dragon's-teeth chain had been temporarily removed as they moved down the drive.

At Tweed's request, they stopped outside the entrance and he got out to have a word with Marler sitting behind the wheel of the Mercedes 600. A plain-clothes man was stationed close by under a tree, armed with a sub-machine-gun.

`We're driving to Blankense for a meeting aboard a yacht Westendorf has moored in the harbour,' Tweed told him.

`I'll follow at a discreet difference. Don't argue,' Marler said amiably. 'I've got a feeling-you might just need some back-up…'

Westendorf had taken the wheel with Tweed beside him: in the back Paula revelled in warm comfort with Newman next to her. As they drove past more villas the mist thickened. On both sides they were passing through what – in good weather – would be scenic parkland.

`We are now entering Blankenese,' Westendorf said. `Once it was a small fishing port – now no fishing is permitted any more because the River Elbe is polluted. We pay a high price for the amenities of our modern civilization.'

`A society,' commented Kuhlmann, sitting between Paula and Newman, 'which that flood of refugees waiting east of our frontiers would give their right arms to enjoy.'

`Which is one subject I want us to discuss,' Westendorf remarked, and then concentrated on his driving.

He was driving slowly down a steep hill along a narrow tarred road. Paula had the impression Blankenese was a small town huddled on a series of hills. Peering out of the window she saw, as the mist drifted, villas perched high up and reached by flights of ancient stone staircases. They had left the High Street – deserted – behind and Westendorf drove very slowly as the downward gradient increased.

Blankenese, Paula decided, was now a labyrinth of narrow cobbled streets twisting and sheering up on either side in a way that recalled mountaineering. Frequently, instead of these alley-like streets there were treppes – endless stone staircases mounting up out of sight. By the blurred light of a street lamp she saw the name of one – Becker's Treppe. They had reached the riverside level when she saw another street name briefly under the faint glow of a street lamp. Strandweg.

As Westendorf stopped the car Paula found her nerves were twanging. The mist had become a fog. As they stepped out into it she heard the distant moan of a foghorn and shivered. The atmosphere was so like that night she had stood on the edge of the Lymington marina – waiting for Harvey Boyd to come home.

Following Westendorf's limo at a distance, Marler was bothered. From out of nowhere a bloody great brown Cadillac had appeared. There were two men in the front of the great battle-wagon of a car. He had little doubt they were tailing the limo.

Reaching the river level, the Cadillac turned left along the Strandweg, crawling. It stopped suddenly, Marler braked instantly. The Cadillac was a blurred shadow and he didn't think they had seen him: they were too intent on watching the limo. The fog parted for a moment and he saw the rear of the vehicle, a long radio aerial elevating automatically. They were reporting to someone.

Marler waited. The fog had closed in again, blotting out all sight of the Cadillac. He reached under his seat for the Armalite he had assembled while waiting outside Schloss Tannenberg. Locking the car quietly, he walked along slowly to where the car had parked. It was gone.

`Sorry about the fog,' Westendorf said, leading the way to the harbour. 'The met forecast got it wrong.'

The fog lifted again and Paula saw a small oblong basin fenced off from the Elbe by a jetty wall which ran out a short distance, turned at right angles, continued parallel to the silent river.

It was crammed with yachts. Most of them were cocooned for winter in protective blue-plastic covers. Westendorf had reached the end of the short wall, had turned left along the main rampart. He looked back at Paula.

`The Holsten V is moored by the outer wall. No room in the harbour when I brought her back in.'

Tweed followed close behind Paula while Kuhlmann and Newman brought up the rear. Westendorf took Paula's hand to help her aboard a large luxurious motor yacht. He showed her the way with a torch beam, unlocked a door, ran down a flight of companionway steps, opened a second door. He switched on lights and they were inside a well-furnished saloon. Gleaming brass rails, the wood polished so she could see her face in it.

`Sit yourselves down,' he invited. 'Anyone like a drink to drive out the cold?'

Paula didn't sit. She stood near a window, peering out at the fog which was now a solid grey curtain drawn across the glass. Westendorf sensed her restlessness. He took her by the arm.

`You might find it interesting on the bridge. I'll switch on the radar.'

Another companionway at the far end of the saloon led up to the compact bridge. Westendorf pointed to a screen, turned on the radar. She gazed at the screen. Blank.

`Nothing will be out on the river tonight,' Westendorf remarked. 'Not in this fog. I will leave the door open so you can hear us. Come back into the saloon when you feel like it…'

He went back down the steps, took a bottle of Laurent Perrier champagne from the fridge. Tweed was relaxing on a comfortable leather banquette next to Kuhlmann. Newman was gazing out of a window. Westendorf handed round glasses, took one to Paula.

`It stimulates the brain cells,' he said when he returned. `At least, that is my excuse. Prost!'

`You made a reference to refugees,' Tweed began. `Have you ever met a Dr Wand?'

`Once.' Westendorf sat down, crossed his long legs. 'A curious man. I didn't like him. He has established a branch of his organization in Germany, another in Denmark. He said he was anxious that only talented refugees who would be an asset to the West should be allowed in. My impression was that he was lying. I said nothing. He went away. End of story.'

`But not end of the refugee story,' Tweed persisted. 'I remember you held strong views as Minister when you attended a meeting of INCOMSIN in London.'

`That is so. There are literally millions of refugees from all over the East – including gypsy hordes – who are waiting on the other side of the Oder-Neisse frontier ready to swarm in on us. They see Western Europe as a treasure-house of good things and if this tidal wave was to come they would destroy Europe's economy. I proposed taking a leaf out of the old Soviet Union's book – when they stopped their citizens fleeing here. They, of course, were very different, more civilized people.'

`Exactly how would it have worked?'

`To put it bluntly, I wanted to create a new death belt from the Baltic to the Adriatic. The refugee masses would be warned illegal crossing was verboten – would be lethal. I wanted a half-mile zone of no passage. Watch-towers on our side with guards armed with swivel-mounted machine-guns. Armed patrols with fierce dogs. And the lacing of the zone with anti-personnel mines. Also warships would patrol the coasts, checking any vessel from the East night and day. I would have saved Europe – but many illegals are now in our midst.'

`Did it occur to you,' Tweed asked, 'that a hostile power might smuggle in saboteurs and spies among the refugees?'

`It did.'

Tweed produced a copy of the photograph of the German coast, the islands, and the River Elbe including Hamburg. Showing it first to Kuhlmann, he then handed it to Westendorf.

`Does that cross marking a location downriver mean anything to you? A village, perhaps?'

`Oh, this must be Neustadt-Something – I forget the exact name. A new colony of houses. Inhabited, so I hear, by macho young executive types who drive Porsches and similar expensive cars. They keep very much to themselves.'

`How recently was the place occupied? The houses sold?'

`A few months ago. I'm not sure when. But recently.'

`I think Otto should have that photo.' Tweed turned to Kuhlmann. 'May I suggest you go nowhere near the place until I give you the signal. Then you raid it before dawn. I know of a similar colony on the south coast of Britain and another near Ghent in Belgium. It will be very important that we all synchronize the raids – to give no time for one lot to warn another.'

`There is a similar and larger development near the west coast of Denmark,' Westendorf commented. 'In Jutland – between the port of Esbjerg and the German frontier. A lonely area – especially in winter.'

`You mean about here,' Tweed suggested, producing another photograph. 'But how do you know about it?'

`Yes, apparently about there where the cross is marked. How do I know? Andover tracked it down. He travelled a lot, posing as a bird-watcher. He was very clever. At my most recent meeting with him in Liege he said this new development in Jutland was still unoccupied, although all the houses had been sold and furnished. He said because it faced the open sea – and Denmark is such a peaceful country – that the headquarters of a frightening subversive organization would be established there soon.'

`I have grim news,' Tweed said. 'Andover is dead – murdered in Liege. And the body of Delvaux's wife, Lucie, was discovered the other day floating in the Meuse. The attack on our way of life is accelerating.'

When he found the Cadillac had disappeared Marler moved fast. The fog lifted long enough over the harbour for him to see Tweed and the others boarding a ship. To his left – beyond the harbour – a stone wall bordered a wide footpath off from a steep green slope.

He ran past the harbour, the Armalite looped over his shoulder. Hoisting himself over the wall, he dropped on to deep soggy grass. He climbed the slope a short distance, turned round, leaning against the trunk of a tree. He was just in time to see the exact position of the motor yacht. Raising the rifle equipped with a night scope, he aimed it above the deck, which then vanished.

Marler settled down to wait, a task he was well accustomed to.

`I am shocked and appalled at this news,' Westendorf said to Tweed. 'Andover was one of the few first-class brains we had in the West. He saw the world globally.'

`And this is a global organization we are up against,' Tweed replied. 'A woman called Hilary Vane was murdered as she had disembarked from a transatlantic flight from Washington. Which could only mean someone at Dulles Airport in Washington had seen her board the flight, had relayed the news to London. One of my own people was nearly killed when an aircraft left Bangkok and blew up in mid-air. Fortunately I warned him to fly a different route at the last moment. Global,' he repeated. `Worldwide.'

Paula was still on the bridge, sipping her champagne. Her eyes were glued alternately to the blank radar screen and the fog hanging over the invisible Elbe.

Only half listening to the conversation in the saloon, she was tense, keyed up. She began concentrating on the fogbound river. She frowned, leaned forward. The fog was swirling, creating strange shapes. Then she saw a vague outline, a faint shape coming towards the Holsten V.

She hammered her glass down on a ledge, turned, and ran down the steps into the saloon.

`Leave this ship!' she shouted. 'Now! Don't hesitate! Move, damn you…!'

Westendorf reacted instantly. He grabbed her round the waist with one arm, used the other to lift up her legs, ran up the exit companionway, stepped swiftly ashore as the cold clammy fog hit him, continued running along the jetty.

Behind them as he carried her up the companionway Paula heard Tweed shouting something, the clatter of footsteps rushing up on deck. Westendorf reached the shore, put her down as the others – Tweed, Kuhlmann and Newman – arrived, breathing hard.

`What the hell…!' Newman began.

He never completed his sentence. There was the sound of a brief, shattering crash. The jetty wall Newman had one foot perched on shuddered under the massive impact. The fog lifted again briefly. In time for them to see the Holsten V submerging with terrifying swiftness. No sign of any other vessel.

On the hill slope Marler saw their shadowy forms leave the vessel, counted, knew they were all ashore. He heard the menacing sound of collision. He had his Armalite rested against his shoulder. As the Holsten began to sink he fired blind – at a point a few feet above where the dying vessel had been moored – fired two shots.

Then he heard a muffled scream. Followed by silence. A moment later he heard in the heavy silence a splash of something hitting water. Then more silence.