By Stealth

41

Paula paused at the hotel exit. Something seemed to be going on outside. A uniformed doorman she hadn't seen before came up to her, all excited.

`They are making a film outside, using the hotel as a background. I don't know who the star is.'

I might as well get a breath of fresh air, clear my head, Paula thought. She vaguely noticed the doorman's uniform didn't fit him too well. She walked down the steps carefully and the doorman ran ahead of her to open the doors.

`Does this often happen?' she asked.

`First time I have ever known it to happen. It will be good publicity for the Four Seasons.'

The night air was cold, welcome and refreshing. Raising a hand, she shielded her eyes from the glare of the arc lights. Several white vans were parked alongside the kerb. Each carried the legend

INTER-VISION TV UND RADIO GMBH.

Two cameras on tripods were aimed at a point at the edge of the parkland opposite. A couple, a man and woman, were embracing each other. Paula counted about a dozen men in white coats and wearing white gloves. A man she presumed was the director carried a bullhorn.

A generator thumped away on a pavement near the open doors of one of the vans. Beyond the open doors of the nearest van she could see a small amount of equipment and another stockily built man in the shadows inside who also wore a white coat.

She wandered a few feet along the pavement to get a closer view. The activity was frenetic. Was it really necessary or did TV crews think that was the way they were supposed to act? She paused by the open doors of the nearest van.

The next moment she felt two pairs of hands grasp her, lifting her off her feet and propelling her inside the van. She opened her mouth to scream her head off. A hand clamped over her mouth. She bit the fingers almost to the bone. A snarling voice yelled 'Bitch!' and she was hurled towards the shadowy figure deep inside. She broke the momentum by forcing herself sideways, crashing into the wall of the vehicle. The glare of an arc-light was projected into the interior.

`This is crazy! Bastards!' she shouted.

One of the two assailants who had grabbed her from behind came at her, hands clawed to grasp her throat. She whipped out the canister of hair spray from her shoulder bag, aimed it at his eyes, pressed the button as she half- shut her own eyes. Her attacker squealed, clapped both hands hard over his eyes. She moved closer, kneed him between the legs. He squealed again, bent over double, his hands still covering his eyes. Pressing her back against the side of the van, she kicked his head, and he staggered back against the opposite side of the van.

The second assailant reached her. Too close to use the spray again. She dug her fingers deep into his greasy hair, took a firm grip, pulled him towards her. As she'd expected, he tried to jerk his head away. She suddenly pushed with all her strength, still holding on, driving him across the van. She heard his skull crack against the van's wall. Dazed, his legs sagged, he slumped to the floor.

Glancing towards her escape route, the open doors at the rear, she was astonished to see a camera apparently recording the scene while the arc-light continued to glare into the interior. Then she slipped on a spool of film tape and tumbled on top of both her attackers.

She made herself jump to her feet. That was when Starmberg came up behind her, pressed a soft pad over her nose and mouth. She smelt the deadly aroma of ether and rammed her clenched fist behind her, aiming for the kidneys. She heard an agonized grunt, the world blurred, and she sank into a pit of endless depth and darkness.

Colonel Winterton and his wife, Edith, an elderly couple, had emerged from the Four Seasons, muffled against the cold. They watched the violent struggle inside the van. The white-coated man holding a bullhorn walked up to them. He noted their very English style of dress and smiled.

`It's the opening scene of our new thriller. You have to grab the audience from the word go.'

`It's cold, John,' his wife, Edith, snapped. 'And we will be late for drinks with the Reuters.'

`Of course, my dear…'

The man with the bullhorn watched them walk away, turned round, and slammed the doors shut on the van. He ran to the driver and called out in German.

`Your cargo is aboard. Get this bloody van moving.'

The vehicle moved off. Within five minutes his team had packed all their kit inside the other vans, which promptly drove off. Peace and quiet returned to the Neuer Jungfernstieg outside the Four Seasons.

`Where on earth can Paula be?' Tweed looked at Newman and checked his watch. 'We shall soon be cutting it a bit fine.'

`She's the most prompt woman I've ever met,' said Cardon.

The man Paula called 'the Squirrel' had brought his bag to Tweed's room after receiving a brief phone call to his own room from Tweed. Up to that moment he had kept away from the others as though they were strangers.

`I'm going to go along and knock on her door,' Newman said impatiently. 'As far as I'm concerned, we've probably missed the flight already.'

`Cool it,' Cardon advised and grinned.

Almost as soon as he had finished speaking the phone rang. Tweed snatched up the receiver. His tone was normal as he asked who it was. A woman's muffled voice answered.

`This is Paula. It's a pretty lousy connection. I hope you can hear me?'

`Yes, I can. What's happened?'

`I saw someone leaving the hotel. No names over the phone. A taxi was cruising past so I flagged it down and followed a car. I expect to be back at the Four Seasons… Can you hear me? This really is a lousy connection. Don't worry. Back soon…'

The line went dead. Tweed stood rather still. Then he told the others the gist of the brief conversation. Newman reacted first.

`Are you sure it was Paula?'

`No, I'm not.'

`Has she ever done this before?' Cardon asked. `Dashed off on her own without telling you? And what was she wearing?'

`She has a lot of initiative,' Tweed said slowly. 'To answer your first question, occasionally she has – when she saw something and would have lost it if she'd waited to consult me. You know from your own experience I give my people a lot of loose rein. Why the question about how she was clad?'

`She was wearing her blue suit when I last saw her,' Newman intervened.

`I asked,' Cardon went on, 'because it's a very chilly night. But if she grabbed a taxi the weather wouldn't have bothered her.'

`One thing's for sure,' Newman decided. 'I'm cancelling our flight reservations right now.'

`Yes, do that,' Tweed agreed with a faraway look.

Paula woke up feeling terrible. She gritted her teeth as a wave of nausea swept over her, fought it down, kept her eyes closed. The van had been moving at speed and then it slowed. She peered through half-opened eyes, saw the back of Starmberg perched on a flap seat.

She was stretched out along a leather seat at the front of the vehicle, her head rested on a hard pillow. Moving her right hand very slowly, she found it was pinioned at the wrist with what felt like a strap. Same with the left hand.

She wriggled her feet very cautiously, found that they also were imprisoned by straps. The van was slowing down even more, then stopped. Starmberg glanced round suddenly, realized she was awake. He pressed his large hand over her mouth. With his free hand he produced a wide strip of sticky plaster, plastered it roughly over her mouth, gagging her. She listened.

Conversation outside the van and from the direction of the driver's cab. It was very quiet otherwise. She listened hard. The two voices engaged in conversation sounded to be talking in some Scandinavian language. She thought about hammering her head against the rear of the driver's cab, knew it was hopeless.

Starmberg stood over her, his stance tense. At the first sign of movement on her part he'd probably apply more of the ether. A second dose she could do without. The voices continued, sounded to be joking. There was laughter as the engine was switched on. It began to move forward again.

After a few minutes it accelerated. God, she thought – where the hell are they taking me? How long, roughly, have I been unconscious? She couldn't even guess at the time span. What worried her most was that her captor had not used a blindfold, had let her see his face, so she'd have been able to identify him. What that suggested was chilling.

`I'm going downstairs to have a word with the doorman,' Newman said.

`We should have thought of that before,' Tweed agreed.

It was quite some time after he had received the call from the woman with the muffled voice who might have been Paula. Left alone with Cardon, who sat silently on a couch in the bedroom, Tweed stood gazing out of the window. He stared at the illuminated fountain in the lake Paula had admired.

He stood very still, hands clasped behind his back, showing none of the mounting anxiety he was feeling. He had thought of contacting Kuhlmann, but Newman had objected.

`We have no proof yet that anything has happened to her,' he pointed out. 'No solid proof Kuhlmann would need. And you'd have to tell him about the phone call – and go on to tell him Paula has acted on her own initiative before.'

`I suppose so,' Tweed had said. 'You're right. We must wait a little longer.'

Inside, the waiting was killing him. His sixth sense told him something was dreadfully wrong. He recalled the earlier attempt in Brussels to kidnap her when she had been saved by the intervention of Newman and Nield. But he still couldn't imagine the circumstances under which she might hale been tricked. The atmosphere in the room was hellish.

In the lobby downstairs Newman found a different doorman was on duty, standing on the steps. He walked down as the doorman ran outside to open a taxi door and a young German couple entered the hotel. The night air seemed even more biting.

`Just come on duty, have you?' Newman asked casually.

`Well, Mr Newman, I'm not supposed to be on duty at all. One of our men has disappeared – the man who was supposed to be on duty. He has vanished. A complete mystery.'

`When did this happen?'

`Quite some time ago. And Edgar is always reliable.'

He opened the door again to admit an elderly couple. The husband looked a military type, Newman thought. His wife appeared displeased.

`Really, John, it was hardly worth venturing into the cold. The Reuters seemed to be in a bad mood tonight. And I see that television film lot have gone. Those awful lights…'

`Excuse me,' Newman said, tut when did you see the television crew?'

`You're Robert Newman,' the husband said. 'The foreign correspondent chappie. Often seen. your picture in the newspapers. Not so much recently.'

Normally it would have irritated Newman to be recognized. Now he seized on this familiarity to press his questions.

`This could be very important. How long ago was it when you saw these TV people?'

`I'm Colonel Winterton. My wife, Edith. Oh, it was quite a while ago when we went out. Inter-Vision and Radio. I remember the name on the sides of their vans. In German of course. They were filming a rather violent scene – a girl being dragged into one of the vans. The producer was pleased with himself – said it was the opening shot and you had to grab the audience from the word go.'

`I prefer musicals,' Edith sniffed.

`Can you describe the girl?' Newman requested. `Colour of her hair, roughly her age, how she was dressed?'

`Rather attractive – to a man of your age,' Edith broke in, darting a glance at her husband. 'Late twenties, early thirties. What they call raven-black hair. Slim. She wore a navy blue suit. A calf-level hem – not one of those disgusting miniskirts which makes girls nowadays look undressed. I must say she's a very good actress – it was a frighteningly convincing fight she put up with the two men she was struggling with. Her face had good bone structure.'

`How did you see all this so clearly?' Newman queried. `I must say your description was very precise.' His old reporter's scepticism prompted the question.

`Well!' Edith reared up. 'They had one of those beastly lights shining inside the van and a camera filming the scene. I could see her as clearly as I can see you. Nothing wrong with my eyesight!'

`I'm sure there isn't, and I'm very grateful to you.' He turned to Colonel Winterton. 'Would you mind repeating the name you saw on the sides of the vans?'

`Inter-Vision TV and Radio GmbH – to give it to you in German. Is something wrong?'

`I don't think so.' Newman smiled. 'But I've heard they are working on a secret project and there might be a good story in it. I do a piece occasionally – to keep my hand in. Thanks a lot.'

Edith tugged at her husband's arm. `I'm tired, John. I want to go to our room. The central heating seems to be efficient here…'

Newman waited until they had disappeared into the lobby. The doorman looked at him.

`There is something wrong, isn't there? All this – and Edgar disappearing.'

`I don't think there is for a moment. And there might be a story in it for me.' He handed the doorman a generous tip. 'Good-night…'

`You'd better brace yourself,' Newman said grimly to Tweed as he closed the bedroom door. 'I've just been talking-'

He stopped speaking as the phone rang. Tweed walked swiftly to the phone. He reached out to grab it, then made himself wait while it rang several more times before he lifted the receiver.

`Mr Tweed?' a man's voice asked.

`Speaking. Who is-'

`Shut up and listen! We have Miss Grey-'

`I can't hear you properly. Wait a second…'

Tweed covered the mouthpiece. He looked at Newman, nodded towards the phone.

`Quick! What is it, Bob?'

`They've got Paula. No doubt about it.'

Tweed removed his hand. He banged the mouthpiece against the desktop.

`That's better. Who is this? What did you say-'

`I said shut your bloody trap!' Speaking in English, the voice had a guttural accent. 'We have Miss Grey. If you ever want to see her again resign your public position tonight. You have two hours. If you don't resign you will get her back. In four pieces…' need proof of life. She could be-'

`Resign, I said! Or you'll get proof of death. And don't contact the police. If you do, the result will be the same. We'll know if you've obeyed our instructions. Retire! Now! That's it. Two hours…'

`Listen. I must first have…'

The line had gone dead. Tweed replaced the receiver with care. He told Newman and Cardon what had been said. Newman tersely told him what he had learned from the Wintertons. Tweed sighed, sat down on the couch next to Cardon.

`They have been very clever this time. And it's obvious she is in their filthy hands. I have no option.'

He stood up, went back to the phone, dialled the Park Crescent number he knew so well. Monica answered, sounded so pleased to hear his voice.

`Is Howard still in the building – or has he upped and offed to his club?'

'No, he's still here. He's been working all hours since you left London…'

Put him on the phone to me immediately, please.' `Can't I help-'

`I said put Howard on the phone immediately. This is an emergency.'

`I'll transfer you right away…'

Monica sounded hurt at his abrupt order. But in less than thirty seconds Howard came on the line. His normal pompous manner was absent as he asked the question.

`What emergency? Where are you?'

`Hamburg. Four Seasons Hotel. Don't phone me. As of now I am resigning my position. It is to take effect at once. I will send written confirmation by courier.'

`You sound tense,' Howard commented. 'This action is really necessary?'

`It is. Don't try to argue me out of it. I have resigned. As of now. I am retiring. Immediately.'

`This is an emergency situation?'

`It is. I'm offering no explanation. Just do it.'

`I accept your resignation. I will be here all night so as to attend to the formalities. I regret this more than I can convey.'

`Thank you…'

Tweed put down the phone and his forehead was beaded with perspiration. He sat down again on the couch next to Cardon. He used a handkerchief to mop his forehead. Newman came and sat on the other side of him. Tweed looked at him and ran a hand over his face.

`It is the only thing which may save Paula's life for a few days.' He lowered his voice. 'Go to that public phone box you use. Call Kuhlmann – drag him out of bed if necessary, although my bet is he's still at Berliner Tor. Tell him what's happened. Give him the name of that TV outfit. Above all, tell him the kidnapping must be kept secret.'

`I'm on my way,' was all Newman said.