Death Train

Five

The Cessna arrived at Cointrin Airport, Geneva, at 7.30. Graham rented the fastest car Hertz could offer, a BMW 73Si, to take them the seventy miles to Lausanne. Sabrina, with a string of saloon car races under her belt, felt she would be best qualified to drive until Graham tactlessly reminded her of her near fatal crash at Le Mans. She bit back her anger, for it was neither the time nor the place to start an argument. She let him drive.

An hour later they arrived at Lausanne station where the stationmaster had been told to expect them. He made several internal calls then announced, somewhat relieved, that he had tracked down the porter who had overseen the off-loading of the freight train the previous day.

Graham asked him not to summon the porter to his office. He believed strongly in the psychology of home territory, which invariably put witnesses at their ease and made them more likely to remember little details they might otherwise forget or overlook in strange or foreign surroundings. He had seen it work while at Delta.

The porter was standing on the platform, his hands dug into his overall pockets.

‘You speak English?’ Graham asked.

The porter nodded hesitantly.

‘We’d like to ask you some questions,’ Sabrina said.

‘What’s in it for me?’

‘Your job,’ Graham replied tersely.

‘Well, if you put it that way,’ the porter said with a nervous chuckle.

‘Recognize this invoice?’ Sabrina asked, holding up the one given to her by the stationmaster.

The porter pointed to the name printed in the top left-hand corner. ‘That’s me. Dieter Teufel. Teufel means “devil”. Dieter the Devil, especially with the women.’

‘I don’t give a damn about your social life,’ Graham snapped. ‘So you dealt with this particular cargo when it arrived here yesterday?’

‘It’s my name, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t need your sarcasm, boy.’

‘I was here but–’

‘But?’ Sabrina prompted.

‘I could lose my job,’ Teufel said, staring at his unpolished shoes. ‘I should have known it wouldn’t work.’

‘You’re on the verge of losing it anyway unless you start coming up with some answers.’

‘Hang on, Mike.’ Sabrina stared at Teufel’s bowed head. ‘Look, we’re not interested if you’ve broken some internal disciplinary code. All we want to know is what happened to the cargo.’

‘I don’t actually know,’ Teufel replied, stubbing his toecap absently on the concrete platform.

‘I promise you it won’t go any further than the three of us,’ Sabrina said.

‘You promise?’

‘I promise,’ she answered with a reassuring smile.

‘About forty minutes before the train was due to arrive this man came up to me and asked if I’d be interested in making five hundred francs. Naturally I jumped at the chance.’

‘What man? Had you seen him before?’ Graham asked.

‘I’d never seen him before. Well-built, black hair, spoke good German. He knew somehow that I was dealing with this section and gave me the serial number of a wagon and told me not to go anywhere near it. He said it contained his own private cargo and that he wanted to unload it himself. I know it’s against the rules but I wasn’t going to argue, not for that kind of money.’

‘Then what happened?’ Sabrina pressed.

‘A white van was reversed up to the wagon.’

‘Did he have any accomplices?’ Graham asked.

‘I only saw the driver but there could have been others inside the wagon.’

‘Describe the driver,’ Graham said.

Teufel shrugged. ‘I didn’t really take much notice of him. I just remember he had a moustache. There was something strange though. After the van had been loaded it drove to another loading bay and backed up against a second wagon. It must have been there for at least an hour. Then it returned to the original wagon and backed up against it again. Both trains left about the same time.’

‘Did you check either of the freight cars before they left?’

‘No, sir, but I did check my invoices afterwards. Both wagons were down as empty.’

‘Where were the trains going?’ Graham asked.

‘The one from Mainz goes on to Rome. I’m not sure about the other one. I’ll check if you want.’

‘Check,’ Graham said.

Teufel disappeared into a booth and returned a minute later. ‘The other train’s bound for Zurich via Fribourg and Berne. It’s stuck in Fribourg at the moment. Mechanical problems. I’ve also written down the serial numbers of the two wagons if that will be any help to you.’

‘Has the cargo been transferred to another train in Fribourg?’ Sabrina asked, taking the slip of paper from him.

‘No, the train’s scheduled to leave Fribourg later this afternoon. The cargo will still be on board.’

‘So you never went near either of the freight cars?’ Sabrina asked.

‘I stayed well clear. I wanted the money.’

‘Thanks for your help. And don’t worry, we won’t say anything to the stationmaster about yesterday.’

‘Thanks,’ Teufel muttered, then smiled knowingly at Graham. ‘You’re lucky to have such a beautiful assistant.’

‘Partner,’ Sabrina said sharply.

Teufel touched his cap apologetically. ‘Excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’

Sabrina watched him disappear back into the booth. ‘So crime does pay sometimes.’

‘Meaning?’ Graham asked as they walked back towards the main concourse.

‘He’d be irradiated if he’d turned the bribe down and gone to the freight car.’

‘True enough,’ Graham answered, then chuckled to himself.

‘What?’

‘Assistant. I like it.’

‘I bet,’ she replied, then pointed to the station café. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast.’

He had bacon, eggs and sausages. She settled for a continental breakfast, substituting two slices of freshly baked tresse, a plaited white loaf, for the conventional croissant.

‘What do you make of these latest developments?’ Graham asked as they sat down at one of the few vacant tables.

She stirred her coffee thoughtfully before answering. ‘They found out about the damaged keg and had to repair it secretly; that must be why the van was backed up to the freight car.’

‘Not to mention the fact that someone in a protective white suit might just attract the wrong kind of attention,’ Graham added between mouthfuls.

‘They must know they’re in the frame otherwise why the decoy?’

‘Not necessarily. We’re dealing with professionals. It’s only natural they should cover their tracks after a setback like that.’ He forked the remaining bit of sausage and dipped it into the runny egg yolk. ‘Which train do you think is the decoy?’

‘The original one bound for Rome,’ she replied without hesitation.

‘They’ve fooled you,’ he said, his mouth full.

‘Really? And what makes you so certain?’

‘Intuition.’

‘Intuition? Of course, why didn’t I think of that?’ she said sarcastically.

Graham banged his fist angrily on the table. A couple at the next table scowled at him but looked away when he glared back at them. He leaned forward and tapped his finger on the table. ‘I already had six years’ experience of the criminal mind by the time you graduated from the Sorbonne as a spoilt little brat.’

‘The spoilt little brat. I was wondering when we would get round to that. What about the rest of it? The poor little rich girl who got into the FBI through her father’s influence and who would now be married to some rich Miami socialite had it not been for the timely intervention of Colonel Philpott, who was pressed into giving her a job with UNACO. You should try playing another track, Mike, that one’s already beginning to stick.’

‘The truth hurts.’

‘And you should know.’ She immediately regretted her words. ‘I’m sorry, Mike, I didn’t mean that.’

‘You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it.’ He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘Can we get back to the case?’

‘It could actually be a blessing in disguise.’

‘What could?’ He pushed his plate aside.

‘Our difference of opinion. We’ll have to check out both trains.’

‘True, but we need a second Geiger counter and there isn’t time to wait for them to send us another one.’

‘You take it; I shouldn’t find it too difficult to buy another.’

‘Well, we’re wasting time sitting here,’ he said and stood up. ‘And as the boss keeps reminding us, it’s a Code Red. The proverbial race against time.’

The hoarding at the entrance to the sliproad leading off the A643 five miles out of Mainz warned of the penalties which could be imposed on any unauthorized personnel attempting to gain illegal entry into the Nuclear Fuel Reprocessing Plant a mile further down the road.

Whitlock swung the Golf Corbio on to the sliproad, past the hoarding, and as he reached the crest of the first rise he saw the plant laid out before him, hemmed in behind ten-feet-high fencing crowned with layers of barbed wire, all of which he later discovered could be electrified at the flick of a switch. Towering above the numerous box-shaped buildings were three unsightly cooling towers, each belching out plumes of thick, grey smoke which drifted up into the low, threatening rainclouds overhead. As he drew to a halt in front of the boomgate he thought about the unacceptable quantities of low-level toxic waste being expelled daily into the atmosphere by avaricious chemical companies with scant regard for the safety and welfare of future generations. They treated little embarrassments such as their role in the gradual destruction of the ozone layer in the same way that the Vatican dealt with internal corruption: by brushing it under the carpet and pretending it never existed. It had always distressed him that the West and the Eastern bloc could both budget so generously for what he considered to be the evils of the nuclear industry while millions in the Third World were left wanting for food.

Whatever the questions he really wanted to ask at the reprocessing plant, though, he would never allow his personal feelings to interfere with an assignment.

A guard emerged from the hut behind the boomgate and approached the Golf. Whitlock noticed the holster affixed to the guard’s belt, then glanced down at the leashed Doberman sitting obediently beside him. He wound his window down and thought momentarily of his brother-in-law, Eddie Kruger, who had taught him all the conversational German he knew. It wasn’t much, but enough to get by on.

‘Morning. The name’s Whitlock. New York Times. I’ve got an appointment with–’ he paused to look at the name at the foot of the letter which had been included in his holdall at the station ‘–K. Schendel. Nine o’clock.’

The guard traced his finger down the typed list of names attached to his clipboard, found the name, then asked Whitlock for some kind of identification. Satisfied with Whitlock’s passport, the guard returned to the hut to telephone through to reception. He opened the boomgate and Whitlock gave him a friendly wave as he drove past on his way to the visitors’ car park.

The reception area had obviously been designed to impress, with its mushroom-coloured Anton Plus carpet imported from America, its three-tiered Czechoslovakian glass crystal lights, its brown leather armchairs and its crushed velour curtains draped ornately on either side of the plate glass window facing directly out on to the car park.

He approached the oak-panelled reception desk and returned the receptionist’s smile. ‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Schendel at nine.’

‘Miss, actually. Karen,’ a female voice said in English behind him.

When he turned his first thought was that she too had been designed to impress.

Contradicting and yet somehow enhancing the pinstriped jacket and skirt she was wearing, her sable-coloured hair was coiled up on her head, accentuating her fine features and her perfect neck. Her movements were graceful and elegant and her handshake firm without losing any of its femininity.

‘My apologies,’ Whitlock said, deciding to stick to English.

Her English seemed infinitely better than his beleaguered German.

‘What for?’ she asked with a frown.

‘For assuming you’d be a man.’

‘It’s a natural assumption for a man to make. Come through to my office. I was about to order myself some coffee.’

Her office, situated off the corridor leading directly out of the reception area, was spacious and subtly feminine. Pastel, walls formed a tasteful background to a selection of mounted Sara Moon prints, fresh flowers were arranged in a crystal vase, and there was a pink shade on the small desk lamp. She indicated the white leather armchair in front of her desk, then sat down in her swivel chair and reached for the telephone.

‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Whatever you’re having.’

‘Why are men always so evasive? It’s not a difficult choice. Tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee,’ he replied, then, as she gave the order, leaned forward to look more closely at a framed photograph of a freckle-faced boy on her desk. ‘He’s pretty cute.’

‘My son, Rudi,’ she said, replacing the receiver. ‘He and his father were drowned off the Costa Brava four years ago.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Whitlock said.

‘Thank you.’

‘How long had you been married?’

‘Oh, we weren’t married. Childhood sweethearts. I met Erich when I was fifteen. We would have been together nineteen years this year.’

‘I can honestly say you don’t look a day over twenty-five.’

She laughed. ‘I’ve got a feeling we’re going to get along just fine, Mr Whitlock.’

‘C.W., please.’

‘What do the initials stand for?’

‘Nothing, they’re just initials.’

He had never forgiven his parents for naming him Clarence Wilkins.

Karen poured the coffee when it arrived and let Whitlock help himself to milk and sugar.

‘What sort of article do you want to write?’ she asked.

‘I was hoping to get an insight into the people who work here. So much has already been written about the operational side of the industry that the public tend to take for granted the workforce whose expertise makes it all possible.’

‘The human angle, in other words?’

Whitlock nodded. ‘Also, with Chernobyl still fresh in everyone’s mind I thought it might be a good idea to show that workers in the nuclear industry are just like the rest of us. They have families and mortgages and are just as worried about the possibility of a radiation leak as the next person.’

‘More worried. Not only would our livelihood be at stake if there was a shutdown but we’d also be the first to be irradiated.’ She paused to take a sip of coffee. ‘So why come to Mainz?’

‘We’ve been deluged with stories about the American nuclear industry over the past few years. People want to read about something different and with Mainz central to the rest of Europe this is both an important and controversial plant site. Fallout from here could contaminate the whole continent.’

‘The melodrama of journalism,’ she said with a smile. ‘How long are you planning on being here?’

‘Two, three days,’ he replied.

‘Good, then I’ll be able to show you personally just how stringent our safety regulations are. Unfortunately I’m going to be busy for most of today lecturing to a group of Japanese businessmen, so I’ll have to leave you in the hands of my assistant. He’ll give you a general tour and you can decide who you’d like to interview after that. I’ll set up the interviews for you.’

‘Sounds fine,’ Whitlock replied.

‘I’ll organize a dosemeter badge for you,’ she said, reaching for the telephone.

‘A what?’ Whitlock asked, affecting ignorance.

‘It’s a badge containing a strip of masked photographic film worn by all personnel working within the plant itself. When the film’s subsequently developed the degree of darkening reveals the radiation dose received.’ She replaced the receiver and gave him an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about having to rush off like this but I promise I’ll be free tomorrow.’

‘Duty calls,’ he said with a wry grin.

She scribbled something on her memo pad and slid the paper across the desk to him. Ask me out tonight.

He looked up in bewilderment and noticed the self-assurance had gone from her eyes. She looked frightened.

‘I was wondering, would you be free tonight?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, injecting a little hesitancy into her voice.

‘I thought we could go out for a meal,’ he said folding the paper and slipping it into his jacket pocket.

‘That would be nice. Did you have anywhere in mind?’

‘I’ll leave the decision to you.’

‘The Rheingrill at the Hilton’s about the best in town.’

‘Eight o’clock?’ he said.

‘I shall look forward to it. You’ll have to excuse me now, I’ve still got a few things to see to before my audience arrives. My assistant will be with you shortly.’

He slumped back in the armchair after she had left.

What the hell was going on?

It had taken Sabrina forty minutes to drive from Lausanne to Fribourg and another fifteen minutes to find the isolated goods yard where Teufel, the porter at Lausanne, had said she would find the freight cars. She parked the hired Audi Coupé in front of the wire fence then reached into the back for the holdall containing the Geiger-Müller counter which she had managed to buy after numerous telephone calls to a succession of Lausanne retailers. The icy wind cut across her face as she opened the door and she zipped her anorak up to her throat and tugged the protective hood over her head.

The gate was padlocked from the inside. She slipped the holdall straps over her shoulder and effortlessly scaled the fence, jumping nimbly to the ground when she was halfway down the other side. She crouched down behind a row of freight cars and took in her surroundings: to her right a goods shed, to her left two sets of parallel track and a rusted freight car, its wheels barely visible through the tangled mass of overgrown weeds. The whole area was completely deserted. She transferred the Beretta from her shoulder holster to her anorak pocket then moved down the row of freight cars, checking for the serial number which corresponded with the one Teufel had written down for her. It was stencilled in white paint on the freight car fourth from the front. She took the Geiger-Müller counter from the holdall but couldn’t get a reading from around the seal of the door. She then ran her finger along the narrow groove between the door and the frame to check for wires in the unlikely event of it having been booby-trapped. Her fears were groundless and she slid the door back. She saw the shadowy movement out of the corner of her eye and she was still reaching for her Beretta when she was struck heavily on the shoulder, knocking the Geiger-Müller counter from her hand. It smashed against the rusted freight car behind her, shattering the glass exterior and buckling the sensitive anode.

The ginger tomcat glared up at her, its tail lashing furiously from side to side. She waited until it had stalked away before picking up the remains of the Geiger-Müller counter and dropping them into the holdall. Her grim smile was triumphant when she turned back to the open freight car. Its sole contents were six metal beer kegs. She clambered up into the car to take a closer look at them, careful though to remain at what she considered to be a safe distance. All six bungs were sealed and there was no evidence that any of them had ever been damaged. Even a master welder would have left some traces of his craftsmanship. It had to be a trap.

The bullet smashed into the nearest keg. She flung herself to the floor and rolled to safety behind the half-opened door, the Beretta clenched tightly in her gloved hand. Although the gunman had her pinned down he wasn’t her immediate threat. Her heart was pounding fearfully as she slowly looked over her shoulder. The bullet had torn a jagged hole in the side of the keg but there was no sign of the deadly plutonium she had imagined would be seeping out into the atmosphere. She let out a deep sigh of relief. These were the decoy kegs after all–

Mike had been right. From the angle at which the bullet had penetrated the keg it had to have come from the direction of the shed. The door of the freight car was useless as an escape route: the sniper would have it covered. She noticed one of the wooden struts on the opposite wall had snapped off leaving an aperture the size of a football in the corner of the car. It solved the mystery of how the cat had managed to get inside. She pressed her back against the wall and shuffled on the seat of her jeans to the aperture, her eyes continually flickering towards the open door to ensure she was still out of sight of the shed. Rot had already set into the damp wood and she was able to break chunks off the strut as though they were bits of soggy cardboard. The strut above was more durable but the nails came loose when she struck it firmly with the heel of her boot. She kicked out again, this time cracking it a couple of feet from the juncture with the adjacent wall. The third kick splintered it enough for her to break it off.

She peered out through the hole but all she could see was the perimeter fence thirty yards away. Sweating with fear she wriggled through the hole, then ducked under the freight car and crawled slowly forward on her belly between the two sets of rails. Although she couldn’t be seen herself, neither could she see the shed or, more importantly, the exact location of the sniper.

She was only a few feet away from the buffer when a rat darted in front of her, and although she jerked her head back sharply its wet tail brushed against her cheek as it disappeared into a gap between the two lengths of corroded track. She bit her lower lip to stifle the cry in her throat and felt the goosepimples bristling across her skin. Where was the damn cat when she needed it most? She had always prided herself on her resoluteness and fortitude but there was one fear she had never managed to conquer – a fear of rats which dated back to an incident when she was three years old. She had been inadvertently locked in a disused cellar and the only sound she had heard while cringing in a darkened corner was the incessant scratching as the rats scurried across the concrete floor around her. When she had finally been rescued some two hours later it was discovered that the hem of her frock had been chewed away.

She winced painfully as a burning sensation spread across her cheek, and jerked her hand away from her face. Without realizing it she had been rubbing the area of skin which had touched the rat’s tail. She began to crawl forward again, her eyes continually flickering between the tracks on either side of her. Rats, like rabbits, were notorious breeders. She reached the buffer and rolled out from underneath the freight car, safe in the knowledge she was on the sniper’s blindspot. Only it worked both ways. The shed was at least twenty yards away and there was no cover.

She took several deep breaths, then broke cover and sprinted in a zigzag weave across the open ground. The first bullet struck the earth behind her, spitting up a mound of soil. The second bullet followed almost immediately, this time in front of her, and she had to fling herself the last few feet, landing heavily against the side of the corrugated-iron door. She massaged her collarbone gingerly and tried to calm her ragged breathing. The bullets had followed each other too quickly from different angles for them to have been fired by the same person. She had an idea where the first sniper had been but in any case he could have moved. The second sniper could be anywhere. She knew it would be tantamount to suicide to try to go in through the open doorway so she made her way cautiously around the side of the building, careful to duck low enough under the shattered windows to avoid detection. There were two doors at the back of the shed, one partially open, its frame warped from years of neglect. It was the only way in. She pressed herself against the wall inches away from the door and used a piece of corroded piping at her feet to ease it open. A volley of bullets immediately peppered the ground directly in front of the doorway, confirming her worst fears. They were armed with semi-automatics, not sniper rifles. Her view of the interior of the shed was limited but what she did see raised her hopes. It was the first bit of luck she had had all afternoon. A faded yellow skip stood a couple of feet from the door, well within diving distance.

She launched herself through the doorway and was safely behind the skip by the time the first bullets rattled against it. There was a vehement curse in German, then silence. The German was somewhere on the H-shaped catwalk on the opposite side of the shed. The other sniper was crouched behind a rusted workbench close to the main doorway. Two black Honda scramblers were parked close to the workbench and her first thought was to put them out of action, but she doubted whether she could get in a clear shot without exposing her head. She heard footsteps on the catwalk and peered up into the semi-darkness trying to get a fix on the German’s movements. It was too dark for her to see anything, but from where he was, twenty feet up, she would be perfectly silhouetted against the open door. He was closing in for the kill.

She bit her lower lip anxiously, her eyes scanning the darkness above her in a desperate attempt to catch a glimpse of movement. It was all she needed to give her a chance to retaliate. A sudden burst of gunfire from behind the workbench riddled the wall harmlessly behind her. She saw the German at the last possible moment. He was down on one knee, the FN FAL semi-automatic rifle resting lightly on the railing. Its barrel was pointing straight at her.

She had no time to aim and fired off four shots in rapid succession. One of the bullets struck his forearm and he cried out, dropping the rifle which clattered noisily on to the concrete floor below.

She was expecting to be pinned down by a concentrated bout of gunfire to give the German a chance to retreat but instead the second sniper swung his FN FAL on the unsuspecting German and gunned him down. He then sprayed a fusillade of bullets across the front of the skip as he pushed one of the scramblers out through the doorway. He kick-started the motorbike and continued to fire wildly behind him as he sped away. By the time she reached the doorway he was out of firing range. She moved cautiously up the corroded metal steps on to the catwalk and knelt beside the German, the Beretta pressed into the nape of his neck.

There was no pulse. She pushed the Beretta into her anorak pocket then rolled him on to his back and pulled off his black balaclava. He was in his late thirties with thinning brown hair and a rugged, weatherbeaten face. She went through his pockets but all she found was a spare clip for the FN FAL.

She wiped the clip on her anorak, then removed his leather gloves and pressed his fingers on either side of its shiny surface. If he had a criminal record UNACO would have a set of fingerprints. After slipping the clip carefully into her anorak pocket and zipping it closed she descended the steps and scooped up the fallen FN FAL. She ejected the clip and threw it amongst a pile of discarded wooden crates in the corner of the shed, then buried the rifle under a mound of rubble in the pockmarked skip.

Sensing she was being watched, she spun round to face the doorway, the Beretta gripped tightly at arm’s length. Immediately she lowered the gun. The two boys were no older than six, their eyes wide and fearful as they stared at the gun hanging limply at her side.

‘Are you making a film?’ one of them asked innocently in French.

She pocketed the Beretta, her hands still trembling as she thought of how close she had come to firing on the turn. She crossed to the doorway and led them away from the shed.

‘Yes, we’re making a film,’ she replied in French, then squatted down in front of them, her hands resting lightly on their shoulders. ‘What are your names?’

‘Marcel.’

‘Jean-Paul. What’s your name?’

‘Sabrina.’

‘Are you really a film star?’ Marcel asked.

She nodded, then put a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t tell anyone though, we’re filming in secret.’

‘Where are the cameras?’ Jean-Paul asked, looking around him.

‘They’ll be here later this afternoon. We’re just rehearsing at the moment.’

‘Will you be on television?’ Marcel asked.

‘Next year,’ she replied with a smile.

‘See, I told you it was a movie,’ Jean-Paul said and pushed Marcel playfully.

‘Didn’t,’ Marcel replied and pushed Jean-Paul back.

‘I saw a man here the other day. He said he was also in the film.’ Jean-Paul gave Marcel another push. ‘You weren’t here. You were sick.’

Sabrina stared at Jean-Paul. ‘What man?’

‘He said I wasn’t to tell anyone but I guess it’s okay seeing you’re also in the film. He wasn’t as friendly as you.’

‘Did he say who he was?’

Jean-Paul shook his head. ‘But I bet he’s the baddie.’

Sabrina decided to play her hand. ‘I think I know who you mean. A big man with black hair?’

‘Yes. Is he the baddie?’

Sabrina nodded. ‘What was he doing?’

‘He and another man were putting some barrels into that wagon over there. He said it’s part of the film.’

‘How long have those wagons been standing there?’ Sabrina asked, trying to bring Marcel back into the conversation.

He shrugged and glanced at Jean-Paul. ‘Since we started playing here.’

‘How long’s that?’

He shrugged again. ‘A long time.’

‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ Jean-Paul asked.

‘I don’t know yet,’ she lied. ‘How about you?’

‘We play here every day,’ Jean-Paul replied, then gave Marcel a playful shove before running away towards the fence.

Marcel scowled then ran after him.

She waited until they were out of sight before returning to the shed. The German was too heavy for her to drag down the steps, so she reluctantly decided to push him off the catwalk.

She cupped her hands underneath him and eased him over the edge. She felt momentarily nauseated as the body struck the concrete floor but quickly regained her composure and, after hurrying down the steps, she scanned the shed for a suitable place to hide the body. A row of corroded steel drums caught her eye but she quickly discounted them. Even if she could have got him into one, which she very much doubted, there was no guarantee it could hold his weight without breaking. A tattered brown tarpaulin bundled in the corner of the shed? Not only would it be an obvious place to look but she was uneasy about what might be living underneath it. A picture of the rat crossed her mind and she instinctively rubbed the back of her hand across her cheek. The workbench? She crouched down and jerked open the two doors, fully expecting the cupboard to have been converted into a homely little rat lair. Plenty of cobwebs but no rats. The space was divided in two by a metal shelf, which she managed to dislodge and pull out. Then she dragged the body to the workbench and pushed it into the cupboard, head first. There was enough room for the body, except for the left arm.

No matter how she tried she couldn’t prevent the arm from flopping out on to the floor.

With a lot of effort she finally managed to close the left-hand door and bolt it into place, then pushed the arm against the dead man’s chest and forced the other door over, sliding the remains of a file through two loops where the handles had once been to keep it shut. She piled a mound of rubble in front of it, then took the FN FAL from the skip and hid it in a length of hollow piping above the catwalk. The scrambler was next. It was too big to conceal in the shed so she wheeled it outside and hid it in the freight car containing the metal beer kegs. It would only be a matter of time before it was discovered but it was the best she could do in such a short time. She knelt beside the damaged keg and peered through the serrated bullet hole.

The keg was empty. She then tested its weight against the individual weights of the other five kegs. They too were empty. After jumping nimbly from the freight car she closed the door, picked up her holdall, and hurried towards the fence.

She would phone her report to Philpott as soon as she got back to the hotel.

The Rome-bound train had been unavoidably delayed in Montreux after a small avalanche had blocked the track five miles further up the line. It was due fifty minutes late in Martigny, its next scheduled stop, twenty-five miles south of Montreux.

Graham had already budgeted on being in Martigny ten minutes prior to the train’s scheduled arrival so when he reached the station he found he actually had an hour to kill. He decided to while it away in the station cafeteria and was already on his third cup of coffee when the train’s approach was announced over the Tannoy.

He picked up his two black holdalls and went out on to the platform to watch the train pull into the station. The locked wheels shrieked as they slid along the rails and the train finally shuddered to a halt in a cloud of hissing steam. He made a mental note of the number of coaches and freight cars. Six coaches and eight freight cars.

He crossed to the guard and tapped him on the arm. ‘How long is the train due to stay here?’

‘Twenty minutes,’ the guard replied, then hurried away to help someone with his luggage.

A movement caught his eye and he looked back at the man standing on the steps of the rear coach.

The man was in his early forties with jet-black hair combed back from a cruel menacing face and the kind of muscular physique usually associated with a bodybuilder. He alighted from the coach, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, and walked the length of the freight cars, stopping beside the last one. He unlocked the bulky padlock and eased the door open. The man who climbed out of the freight car was at least six feet five inches high, a couple of inches taller than the other man, with a horrendously scarred face and a dyed blond pigtail dangling grotesquely from the back of an otherwise shaven head. The black-haired man slid the door shut but refrained from padlocking it.

Graham waited until the two men were seated in the cafeteria before moving down the platform to the freight car. He glanced around, satisfied that nobody was taking any notice of his suspicious behaviour, then opened the door fractionally and peered inside. A nylon Firebird sleeping bag was laid out on the floor directly in front of the door, obviously being used as a makeshift pillow. There was an overwhelming stench of stale urine and sweat from inside the freight car but Graham swallowed back the rising bile in his throat and eased the door open further to see what else it might contain. A sealed wooden crate, twelve feet by six, with WERNER FRACHT, ERHARDSTRASSE, MÜNCHEN stencilled in black paint across its facing side. He placed the holdall inside the freight car and activated the Geiger-Müller counter inside it. The counter emitted a monotonous crackle. The freight car was contaminated.

He heard the approaching footsteps on the gravel behind him.

‘Cosa desidera?’ The flush-faced man was in his mid-fifties with a thick grey moustache and a pair of pebble glasses perched precariously on his bulbous nose. He was dressed in a pale-blue tunic and trousers with a red trim around the sleeves and lapels.

‘What did you say?’ Graham asked casually as he zipped up the holdall.

‘I asked what do you want? This is private property.’

‘Really, and here I thought trains were for the public.’

The man struggled to marshal his thoughts and translate them into English. ‘They are, but this wagon is private property.’

‘You’re making sense now.’ Graham pointed to the crate. ‘Whose is this?’

‘I ask the questions! What are you doing here?’

‘Looking.’

‘Looking? Are you a passenger?’

Graham nodded. ‘And what are you?’

‘I’m the conductor. Show me your ticket.’

‘Sure, when I’m on the train.’

Graham picked up his holdalls and walked away to the cafeteria, where he changed a couple of Swiss francs into loose change then made a call on one of the public telephones, positioning himself in such a way so he could study the two men as he described them to Philpott. He replaced the receiver, having been given his new instructions. Stay with the train at all costs.

The two men left the cafeteria when the train’s departure was announced over the Tannoy.

The black-haired man closed his accomplice in the freight car again, padlocked the door, then glanced round as the conductor hurried towards him.

‘Excuse me, sir, you said I was to tell you if anyone came snooping around the wagon while you were in the cafeteria,’ the conductor said excitedly in Italian.

‘So?’ came the nonchalant reply.

‘There was somebody, sir. An American.’

‘Excellent. What was he doing?’

The conductor removed his peak cap and scratched his wiry hair thoughtfully. ‘He had something hidden in his holdall. I couldn’t see what it was but it made a funny crackling noise.’

‘So where is he now?’

‘On the train, sir. Do you want me to watch him for you?’

‘If I did I’d tell you.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the conductor replied obsequiously.

‘Point this American out to my friend on the train. Tell him you’ve already spoken to me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The man peeled off two bank notes from the roll in his pocket and stuffed them into the conductor’s tunic pocket.

‘Thank you, sir,’ the conductor said, then scurried away.

The man stood thoughtfully on the platform as the train slowly pulled out of the station.

The bait, in the form of the unlocked freight car, had been taken. The plans would have to be altered accordingly and that meant first attending to some unfinished business at Lausanne station.

The prospect of a candlelit dinner with a visiting British nurse had had Dieter Teufel glancing at his wristwatch all day. With less than twenty minutes of his shift remaining he had already decided on the clothes he would be wearing for the special occasion. A Roser Marce blue linen suit and a cream Christian Dior shirt. Not that he could ever have afforded to buy those kind of designer clothes on his meagre wage but with the money he had received to throw the American and his beautiful assistant, or rather partner, off the scent he had been able to splash out for once in his life. All he had done was follow instructions. He had no idea what any of it was about but who was he to complain when he was being paid so well? And, according to the black-haired man, there would be more to come

He watched the approaching passenger train from Interlaken. It contained his least favourite type of commuters, the Yuppies with their expensive skiing gear and false tales of bravado which were shouted, rather than spoken, to relatives on the platform. He pushed past a group of waiting relatives (why people insisted on waving when the train was still so far away had always been a mystery to him) and glanced round sharply at a teenage girl who elbowed him accidentally, but painfully, in the back. She smiled ruefully, then continued to wave frantically at the approaching train.

The engine was less than five yards away when he felt a hand shove him hard in the small of the back. He stumbled then fell on to the track, his scream silenced abruptly as he disappeared beneath the screeching wheels.

Karen Schendel walked into the Hilton foyer punctually at eight o’clock. Whitlock, who had been watching the entrance from the comfort of an armchair for the past ten minutes, got to his feet and shook her extended hand.

‘Thanks for coming,’ she said with a smile. ‘I thought you might have written me off as a crackpot after my performance this morning.’

‘Hardly, but I do admit to being both baffled and intrigued. I must say you’re looking lovely tonight.’

She was wearing a turquoise silk dress, her newly washed black hair spilling on to her narrow shoulders.

‘Thank you,’ she said softly, fidgeting with her pearls.

‘Well, shall we go through or would you prefer a drink first?’

‘Let’s go through to the restaurant, we’ll have more privacy to talk there.’

The maître d'hôtel beamed at her. ‘Ah, guten Abend, Fräulein Schendel.’

‘Guten Abend, Franz. I believe Mr Whitlock booked a table for us,’ she said, subtly switching to English.

‘Please don’t change to English just because I’m here. I do speak German, only it needs a major overhaul to set it right.’

‘Your German was word perfect when we spoke earlier, Mr Whitlock,’ Franz said.

‘I should hope so. I practised it enough times in the car coming here,’ Whitlock replied with a grin.

Karen chuckled. ‘Hidden talents?’

‘Some talents are better left that way,’ Whitlock replied as they followed Franz to a table for two in the corner of the restaurant.

‘Is this one of your regular haunts?’ Whitlock asked after their order had been taken.

‘When the company’s paying. I’m not really one for dining out. You might find this hard to believe but I’m the kind of person who likes nothing more than to potter about the house in a pair of jeans and a sweater and eat spaghetti Bolognese. I guess I never really grew out of the tomboy stage.’

‘Where did you pick up your English?’

‘In Britain. After graduating from Mainz University I went over there for three years as a lab assistant, first at Dounreay then at Calder Hall. I only became interested in public relations once I had come back to Germany.’

‘How long have you been involved in PR work?’

‘Five years now, the last two as head of PR here in Mainz. I’m also in charge of the hiring of the plant’s non-technical staff. Guards, drivers, cleaners, personnel like that.’

The wine steward presented the wine bottle for Whitlock’s inspection. He nodded.

Karen watched the steward opening the bottle at the sideboard. ‘How long have you been with the New York Times?’

‘About four years.’

‘Then you’ll probably know a friend of mine. John Marsh?’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t say I do, but you must remember I’m only there in a freelance capacity. I’ve never been on the permanent staff.’

‘Of course, it said you were a freelance writer in your introductory letter. So, as you’d say in journalism, you’re a stringer.’

‘Right,’ Whitlock replied, returning her smile.

The wine steward returned with the open bottle and poured a measure for Whitlock to taste.

On receiving the customary nod he filled both glasses and left the bottle in the ice bucket by the side of the table.

‘You’re not really a journalist, are you?’ she said quietly.

Whitlock felt cornered. His stomach was churning but he knew he could elude her if only he could remain calm and call her bluff. ‘You’re an intriguing person. This morning you mysteriously slide me a note telling me to ask you out and now you claim I’m not really a journalist even though my credentials were thoroughly checked out by your plant manager before he let me near the place. I feel as though I’m disintegrating before my very eyes. By the end of the night I won’t know who I am or what I do any more. You don’t work for the KGB by any chance?’

She ignored his gentle sarcasm. ‘If you worked for the Times you’d have known John. He writes a daily showbiz column for them. He’s the epitome of the extrovert, he knows everyone and everyone knows him.’ She noticed the lingering doubt in his eyes. ‘When I heard you were coming I made some discreet enquiries about you at the newspaper. John’s never heard of you.’

She stopped talking when the waiter arrived with the food, then picked up the conversation again after he had left.

‘You probably think I’m making this up. We can phone John if you like: he’ll be putting the finishing touches to his column for the morning edition. You can speak to him yourself.’

Whitlock stared at his plate, his appetite suddenly gone.

‘Also, if you’d really been a journalist you’d have known what a “stringer” is. You didn’t. A “stringer” isn’t just a freelance – it’s a correspondent based away from head office whose local contacts give him an on-the-spot usefulness which far surpasses that of a reporter sent out from head office.’

‘So how come you know so much about journalism?’

‘I used to date John when he was stationed in Berlin. He was supposed to be the paper’s foreign correspondent but instead of filing everyday reports like the other journalists he became obsessed with chasing after so-called spies and spent most of the time commuting between East and West Germany hoping to land the big scoop.’

‘And did he?’

She put her hand to her lips, trying not to laugh with her mouth full. ‘Sorry,’ she said after swallowing. ‘He wrote a story, with pictures to back it up, about an American general supposedly handing over documents to a beautiful KGB agent on Hamburg’s Kennedy Bridge. The KGB agent turned out to be a Reeperbahn hooker and the documents a couple of hundred marks for services rendered. He was hauled back to New York and given that column to keep him out of any more mischief.’

Whitlock smiled politely, his mind still reeling from the way she had dissected his cover story, piece by piece, until there was nothing left for him to hide behind. Nothing like it had ever happened at UNACO. He felt humiliated. Outclassed and outmanoeuvred by a pretty face – or rather by what lay behind it. As he watched her eating he knew what would have to be done if she tried to expose him publicly. His hand brushed against the holstered Browning Mk2–

‘What intrigues me most of all is how you managed to get someone like the editor of the New York Times to agree to back up your cover story.’

He could have answered her in one word. Philpott. He had a sneaking suspicion Philpott had members of staff whose sole function was to dig up the personal indiscretions of those people who could be beneficial to UNACO, then use them as a form of blackmail to get what he wanted. It was only a theory but it had always amazed him, and the other field operatives, how Philpott could come up with solid cover stories at such short notice. Solid, that is, until now–

‘Is there something wrong with the Sauerbraten, sir?’ Franz asked anxiously at Whitlock’s shoulder. ‘You’ve hardly touched it.’

‘On the contrary, my compliments to the chef. I think I’ve got a touch of indigestion.’ He looked at Karen. ‘Acidity, I believe?’

‘Can I get you something for it, sir?’

‘No, thank you, just take the plate away.’

‘Would you like anything else, sir?’ Franz asked as he reluctantly removed the plate from the table.

‘Coffee and cognac,’ Karen said quickly.

‘For two?’ Franz asked.

Whitlock nodded.

She waited until they were alone then rested her elbows on the table, her clenched hands under her chin.

‘I know how you must feel but I had to be sure you weren’t another journalist out for a story.’

‘I hope you’re satisfied.’

‘I’m satisfied you’re not a journalist. I don’t know who you’re really working for but it must be a pretty influential organization to have the editor of the New York Times over a barrel.’

After the coffee and cognac were served she delved into her handbag and withdrew a folded sheet of paper which she held out to him.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, taking it from her.

‘Look.’

He unfolded the paper. It was a scale drawing of a miniature microphone, perfectly reproduced, which was in reality no larger than a sugar cube.

‘A bug. What’s it got to do with me?’

‘That bug’s stuck under my desk. I came across it by chance a couple of months ago. That’s why I slipped you the note this morning. I had to speak to you in private.’ She rubbed her face and when she dropped her hands her eyes had welled up with tears. ‘You’re my last hope, C.W.’

He handed her his breast pocket handkerchief and studied her carefully as she dabbed her eyes. Gone was the confident, self-assured woman and in its place an uncertain, frightened child. She was either on the level or a damn good actress. He decided to leave his options open.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, gripping the handkerchief in both hands. ‘I just feel so helpless.’

‘You want to talk about it?’

She held her coffee cup between her palms and met his eyes. ‘Have you ever heard of the term, “diversion”?’

He sat forward attentively. ‘MUF?’

‘There’s a difference. Diversion’s a general euphemism for theft. “Materials unaccounted for” is the specific term used for any kind of discrepancy between the book inventory and the actual inventory.’

‘What exactly are you trying to say?’

‘That there’s nuclear material being siphoned off without it affecting the inventory system.’

‘Have you reported it?’

She sat back in her chair. ‘I can’t report suspicions and that’s all I have at the moment.’

‘Why are you telling me this? What makes you think you can trust me?’

‘I need outside help. You’re my only chance. I can’t confide in anyone at the plant. I couldn’t be certain they weren’t involved somehow in the diversion. Anyway, an attempt’s already been made on my life.’

‘They know you suspect?’

The waiter returned with a fresh pot of percolated coffee and refilled their cups.

Karen added some milk to her coffee and stirred it. ‘I kept a diary in my desk recording all my thoughts and suspicions. One night it was stolen. Two days later someone tampered with the brakes of my car.’

‘Did you report it?’

‘Naturally, but the plant manager was convinced it was only something to do with the Friends of the Earth. I’ve never gone along with that theory. Our views may be poles apart but they’re not saboteurs. No, it was an inside job.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘They’ve also managed to get into my house while I was at work. Nothing’s ever been taken; all they did was rearrange the lounge furniture. I suppose it’s their way of saying they can get at me whenever they want. I’m frightened C.W., I’m really frightened.’

He was perturbed by her capricious behaviour. He felt like a boxer who had been pummelled mercilessly against the ropes, on the verge of defeat, only to see his opponent’s corner throw in the towel. It never happened in boxing. He thought back to his options. Was she acting?

Was she, in fact, part of the team responsible for the plutonium thefts? Was she the bait to lure him into a trap? Or, on the other hand, was she on the level? Was she genuinely reaching out to him as a last source of help? Was she really in fear of her life? They were all questions which both puzzled and disturbed him, yet at the same time he knew she was the key to helping him expose the diversion at the plant. He had to stick with her, irrespective of where her true loyalties lay.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

‘You’re putting words into my mouth,’ he replied defensively.

‘And you’re evading the question.’

He dabbed his mouth with the napkin. ‘I don’t disbelieve you.’

‘The classic reply. You come to the reprocessing plant posing as a journalist but really you’re on some undercover assignment for a powerful organization, maybe for a government. I hardly think you went to all this trouble just to check the plumbing. We both know why you’re here. I thought I’d be helping you by telling you what I did. I want to help you, C.W., can’t you see that?’ She leaned forward and gripped his wrists. ‘If the plutonium were to fall into the wrong hands the results could be catastrophic. It would also give the anti-nuclear group some propaganda to use against us.’ She smiled apologetically and released his hands. ‘I believe passionately in the future of this industry but what chance have we got when an avaricious few are using it for their own crazy purposes?’

‘Can you give me a list of the employees you think are involved in the diversion?’

‘I’ll have it for you first thing in the morning.’

‘I intend writing the story I came here to find.’

‘Of course, you need to keep your cover intact.’

‘As I said to you earlier, I’m a freelance writer. The article should appear in the Times a couple of days after I get back to New York. Perhaps your friend could send you a copy.’ He called for the bill.

When Franz arrived with it Karen deftly plucked it from the sideplate and held up a hand to silence Whitlock’s protest. ‘It’s the least I can do. Anyway, the company’s paying.’

She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm once they emerged into the foyer and they walked in silence to the lift to go down to the basement car park.

The change in temperature was immediately noticeable when the lift doors parted and she tugged her shawl closer around her shoulders as the cold night air swirled around them.

‘Where are you parked?’

‘In the corner, it’s all I could find,’ she replied. ‘It’s pretty busy tonight. Probably a conference.’

They took no notice of the black Mercedes as it slipped noiselessly out of the parking space behind them, the driver’s foot hovering over the accelerator. It crept forward, slowly building up speed, and when it was twenty yards behind them the driver pressed the accelerator to the floor. Whitlock shoved Karen out of the way and had to fling himself on to the bonnet of a BMW as the Mercedes flashed past, missing him by inches. The driver spun the wheel as the Mercedes reached the end of the row of parked cars and it skidded sideways, the left corner of the rear bumper crumpling in a flash of sparks as it glanced off the wall. The driver changed down gears and sped up the ramp, smashing through the boomgate, and disappeared out into the street.

Whitlock hurried over to where Karen was huddled against a pillar, her head buried in her arms. He crouched down beside her and put his hand lightly on her shoulder. She put her arms around his neck and pressed her face against his chest. He became aware of someone behind him and was reaching for his Browning when he saw the uniform. He let his hand drop.

‘Are you all right?’ the boomgate operator asked anxiously.

‘We’re okay, thanks.’

The man moved off to summon his superiors who, in turn, would summon the police.

‘Are you all right?’ Whitlock asked as he helped her to her feet.

‘I’m okay,’ she replied in a shaky voice. ‘How about you?’

‘I’ll survive,’ he replied with a grim smile. ‘Have you ever seen that car before?’

‘Never. Did you get a look at the driver?’

‘No, it was all too quick,’ he lied.

Not that he had seen much. A Caucasian face partially shaded by a trilby. It wasn’t much to go on but he was determined to keep the information to himself.

‘And the number plate?’

‘Blacked out with masking tape,’ he replied. ‘There’s no point in us hanging around here any longer. The last thing we need is to have the police involved.’

‘I’ll make you some coffee at my place,’ she said, taking her car keys from her handbag.

‘Thanks anyway but I want to get back to the hotel and soak my shoulder in a hot bath. It’s already getting a bit stiff. Anyway, you’ve got that list to prepare. The car won’t be back tonight.’

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘I owe you one.’

‘You don’t owe me anything. Now, go on. I’ll see you in the morning.’

As he walked to his car he was already planning his report for Philpott. Top priority would be a thorough screening of Karen Schendel. As he left the underground car park, the driver of the black Mercedes parked in the shadows of a driveway opposite pulled out into the road, and followed the Golf Corbio at a safe distance.