Double Jeopardy

CHAPTER 10

Thursday May 28

'You'll like Lindau, Keith,' Claire said as Martel peered out of the window from the fast-moving express. 'It is one of the most beautiful old towns in Germany…'

'I know it.' He had his mind on something else. 'I shall want to contact Erich Stoller of the BND as soon as we can – to let him have a look at this…'

Unlocking his case, he produced something rolled up in a handkerchief. A blue, shiny cylinder like a large felt-tip pen. There were two press-buttons: one on the casing, the second at the base.

'I rescued this little Delta toy from the floor of the Embroidery Museum where the killer dropped it. This button half-way along the casing ejects and retracts the needle. I imagine the one at the base injects the poison. Ingenious – you can use the full force of the palm of your hand to operate the injection mechanism. Stoller's forensic people will tell us what fluid it contains…'

'That woman I shot outside the Hecht…'

'Was going to use the duplicate of this. Intriguing that Reinhard Dietrich runs an electronics complex -which involves fine instrumentation…'

`You mean he manufactures that horrible thing?'

'Damned sure of it.' He replaced the weapon inside his case and looked again out of the window. Up to now the view had been one of green cultivated fields and rolling hills – one of the most attractive and least-known parts of Switzerland. Well clear of the tourist belt.

The landscape was changing. They were crossing flatlands dimly visible in swirling mist which hid nearby Lake Konstanz. They saw few signs of human habitation and there was something desolate in the atmosphere. Martel concentrated on the view as though he might miss something important.

`This is the Rhine delta, isn't it?' he queried.

`Yes. We cross the river soon just before it runs into the lake.'

Delta. Was there significance in this geographical curiosity at the extreme eastern end of the lake? The southern shore was Swiss except for a weird enclave of land occupied by the German town of Konstanz away to the west. The northern shore was German. But at this eastern tip a few miles of lake frontage was Austrian.

Martel adjusted the horn-rimmed spectacles with plain glass he wore to change his appearance. He lit a fresh cigarette, being careful not to use his holder. He seemed to have relapsed into a dream.

'We shall soon be in Lindau,' Claire said exuberantly, trying to drag him out of his dark mood. 'Surely we must find something – it was

…' Her voice wavered and then she had herself under control. 'It was the last place Warner was seen alive.'

`Except that we are getting off at the stop before – Bregenz in Austria.'

'Why?'

`Bregenz could be important. And it will be the last place Delta will expect us to leave the train…'

Hauptbahnhof, Munich… Hauptbahnhof, Zurich… Delta… Centralhof…Bregenz. Washington, DC, Clint Loomis… Pullach, BND… Operation Crocodile.

These were the references the dead Charles Warner had written in the tiny black notebook hidden in a secret pocket, the notebook Erich Stoller of the BND had discovered on the body and flown to Tweed in London.

Bregenz.

As the express slowed down Claire caught a glimpse of Lake Konstanz through the corridor windows – a sheet of calm grey water. The express stopped and when Martel opened the door at the end of the coach he found no platform – they stepped down on to the track. He dumped his suitcase, took Claire's and held her elbow while she descended the steep drop. She shivered as she picked up her case and they made their way across rail tracks to the station, an old single-storey building.

`You shivered…'

It's the mist,' she said shortly.

A cold clammy dampness moistened her face and she felt it penetrating her light raincoat. She had lied. It was the mist partly – but mainly it was the atmosphere created by the drifts of greyish vapour. You saw things, then they were gone.

Behind Bregenz looms the massive heights of the Pfdnder, a ridge whose sides are densely forested. As they crossed to the station Claire saw a gap appear in the mist pall exposing the dripping wall of limestone, then it too was gone. There was no ticket barrier to pass through – tickets had been checked aboard the express. They depogited their cases in the self-locking metal compartments for luggage and walked into Bregenz.

The place seemed deserted, as though it were a Sunday. A line of old block-like buildings faced the station. Martel paused, puffing his cigarette as he glanced round searching for anything out of place. Claire gazed at him.

`Those glasses make you look studious – they change your whole personality. And you're walking more ponderously. You're just like a chameleon. Incidentally, what are we going to do here?'

He extracted two photos of Charles Warner obtained from Tweed before leaving Park Crescent and handed her one of the prints. She looked at the picture of the man she had worked with for over six months, the man who had been brutally murdered on the lake behind them – only a short distance from where they stood.

`The story is we're looking for a friend – Warner,' Martel told her. 'His wife is seriously ill and we think he's somewhere here. We'll buy a street map,, divide up the place into sections – then meet up at an agreed place in two hours' time…'

`It sounds a hopeless task,' she commented when they were studying a street plan bought at a kiosk.

`Warner was here – he made a reference to the place in his notebook. Concentrate on anywhere selling cigarettes – he smoked like a chimney. He had a strong personality, made an impression on anyone he talked to. Now, we'll decide which district each of us is going to tackle. Half this job is legwork…'

In the Munich apartment the phone began ringing and Manfred, who was expecting the call, picked up the receiver with his gloved hand. It was Erwin Vinz. Manfred, a teetotaller, poured Perrier water as he listened intently.

'I am speaking from Munich Hauptbahnhof,' Vinz began after giving the identification code. 'I got off the train a few minutes ago

Manfred knew immediately something was wrong. Vinz was rambling, reluctant to come to the point. Manfred introduced into the conversation his often-used ploy.

'Excellent! We assume all went well. Appointment kept and deal concluded!'

'The Englishman was not on the train. There is no doubt – I can vouch for the fact personally. If he got aboard at St. Gallen he must have got off at Romanshorn or St. Margarethen in Switzerland.'

'Kohler saw him closing the compartment door after he boarded the express at St. Gallen…'

Manfred's voice was gentle and delicate, concealing his livid rage. Vinz's insolence in emphasising If cast doubt on Kohler's competence. Not that Manfred cared a damn about Kohler – but Vinz was trying to shift the blame and that he would not tolerate.

'Kohler would have known,' Manfred continued, 'if our friend left the train while it was moving through Switzerland…' Manfred saw no reason to explain that Kohler would have had men with a clear description of Keith Martel waiting at each Swiss stop. He continued to make Vinz sweat.

'Your sector began at the Swiss border. You got on the train at Lindau

'The bastard must have got off at Bregenz,' Vinz interjected. 'It was the only place left uncovered…'

'Left uncovered by you…'

Bregenz! Manfred's hand gripped the receiver tightly. The one town he did not want Martel poking around in was Bregenz. He felt like screaming at Vinz, but the sensitivity of the situation must at all costs be hidden.

'I can have a team in Bregenz in one hour,' Vinz volunteered, disturbed by the silence at the other end of the line.

'We would like your team to keep its appointment with the client in half an hour. I hold you personally responsible for bringing about a successful conclusion to this transaction…'

Inside the payphone at Munich Hauptbahnhof Vinz swore again. Once more Manfred had abruptly terminated the conversation. And now he had to fly his bloody team back from Munich to the airstrip nearest Bregenz. This time they had to eliminate the Englishman.

In London Tweed had left his office for his flat in Maida Vale after receiving the St. Gallen call from Martel. Mason, Howard's new deputy, had tried to delay him. Looking leaner and hungrier than ever, he arrived as Tweed was leaving.

'The chief would like to see you in his office, sir. He says it is extremely urgent…'

'It always is – to him. I'll see him when I get back.'

Tweed took a cab to the flat. He also took Miss McNeil and she carried the Martel tape concealed in a hold-all. While in the cab he asked his question.

'That new recruit, Mason. Is he any good at anything?'

'He'd make a good bodyguard,' McNeil replied in her crisp Scots accent. 'He's an expert at judo, karate. A marksman with handguns. Special Branch were happy for Howard to take him.'

'Why?'

McNeil had a finely-tuned ear on the grapevine. Probably due to her gift for listening with attentive concentration and unlimited patience.

'He was too physical – always resorted to heavy handling of any suspect at the drop of a hat. A lot of hats – and clangers – were dropped, I gather.'

At the flat McNeil played back the tape of Martel's conversation on the machine kept there permanently, making notes in neat loops and curls. She had offered to make the tea but Tweed insisted only he could make it the way he liked it. You would imagine he had been a lifetime bachelor, McNeil thought, as she went on making her notes. Tweed arrived with theiray of tea as the tape came to the end of the recording.

The block of flats Tweed lived in was self-service. He had a Sicilian woman who came in to clean the place and often complained she was 'illiterate in three languages'. There was a restaurant on the ground floor. Here Tweed, now on his own, led a self-contained existence. He poured the tea as he asked the question.

`Anything strike you about Martel's data?'

`Two things. Delta seems to be acting in a frenzy – as though they're working against a deadline. Bloodbath. That's strong language from Martel in a report. And another reference – something phoney about Delta neo-Nazis. I don't understand what he's driving at…'

'McNeil, you're a treasure. You always spot the salient facts. Makes me feel redundant. I'm pretty sure the deadline is June 2 when the Summit Express leaves Paris – because by morning it will be crossing Bavaria…'

`You're thinking about the Bavarian state elections?'

`Exactly. Three main parties are competing for power – to take over the state government. Dietrich's Delta- the neo-Nazis – the government party under Chancellor Kurt Langer, and the left-wing lot under Tofler, the alleged ex-Communist. If something dramatic happens on June 3, the day before the election, it might swing the election result-into Toiler's hands. For the West it would be a major disaster.'

`What dramatic event could happen?'

'I only wish I knew.' Tweed sipped his tea. 'I'm convinced Delta has some secret plan – hence the frenzy to eliminate anyone digging into their affairs.'

'What about the reference to something phoney?'

McNeil sat quite still, watching Tweed gazing owlishly through his spectacles into the distance. He was, she knew, capable of sudden flashes of intuition – a leap into the future he divined from just the sort of ragbag of facts Martel had provided.

'It has the feel of a separate cell operating secretly inside Delta,' Tweed said slowly. 'That's the only explanation for some of their actions which seem to be designed to ensure they lose the election…'

'Now you've lost me,' McNeil commented tartly.

'Where have you two been?'

Howard was waiting for them when McNeil and Tweed returned to the latter's office. Standing stiff-backed he had the window behind him -so his own face was in shadow while the new arrivals were caught in the full glare of the light from the curved window. He clasped his hands over his stomach which was decorated with the double loop of a gold watch-chain.

Very militant in mood as well as stance, Tweed observed as he sat behind his desk. He knew the type only too well. An inferiority complex as large as Everest – so they compensated by periodic assertions of authority, just to make sure they still held it.

'Went for a walk in Regent's Park,' Tweed lied blandly. 'You're working on a problem?' Howard pounced.

The SIS chief was in a nervous state of mind, McNeil decided. She was carrying the empty hold-all inside which she had smuggled out Martel's tape to the flat in Maida Vale.

'What's inside that hold-all?' Howard demanded.

'Cheese sandwiches – Cheddar, if you must know,' Tweed interjected. 'k's better than the Cheshire – more flavour..

'Could you very kindly find something to do elsewhere?' Howard asked McNeil, who promptly left the room, still carrying the hold-all.

'Have you heard from Keith Martel?' Howard barked as soon as they were alone.

'I thought you were concentrating on security for the PM on her trip to the forthcoming Summit Conference in Vienna. So why interest yourself in Martel…'

'It's a waste of personnel. Just when I need every man…'

`So you told me. If you want it on record send me a minute and I can show it to the Minister.' Tweed perched his glasses on the end of his nose and peered over the rims at his visitor; a mannerism which he knew infuriated Howard. 'By the way, I suppose the normal people are in charge of security for the others – the Presidents of America and France, and the German-Chancellor?'

'Tim O'Meara in Washington, Alain Flandres in Paris and Erich Stoller in Bonn. Does it really concern you?'

`Not really. I just wondered if all my old friends were still in their jobs.' Tweed looked at his chief. 'These days so many get the chop just when they least expect it…'

Howard left the room, his mouth tight, his stride almost that of an officer route-marching. He would be incensed for days over the exchange which had taken place – and would therefore keep well away from Tweed, which was what the latter intended. McNeil peered round the door.

`Has he gone?'

'Yes, my dear, the British lion has roared. It is now safe to return.' He opened a copy of The Times atlas. 'Crocodile – I'm sure the meaning of that codeword is under my nose

Erwin Vinz took his execution squad back into the new search area – Bregenz – by the fastest possible route. Flying from a private airstrip outside Munich he landed his men at another airstrip close to Lindau. From here the eight men piled into three waiting cars and were driven at speed to the border and Bregenz beyond. It was three o'clock when they pulled up in front of the station.

'I think Martel got off the train here,' Vinz told the two men in the rear of his car. 'He may well still be in Bregenz. You stay here. The rest of us will quarter the town and drive round until we locate him…'

`And if we do see him board a train?' one of the two men asked as he alighted from the car.

'He has a fatal accident, of course!' Vinz was irritated by the man's stupidity. 'Whatever happens he must not reach Munich…'

Vinz held a brief conference with the other five men. 'There are twenty thousand deutschemarks for the man who locates Martel. You have his description. You tell people he escaped from a home for the mentally disturbed, that he is dangerous. Rendezvous here two hours from now. Turn over this backwater!'

Martel picked up the spoor Charles Warner had left behind in Bregenz at his twelfth attempt. The contact was a bookseller, an Austrian in his early forties with a shop at the end of Kaiserstrasse. Outside was the pedestrian underpass where Martel had arranged to meet Claire in half an hour's time. He told his tale, showed Warner's photo and the reaction was positive.

`I know your friend. Grief seems to be his companion… `Grief?' Martel queried cautiously and waited.

`Yes. His closest friend died here while on a visit. It was during the French military occupation of the Vorarlberg and the Tyrol after the war. His friend was buried here so he thought he would pay his respects.'

'I see…'

Martel did not see at all and was careful to say as little as possible. The bookseller broke off to serve a customer and then continued.

'There are two Catholic cemeteries in Bregenz and one Protestant. This man's friend had a curious religious history. Born a Protestant, he was converted to the Catholic faith. Later he appeared to lose his faith. Under the peculiar circumstances the man who came into my shop asked for the location of all three cemeteries. I showed them to him on a street map.'

`How recent was his visit to you?'

`Less than a week ago. Last Saturday…'

'Can you sell me a street map and mark the three cemeteries?'

The bookseller-fetched a map and ringed the areas. There is the Blumenstrasse, the Vorkloster – both are Catholic. And here is the Protestant burial-ground…'

Claire was waiting when Martel descended the steps into the otherwise deserted subway. She stood gazing at a scene behind an illuminated window set into the wall. The glass protected relics of an archaeological dig which had unearthed the ancient Roman town which once stood on the site of present- day Bregenz.

'Spooky, isn't it?' Clare remarked and gave a little shudder. 'All that time ago. And today in this mist the whole place seems creepy – and I haven't found a trace of Warner…'

'Last Saturday he was standing not a hundred feet from where we are standing now…'

She listened while he summed up his interview with the helpful bookseller. As he completed his resume she was frowning. 'I'm not grasping the significance…'

Join the club – except that one thing's almost frighteningly certain. He was here last Saturday. Sunday he's murdered out on the lake. Whatever he found in Bregenz probably triggered off that murder

…'

'But how long ago was the French military occupation of Austria, for God's sake? This goes back to just after the war…'

`Not necessarily. The Allied occupation of Austria ended May 15 1955 – so whatever Warner dug up could have happened close to that date…'

`It's still over a quarter of a century ago,' she objected, 'so what could have happened then that's relevant to today?'

'Damned if I know – that's what we have to find out. That yarn Warner spun about his closest friend dying here was eye-wash, but he had his teeth into something. The period – the time of the French occupation might mean something…'

`So how do we find out, where do we start?'

'We hire a car first at a place I saw near here. Then we visit the three cemeteries Warner was enquiring about. The secret has to lie in one of them. Literally…'

Erwin Vinz walked into the bookseller's shop in Kaiserstrasse. Despite his later arrival in Bregenz he had, without knowing, an advantage over Martel: six men were scouring the town. He spoke first to a girl assistant and asked for the manager. She went upstairs to find the proprietor who had talked to Martel.

'I'd better go down and see this man myself,' the bookseller decided.

On the ground floor he listened while Vinz told his story. The verbal description Vinz gave was graphic. Take away the glasses and add a cigarette holder and the bookseller recognised that this man was describing his earlier visitor. The Austrian studied Vinz and was careful not to interrupt.

`You say that this man has escaped from a mental asylum?' he enquired eventually.

`Yes. A very violent patient. Unfortunately he can give the impression he is completely normal and this makes him even more dangerous. You have seen this man?'