Double Jeopardy

CHAPTER 16

Friday May 29

It was a sunny, hot, sweaty day in Paris when Howard flew in to Charles de Gaulle. He was attending the conference to finalise security aboard the Summit Express. Typically he travelled alone. Typically he wore country tweeds.

From the airport a car sent by Alain Flandres drove him to No. 11, rue des Saussaies, official headquarters of the Surete. This narrow, twisting street, only a few minutes' walk from the Elysee, is rarely noticed by tourists. Inside an archway uniformed policemen watch the entrance.

Flandres often chose the complex of sombre old buildings for a clandestine meeting. The place was well-guarded, there was much coming and going by plain-clothes detectives – so the arrival of three civilians in separate cars was unlikely to attract attention. The head of the French Secret Service was waiting to greet Howard in a second-floor room equipped with a table, chairs and little else.

'Good to see you, Alain,' Howard said tersely.

'I am delighted to welcome you to Paris, my friend,' Flandres replied enthusiastically as he shook hands and turned to a man already seated at the table.

'You know Tim O'Meara, of course? Just in from Washington…'

'We had the pleasure of meeting once,' the American interjected. He shook hands without rising from his chair and resumed smoking his cigar.

They sat round the highly polished table while Flandres poured drinks. Howard fiddled with the new pad and pencil in front of him, sitting stiff-backed. O'Meara did not improve on further acquaintance he was thinking. Heavily built, in his early fifties, the American had a large head, was clean-shaven, wore rimless glasses and exuded self-confidence. He did not behave as the 'new boy'.

The fact was Tim O'Meara had only been chief of the American Secret Service detachment which guarded his President for a year. In his loud check sports jacket – he also was obviously playing the tourist – he settled his bulk in his chair as though he had been a member of the club for a decade.

As he poured the drinks Alain Flandres observed all this with a hint of Gallic amusement. Short and of slim build, Flandres was impeccably dressed in a lounge suit despite the heat. Also in his early fifties, the Frenchman's features were finely chiselled and he sported a trim, pencil-style moustache the same colour as his well-brushed dark hair.

'Erich Stoller from Germany is due any moment,' he announced as he settled in his own chair and lifted his glass. 'Gentlemen – welcome!'

He sipped at his cognac, noted that Howard took a big gulp while O'Meara swallowed half his glass of neat Scotch. There was tension under the surface, Flandres observed. This was a gathering of nervous men. Who was the catalyst?

The door opened and Erich Stoller was ushered into the room. His tall, thin figure was in extreme contrast to the other three, as was his manner. He tended to listen, to say very little. He apologised for his late arrival.

'An unexpected problem required my urgent attention…'

He left it at that. It was mid-afternoon and he had no wish to reveal that in the morning he had been in Lindau, sealing off the island while Martel took his launch on to the lake. He'd had the devil of a rush to reach Paris – involving a helicopter flight to Munich airport where a plane had waited for him.

'Only some beer,' he told Flandres, sitting bolt upright in his chair. An excellent psychologist, he proceeded to throw Howard completely off Martel's scent by irritating him. 'And how is my friend, Tweed?' he enquired. 'I expected to see him here…'

'Tweed is home-based these days,' Howard said curtly, his face very bony. 'Getting on in years, you know…'

'Really? I thought you were both the same age,' Stoller remarked blandly and drank some beer.

`This isn't his territory,' Howard snapped. 'Maybe we can get on with the subject which brought us to Paris?'

'But, of course!' Flandres agreed, even more amused by this exchange. 'I have the route of the Summit Express…' He proceeded to unroll'a large-scale map of Northern Europe with the route marked in red. He sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette watching the others study the sheet.

Alain Flandres, whose handsome features and easy charm proved so irresistible to women, also had a flair for the dramatic. He made the remark casually and three heads bent over the map jerked up.

'A sighting of Carlos – Manfred – call him what you like, was reported in London this morning – in Piccadilly to be precise

'Manfred! How the hell do you know what's happening in London? And will someone tell me whether he really is Carlos?'

It was Howard who had exploded. Flandres noted he was edgier than he had realised. Why, he wondered? In a casual tone of voice the Frenchman explained.

'A girl operative of mine, Renee Duval, is working at the French Embassy for the moment. This telex just came in from her with an extract from your midday paper.' While Howard read the strip the Frenchman handed him, Erich Stoller commented on Carlos.

'Carlos has no known base. Manfred has no known base. No one is sure of the real appearance of Carlos. The same applies to Manfred. Carlos has been known to take temporary refuge behind the Iron Curtain – as has Manfred. Both are independents who cooperate with the KGB only when it suits them.'

`So there are two of them?' Howard broke in.

'Or,' O'Meara intervened in his gravelly voice, 'has Carlos invented two of them – if so, which is the real one? You omitted, Erich, to add that both men – if two exist – are brilliant assassins.

Flandres studied the American more closely. That is a most telling point you have made, my friend, he was thinking. Howard coloured with annoyance at Stoller's next question.

'Could you be more precise about this sighting in London? How was he dressed? Why was he recognised so easily?'

`His usual "uniform",' Howard murmured reluctantly. 'Windcheater, jeans, his dark beret and very large tinted glasses.'

'Can you elaborate on this incident?' the German persisted.

'He was recognised by a policeman patrolling on foot. Carlos – if it was Carlos – vanished up Swallow Street leading to Regent Street. The policeman pursued him and lost him in the crowds. Later, one of the assistants in Austin Reed, a nearby man's outfitter, found on a chair the windcheater with the beret and glasses on top. Underneath the windcheater was a loaded. 38 Smith amp; Wesson…' -

'A patrolling policeman,' Stoller continued. 'He was walking up and down a particular section of this street?'

'I imagine so, yes. Probably keeping an eye open for IRA suspects. Where is all this leading to?' Howard demanded.

'Someone dressed in this manner could have made sure the policeman did see him and then disappeared?'

'I suppose so, although I hardly see the point..'

O'Meara relit his cigar. `A Havana,' he explained. 'I have to get through this box before I return to the States where, as you must know, they are contraband.'

Stoller, after his unusual burst of conversation, lapsed into silence and Flandres had the eerie impression the German was studying one particular person. But he could not identify which. man had for some unknown reason aroused the BND chief's interest.

They proceeded with the main business in hand – planning security for. their respective political heads attending the Vienna Summit. The rail journey was broken down into sectors. The division into sectors was marked on the map.

Pariito Strasbourg – French. From Strasbourg via Stuttgart and Munich to Salzburg – German. The last stage, Salzburg to Vienna – American, with nominal cooperation from the Austrians. Alain Flandres, in sparkling good humour, did most of the talking.

Howard was allocated a 'mobile' role – his team would cover all three sectors. Flandres went over his sector in detail, pointing out potential danger points from terrorist attack – embankments, bridges. O'Meara, puffing his cigar, decided the Frenchman knew his job.

Then it was Erich Stoller's turn and again O'Meara was impressed. The German paused as he reached a certain point on the map and was silent for a short time. Something in his manner heightened the tension inside the airless room as he prodded with his finger.

'Here the express crosses into Bavaria. There is a certain instability in this area. It is unfortunate the state elections take place the day after the train crosses this sector…'

The neo-Nazi business? Delta?' Howard enquired.

`Tofler,' O'Meara said with great conviction. 'His support is growing with each fresh discovery of more Delta arms and uniforms. And Tofler is a near-Communist. His programme includes plans for detaching Bavaria from West Germany and making it a "neutral" province or state like Austria. That would smash NATO and hand Western Europe to the Soviets on a platter…'

'Chancellor Langer is fully aware of the problem,' Stoller said quietly. 'His advisers tell him Tofler will not win…'

Flandres arranged for excellent food and drink to be brought in and they continued going over the route untile late in the evening. The Frenchman sipped at his glass of wine as he looked round at his colleagues, all of whom were now in shirt-sleeves. The evening was warm and clammy. The bombshell fell after he made his remark.

I am beginning to think, gentlemen, that the main requirement for our job is stamina…'

He broke off as an armed guard entered the room and handed him a message. He read it, frowned and looked at Howard. 'This says the British ambassador is outside with an urgent signal which he must pass to you at once.'

The Ambassador?' Howard was shaken but nothing showed in his expression. 'You mean he has sent a messenger…'

'I mean the Ambassador in person,' Flandres said firmly. 'And I understand he wishes to hand you the signal himself while you are present at this meeting.'

'Please ask him to come in,' Howard requested the guard.

A tall distinguished man with a white moustache entered the room holding a folded slip of paper. Everyone stood, brief introductions took place, and Sir Henry Crawford handed the folded slip'to Howard.

'Came direct to me, Anthony – in my personal code. No one except myself knows about it. It was accompanied by a request that I came here myself. Reasonable enough – when you read the contents.' He looked round the room. 'A pleasure to meet you all and now, if you will excuse me…'

Howard had unfolded the slip and read it several times before he sat down and gazed round the table. His expresssion was unfathomable but the atmosphere had changed. The Englishman spoke quietly, without a trace of emotion.

'This signal is from Tweed in London. He makes an assertion – I emphasise he gives no clue as to his source. Only the gravity of the assertion compels me to pass it on to you under such circumstances …'

`If Tweed makes an assertion,' Flandres commented, 'then we can be sure he has grounds for doing so. The more serious the assertion the less likely he is to reveal the source. It might endanger the informant's life…'

`Quite so.' Howard was aware that his armpits were stained with dampness. He cleared his throat, glanced at each man and read out the contents of the signal.

Reliable source has just reported unknown assassin will attempt to eliminate one – rePeat one – of four VIP's aboard Summit Express. No indication yet as to which of four will be target. Tweed.