Rhinoceros

CHAPTER 13

Weeks sped by. Tweed had a relapse, then staged a steady recovery. In the clinic, Lisa endured a slow return to normal. All his team had been summoned to Park Crescent on the morning Tweed roared in. It was now late June. He sat erect behind his desk, gazed round.

'Welcome back,' said Paula.

'Hear, hear.' called out Newman.

'Enough of that, I have a clearer picture of what is happening. Still vague, but clearer. We must get moving…'

He broke off as the door opened and Lisa walked in. Newman, Paula, Mark Wendover, Harry and Pete, Monica and Marler all stared at her. The colour had come back to her face, she was the picture of vibrant health. No one had heard that she had left the clinic. She looked at Tweed.

'I discharged myself.'

'Was that wise?'

'.' know when I'm fit. I have to go somewhere at once.'

'No point in asking you where?' Tweed said.

'None at all.' She bent down, kissed him on both cheeks and headed for the door. 'Goodbye, everyone. For the moment. Thank you for all you've done for me.'

'Not even a hint?' pressed Tweed.

'You know where I'm going.' She opened the door. 'I told you. Tweed, you're a bit thick.'

Then she was gone. Tweed reached into his pocket, took out the doodle pad, extracted a page. He again gazed round the room.

'I am a bit thick. It was staring at me all the time. Those words she managed to utter when she arrived at the clinic. "Ham… Dan

… 4S.' Hamburg. The famous Four Seasons Hotel, which I know. That's where we're all going.' He looked at Monica. 'Book Club seats for all of us – on a flight for tomorrow. And pack light clothes, now this heatwave has hit us.'

The heatwave had started two days earlier, not predicted by the forecasters, of course. Not only Britain was affected. It was scorching the whole of northern Europe. Tweed was wearing a fawn linen suit. He had already taken off his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair.

'Thick is the word for me,' Tweed continued. 'Buchanan confirmed it when he told me Lisa's murdered sister was called Helga.'

The phone rang. Monica answered, told Tweed Keith Kent was calling.

'On the phone?'

'No, he's turned up downstairs, most unusual behaviour for him.. .'

'Wheel him up.'

Keith Kent walked in. He smiled at Paula, pulled a funny face at Newman, sat down, refused the offer of coffee from Monica.

'Can't stay long. Thought of another contact who could be helpful with information about Rhinoceros. Should have thought of him weeks ago.' He passed a sheet of paper to Tweed. 'Name is Dr Kefler. That's his phone number and address. He's lived in Hamburg all his life. Regarded in Germany as a financial genius. Rightly so.'

'We're off to Hamburg tomorrow, as it happens, Keith. I'd prefer to call on him.'

'Oh. Then be careful. That address is down by the docks, overlooks the river Elbe. A tricky place at night.

You can bump into some pretty rough characters. Wish I was coming with you. I like Hamburg.'

'Come, then. Join us. We'll be at the Four Seasons Hotel.'

'Now you're making my mouth water. Can't make it tomorrow. Might – just might – fly over there in a few days' time.'

'What sort of a man is this Dr Kefler? His personality?'

'Shrewd as a barrel of monkeys. Personality? Reminds me of a chuckling teddy bear. I must go now. Enjoy the holiday.'

'I suspect it may be anything but a holiday.'

'See you all…'

Kent was gone as swiftly as he had arrived. Tweed held up the sheet of paper Kent had left him.

'There we go. Further confirmation. Germany. Before you scuttle off to buy new clothes, which I expect some of you will need to, I'll summarize the state of war up to now – my thinking when I was lying in bed for ever. I can't explain why, but I'm convinced we're involved with two very powerful forces battling with each other. I can't yet work out which character we've met – there are plenty of them – belongs to one force and which to the other. Lisa could be on the good side – but she could also be on the bad one. And this is very big. It involves governments, power. Two top aides to powerful men have been murdered – Jeremy Mordaunt, and Jason Schulz in Washington…'

'Pause for breath,' Newman called out. 'Permission to speak.'

'Well, get on with it. What is it?'

'I don't think you've read the newspapers today.' Newman held up a copy of the Daily Nation. 'Yesterday, in Paris, the closest man to the Prime Minister, a certain Louis Lospin, was murdered on his front doorstep.'

Paula had rarely seen Tweed take a minute to absorb the implications of a new development. He sat quite still, his expression one of great gravity. He pursed his lips.

'Which further confirms what I just said – that governments and power are involved. At the highest level. We must tread carefully. I'm convinced that someone decided these men – Mordaunt and Schulz, and now Lospin -knew too much.'

'I've got another morsel,' Newman told him.

'Then spit it out.'

'While you were lolling in bed I spent part of my time renewing contacts with old reporter chums. Lots of alcohol. One chap is a specialist writing on security. Used to be with Special Branch. Told me there's a top secret international conference planned soon now.. .'

Tweed interrupted. 'Attended by who?'

'Do let me finish. One candidate is your old friend…' Newman smiled. 'Gavin Thunder. Another is the American Secretary of State.. .'

'Their Foreign Secretary,' Paula chimed in.

'Do you mind?' Newman snapped. 'A third one is the Prime Minister of France. Number four is the Deputy Chancellor of Germany. They'll all to fly to the Bahamas, land, transfer by boat to another island, name unknown. An SAS unit is being flown out, plus a whole regiment of security wallahs. The stage is yours.'

Tweed stood up, walked briskly over to a large map of the western hemisphere hanging on the wall. Paula noticed he was studying the Bahamas.

'One hell of a lot of islands,' he commented. 'You said this conference will take place soon now. How soon?'

'My contact said it could be any time within the next month. He also guessed – or so he said – that it was linked with the riots a while ago. The secrecy is quite incredible.'

'It's all adding up to the picture I built up,' said Tweed, returning to his desk. 'The vague picture. Huge forces are on the move. Forces that, I suspect, could transform our lives.'

'And the answer could be in Hamburg?' Mark enquired. 'I'm fluent in German, if that would help.'

'I hope to find the key in Hamburg. This Dr Kefler might help. Paula and Marler are also fluent in German. I know a little myself.. .'

'You're damned well so fluent you could pass for a German,' Paula snapped. 'And you know it.'

'The more the merrier,' Tweed replied.

'Seats all booked for Hamburg,' Monica called out. 'You're to be at Heathrow at noon tomorrow. I've sent a courier to collect the tickets – I'll hand them out this afternoon. I did book return.'

'Yes, we do hope to return,' Tweed told her grimly.

Paula thought Tweed had never been more vigorous -and doom-laden. This is going to be no picnic, she told herself.

'Seating. How do we travel?' Harry asked, the first time he had spoken.

'Good point,' Tweed agreed. 'I sit with Paula. Away from us, Newman sits with Mark. Near the back of the plane Harry will be with Pete – to keep an eye on us. Marler behind all of us.'

'Weapons?' drawled Marler, propping up a wall.

'You ask that question?' Tweed rasped, leaning forward. 'We know three top government men have been murdered. Paula told me she'd heard from Buchanan that one of the two thugs he's arrested admitted their job was to kill Lisa. Somebody tried to kill me on our way back from Alfriston a century ago. And you ask that question?'

'So I gather the answer is yes,' replied Marler, quite unperturbed. 'Lucky I have a contact in Hamburg. Nice little chap. In a not-so-nice little street off the Reeperbahn.

For that I'll have to take ninety thousand deutschmarks.'

'So you're buying an artillery piece?' Harry joked.

'Thought it might come in handy,' Marler joked back.

Paula did a quick mental calculation. Ninety thousand DM – about thirty thousand pounds. But she knew obtaining illegal weapons – with the serial- numbers filed off and that had never been used by anyone else – came expensive.

'Oh, Tweed, I didn't tell you the full story about Louis Lospin's murder. That's London's version. The French papers are calling it suicide. Gave a graphic description of how he waited until his chauffeur had raced off- probably to see his latest girlfriend, which is my bit – and then blew his head off and slumped down the front door of his apartment, still holding the gun.'

'Echoes of Jason Schulz,' Mark commented. 'Found slumped down at the bottom of a tree trunk, the gun clasped in his hand. He should have toppled sideways.'

'Echoes of Jeremy Mordaunt,' Tweed said. 'And I saw the body. I've just decided – after what Bob told us – that I'll call in at the Ministry of Armaments on the off chance Gavin Thunder is behind his desk.'

'Want me to come with you?' Paula suggested.

'No. From what I've heard of Gavin, a married man, no less, he'll ask you for your home phone number. I'm going now.'

Lord Barford was sitting in his study in the manor. From the windows he could see the sweep of the rolling Downs, the sun reflecting off a quarry face. He had unlocked a drawer in his desk and was studying a ticket he had bought at Heathrow the previous evening. Yet another journey into Europe loomed. He shoved it quickly inside a large leather wallet as his younger son, Aubrey, came in. 'Well, Pater, I was early to meet you at Heathrow last night,' Aubrey remarked as he sat down and languidly crossed his legs.

'What's that red mark round your forehead?' Barford growled. 'You haven't been tearing around on that motorcycle with a filly on the pillion, I hope.'

'Given up the old motorbike. That red mark is a riding cap I wore which was too small for me.'

'So you say. How can I believe one bloody word you say? Incidentally, I'm off again on business tomorrow. An early start. Not sure how long I'll be away.'

'Can I drive you up to Heathrow, Pater?'

'No. The chopper will get me there.' Barford made sure the drawer containing the leather wallet was locked. 'I'm off to bathe…'

When Lord Barford had gone, Aubrey began poking round the study. For the second time he picked up the French newspaper which had arrived a week ago. His father had several foreign papers delivered to him by air mail.

Settling himself comfortably, after raiding his father's cocktail cabinet and helping himself to a double Scotch, he reread the item. It reported the return of Louis Lospin to Paris after conferring with the police in Corsica about the bandit problem on the island.

Inside the control room of his house, Eagle's Nest, below the quarry on the Downs, Rondel pressed the lever that elevated the apparatus up the chimney-like tower. Then he went outside into the warm night and watched and listened.

The device rose smoothly, noiselessly appeared out of the chimney's mouth, continued to rise until its targeting apparatus focused above the rim of the Downs. Satisfied, Rondel returned to the control room, pressed another lever which withdrew the system down and inside the chimney.

'Is you ready for dinner, sir?' Mrs Grimwood asked when he walked into the spacious dining room. 'Cook has roasted a nice chicken for you. She left you to choose the wine, as usual.'

'Good. I shall be going abroad tomorrow. May be absent for quite a while. Phone you when I'm returning.'

'My. You do travel, sir. I'd be tired out if I had to travel as much as you do. All those trips by airplane.'

'That's modern business. And I think I'm ready for a meal.'

When he was away Mrs Grimwood often used one of his older cars in the evening to drive to a pub in Alfriston. She loved the gossip. 'Was it true Mildred was expectin'? And 'er not married…'

There were times when a friend would ask her where Rondel had gone to this time. Always seemed to be gallivantin' off, the friend would comment hopefully. Then Mrs Grimwood, after taking another sip at her strong gin, would look mysterious.

'Now, Elsie, you know I can't talk about me employer. Not right 'an 'e 'as secrets. Mum's the word.'

The truth was that Mrs Grimwood hadn't an idea on earth where Rondel disappeared to.