Double Jeopardy (32 page)

Martel waited, concealing a sensation of turmoil. Everything depended on what Christine Brack said during the next minute. She spread out the glossy prints on her lap and then uttered a little exclamation. Her expression was frozen as she held out one photograph.

'That is my husband, Mr Stolz. Older yes, but that is him. I have been dwelling under some terrible illusion for thirty years. What does it mean…'

'You are quite sure?'

'I am certain. Incidentally, I will now tell you another man came to see me recently but I told him very little.' Martel realised she was referring to Charles Warner as she returned the photographs to him.

'That is not your husband,' Martel said gently. 'It simply looks very like him. And you have been living under no illusion – your husband did die thirty years ago.' He stood up. 'You may well be under observation and in grave danger now I have called. Can you pack a bag in five minutes and come with me to a place of safety for a few days?'

Shock made her amenable and she agreed to his suggestion. Also she was a woman able to pack in five minutes.

Martel hurried her down Gallus-strasse to the lake front where he found a cab and told the driver to take them to a nearby airstrip. The pilot who had flown him from Munich was waiting with his plane.

'I have to be in Munich so I reach the Hauptbahnhof by 9.30 at the latest. And first I have to drop this lady at a hotel…' 'We're going to have to move,' the pilot warned.

'Then move!'

As they settled into the plane Martel prayed to God that he would not be too late. It had certainly been German 'security' men who had fooled Christine Brack all those years ago. And he now knew for certain the identity of the assassin.

Wednesday June 3. Munich

The arrival of Erich Stoller in the communications coach after the express had left Ulm caused a sensation. Howard was furious and did not resort to diplomatic language.

'Where the hell have you been? You realise the three of us – O'Meara, Flandres and myself – had to assume the responsibility for the safety of your own Chancellor…'

'Who is where at this moment?' Stoller broke in.

`Still locked in Compartment 12. The others are impatient for their breakfast but felt they had to wait until he emerged…'

'Follow me,' the German suggested. 'And surely you mean the four of you?' He glanced at Tweed who remained oddly silent. `So, had someone hurled a bomb through the window of Compartment 12, you feel it would have been due to my negligence?'

`That's how I see it,' O'Meara replied.

They were following the German Who led the way from the communications coach to Voiture Four. He stopped outside Compartment i6 and raised his hand to rap on the door.

`Wrong damned compartment,' Howard snapped.

Stoller rapped on the door with an irregular tattoo and it opened from the inside. Framed in the doorway stood Chancellor Kurt Langer, fully dressed and smoking one of his inevitable cigarettes. He wore a fresh business suit and an enquiring look.

'Time for breakfast, gentlemen? The others must be ready for a good German meal. May I rouse them myself so I can officially welcome them on German soil?'

O'Meara, Howard and Flandres – who had come hurrying up behind Tweed – were stunned into respectful and bewildered silence. They stood aside as Langer, chatting amiably, returned with his fellow-leaders and escorted them to the restaurant car. When they were alone Howard exploded.

`Stoller, you owe us an explanation…'

`He owes us nothing,' Tweed intervened. 'We are now in Germany and he can take whatever action he likes. But he may wish to tell us the latest score. Something in the public section of the train worries you, Erich?'

'It was all arranged with the Chancellor in advance when I flew to Bonn,' Stoller told them as they returned to the communications car. 'I boarded the express secretly at Kehl as a passenger while the Chancellor distracted your attention…'

`But why?' Howard demanded.

`Because,' Tweed again intervened, 'he sensed there is danger in the public section. I suspect he checked every passenger while pretending to be one of them…'

`Correct,' Stoller agreed. *And,' Tweed continued, 'I imagine you checked the sleeper?'

`Again, correct.' The BND chief permitted himself a wintry smile. 'For the sleeping-car I donned a uniform and examined credentials soon after the train left Stuttgart at 7.03 when they would have had a good night's rest. I found something curious -a woman left the train at Stuttgart, said she was feeling unwell. I'm unhappy about her…'

'All of us are,' Tweed replied and explained the mysterious disappearance of Irma Romer who had proved to be an imposter.

A subtle change had come over the relationship between the security chiefs since Stoller's arrival. Before his appearance the personality of Alain Flandres had dominated the group. Now, without seeming to, Tweed had assumed authority.

`I'm going along to the breakfast car to make sure all is well while they breakfast,' Howard suggested. 'Want to join me, Tim?'

Tweed said he would stay with Erich. Stoller waited until they were alone and guided Tweed to the end of the communications coach out of earshot of the technicians. He sat on one of the bunks and lit a cheroot. Tweed thought he looked badly in need of sleep. The German kept his voice low.

'Claire Hofer, Martel's Swiss assistant, came aboard at Ulm – she's by herself in the first-class coach. It worried me…'

'I'll go and see her in a minute,' Tweed replied.

'You know where Martel is? He's gone missing.'

'No idea. I think you have something on your mind…'

'I know who is the target for the assassin – it's staring us in the face,' Stoller asserted.

'I agree. But you tell me – and why you think so.'

'My own Chancellor. The state election in Bavaria is knife-edged – with Tofler, the Kremlin's creature, using the neo-Nazis to frighten the electorate into voting for him. So, what would be the effect of the assassination of Langer today?'

'Panic. A potential landslide for Tofler, leading ultimately to Bavaria becoming a Soviet republic as it briefly was in 1919.'

'So we agree,' said Stoller. 'And you know where I'm convinced the assassination attempt will take place?'

`Go on…' Tweed was watching Stoller through half-closed eyes.

'Munich. He insists on making a brief speech outside the Hauptbahnhof during the stop there and I can't dissuade him. Have you made any progress in locating the assassin?' he asked casually.

'No,' lied Tweed. 'But I'm going along to have a quiet word in her compartment with Claire Hofer. Did you bring any of those new alarm devices your boffins invented.'

'Half-a-dozen were put aboard. I'll get you one…'

Stoller walked to the far end of the coach and returned with a square rectangular plastic box he carried by a handle. 'This is The Wailer. It's designed to look like a powerful torch – but if you press this button a siren starts up. All hell breaks loose.'

Tweed picked up the 'torch' and made his way along the speeding express through the restaurant. The four western leaders were eating breakfast and the American President, as relaxed as ever, had just cracked a joke which was making his companions laugh. As Tweed passed their table the PM looked up and smiled at him.

Tweed walked on, showing the guards his pass, and moved into the first-class coach. He heard the door being locked behind him and nodded at the two guards outside. Walking slowly along the corridor, he glanced into each compartment.

The one before Claire's was occupied by a single woman wearing what the Americans called a pant suit. He noticed she had a tartan-covered suitcase on the rack and she was smoking as she stared out of the window. He wasted no words as he sat down beside Claire Hofer and showed the pass with his photograph.

'Miss Hofer, my name is Tweed. Keith Martel will have told you about me. Where is he?'

She examined the pass carefully before returning it. 'He flew to Bregenz in Austria late yesterday evening. He ordered me to board this train at Ulm.'

'Bregenz? Then I was right. But we need proof. Where will he board the express?'

'At Munich – he was flying back this morning. I just hope that he makes it…'

– 'He has to make it. The target is Langer. The attempt will be made at Munich. There is a thirteen-minute stop. Langer insists on making a speech outside the Hauptbahnhof – in front of a vast crowd. The assassin has to be identified and exposed before Langer mounts that podium…'

'Which means Martel must be on the platform and ready to board the express instantly…'

'I don't like the split-second timing,' Tweed confessed. 'And now I must go…' He tapped the plastic box, explaining how the device worked. 'Don't forget The Wailer. You see anything wrong, you press the button…'

Alone again in the compartment, Claire was beset with anxiety. What could she possibly hope to see that was wrong?

'For Christ's sake, move faster! I've paid you enough,' Martel rapped at the cab-driver. 'Use the side-streets…'

'The traffic – the one-way system…'

The driver lifted both hands briefly off the wheel to indicate his own frustration. Munich was jammed with cars. People on foot were streaming towards the Hauptbahnhof to hear Langer's speech. And Christine Brack was now safely ensconced in the Hotel Clausen.

They passed the river Isar where it debouched into an intricate system of sluices. Martel remembered the rendezvous a man called Stahl never kept at the Embroidery Museum in St. Gallen. Stoller had later told him of the body found trapped in one of the sluices, a body whose only identification had been a wrist-watch engraved with the word Stahl. Then the memory was gone.

Martel contemplated getting out and running the rest of the way. Then he saw they were passing the Four Seasons Hotel. Too far yet. He would never make swift progress through this mob of Langer supporters.

He checked his watch again in an obvious gesture which the driver saw in his rear-view mirror. It was 9.23 am. The Summit Express was due to arrive at the station in exactly ten minutes' time. The turmoil following the Chancellor's assassination would be appalling. It could easily sway the election into Tofler's hands.

Like Tweed, Martel had worked out that the target was the German leader. And now he knew the identity of the assassin – but only he could confront the killer and prove his identity. He stared in the rear-view mirror and met the driver's eyes.

'Here I can try a side-street,' the man said. 'It could save a few minutes…'

A few minutes. They could make all the difference to the future of western Europe – of the whole of the West.

Manfred's nylon-clad hand lifted the receiver the moment the instrument began ringing. He was aware he was gripping the receiver tightly. His packed case stood by the apartment door.

'Ewald Portz speaking,' a voice said. 'I am in position…'

'Watch your timing – it must be perfect…'

'We have gone over it a score of times,' Portz snapped. 'Then just remember – this is not a rehearsal…'

In a phone booth at Munich Hauptbahnhof Portz, a short, stocky man in his thirties, glared at the phone he was still holding. The line had gone dead. The bastard had rung off.

Inside the apartment Manfred picked up his case and kept on his gloves while he opened the outer door, closed and locked it. Only then did he remove the gloves and stuff them in his pocket. The main thing was that Portz – the decoy – was ready and in position. Armed with a pistol loaded with blanks he had to aim and fire at the Chancellor at the same moment as the real assassin. Then he would run like hell in the confusion, making himself prominent as he disappeared inside the U-Bahn.

This tactic should divert attention from the real assassin who, once he had done the job, would make his way to the adjoining Starnberger Hof, the station for trains to the mountains. Then he would travel only a few stops before he left the train, was met by a waiting car and driven to a nearby airstrip.

Getting behind the wheel of his car parked at the kerb, Manfred adjusted his spectacles and drove off to the underground garage for his final meeting with Reinhard Dietrich.

It was hopeless. The traffic was getting worse the nearer they came to the Hauptbahnhof. Martel rapped on the window, gesturing to the driver to stop. He had the money for the fare- in addition to the earlier tip – ready in his hand as he leapt out.

`You will catch your train?' the driver enquired..

`This is the one train in the world I have to catch…'

Martel disappeared and the driver shook his head. What a statement. The English, they were all mad. Perhaps that was why they had won the war?

Martel barged his way through the crowd, elbowing aside men who shouted after him as he plunged on through the milling mob. He could see the Hauptbahnhof now. It was 9.31 am. Only two more minutes before the Summit Express arrived – before the Chancellor, noted for his briskness, left the train and made his way to the specially-constructed podium Martel could see. He forced a path round the edge of the jostling mass.

Reaching the road in front of the Hauptbahnhof he encountered a fresh problem but he was ready for it. In his left band he held the special pass which allowed him to board the express. The new problem was police guards who held back the crowd. He shouted at the top of his voice.

'Polizei! Make way! Polizei…!'

`Stop…!'

A uniformed policeman drew his Walther from his holster as Martel dashed past him and across the open space. He zigzagged, risking a bullet in the back. The voice called out with greater urgency.

'Halt or I fire…!'

Only at this critical juncture did he have some luck. He recognised a man in civilian clothes as one of Stoller's aides – and the aide recognised Martel. He raised a bullhorn and bellowed the order to the policeman.