Rhinoceros (19 page)

After so many generations history repeated itself. Joseph
adopted a son, name and origin unrecorded, who proved
later to be a mathematical genius like the founder,
Salomon. When he was old enough to take control,
still a young man, he followed the policies that had made
the Frankenheims so rich.

Then, recently, he obtained control of the Zurcher
Kredit Bank and changed the name from Frankenheim.
What had been for so long the Frankenheim Dynasty now
became the Zurcher Kredit. The present head was only known to a few - as Rhinoceros.

'That was a lot for you to absorb,' Keith Kent com
mented and gratefully accepted another cup of coffee
from Monica.

'Why "Rhinoceros"?' Tweed asked.

'Because one of the earlier Frankenheims liked going
on safari in Africa. On one trip he shot a rhinoceros. The
symbol of the Frankenheim banks then became the head of a rhinoceros, with an engraved plate of the animal outside
every branch of the bank.'

'I don't understand this,' Tweed objected. 'How could
he possibly take over a Swiss bank? The Swiss make a point
that none of their banks can be controlled by anyone except
a Swiss.'

'Rhinoceros was clever. He persuaded the Zurcher
Kredit directors to invest larger and larger sums in valu
able property outside Switzerland. They did not realize
he was using his own lawyers - to put the properties
secretly in companies he controlled - outside Switzerland.
When he had eighty per cent of the capital he began selling the properties - at a profit, being Rhinoceros -
and then he re-formed the Zurcher Kredit to replace
his Frankenheim banks. In Hamburg, in Paris, Vienna,
Rome, Berlin and also Brussels. He has branches in other
major cities.'

'How did the Swiss react?' Tweed wondered.

'Rhinoceros treated the original Zurcher Kredit direc
tors very generously. Made them all millionaires. Result?
The directors used the remaining twenty per cent still
in their bank to buy more properties abroad, properties
which Rhinoceros suggested. This kept them inside Swiss
banking law. In due course these remaining properties
were sold and the proceeds absorbed by Zurcher Kredit, now totally controlled by Rhinoceros.'

'I find this intriguing,' commented Tweed. 'What I
would like to know is who is Rhinoceros, where does he live, what is his nationality?'

'I don't know and I can't find out.'

The phone rang. Monica looked surprised as she indicated the call was for Tweed.

'It's a Mr Rondel.'

'Tweed here. I don't think I know you . . .'

'You don't. Not yet.' The voice was warm, buoyant. 'Is this a safe phone?'

'It is.'

'I do my homework. I know quite a lot about you. I'm
not referring to that smokescreen you put up — a negotiator
in an insurance company specializing in covering wealthy
people against the contingency of their being kidnapped.
You are the Deputy Director of the SIS.'

'If you say so.'

'Mr Tweed, I'd like us to meet. At a convenient - to
you - destination on the Continent. At a time convenient
to you.'

'Before I considered agreeing I'd have to know the
subject you propose discussing.'

'Of course.' The voice chuckled. 'I can see why you hold
the position you do. The subject is what steps we can take
to prevent the collapse of the West. I refer to the recent riots aimed at destabilizing the present system. I want to
find out who is organizing them, who is paying a lot of
money to finance this very dangerous onslaught on our
way of life.'

'Can you give me a number where I can call you?'

'Ah!' Another chuckle. 'The trouble is, I travel about
a lot. Sometimes I don't know where I shall be myself
tomorrow! May I call you again soon?'

'Please do. And thank you for contacting me . . .'

Tweed put down his phone, looked at Keith Kent who
was drinking a third cup of coffee.

'Ever heard of a man called Rondel?'

'No, I haven't.'

'Was that really him on the phone?' Paula asked.

'It was.'

'What did he sound like?'

'Able, quick-witted, humorous, very pleasant. I'd say he
has a very strong personality.' He transferred his gaze back
to Kent. 'You were telling us about Rhinoceros. How does
he operate?'

'In great secrecy. He lives somewhere in a secluded base

-
its location unknown.'

'You mean like Howard Hughes, the American million
aire who stayed locked up and guarded away from the
world. A hermit?'

'Not at all. He travels about a lot. Always using a pseudo
nym - a different one each time. He uses commercial
flights a lot, sometimes travelling Club Class, sometimes
Economy. Never First Class.
I've picked up that much
about his habits and no more.'

'Is Rhinoceros honest? I did ask you how he operates.'

'He operates just like the Frankenheims of long ago
-
as the Rothschilds sometimes did. He rarely gives a
loan. Very rich people trust his bank. They deposit huge
sums of money there, knowing it will be safe. He charges
a stiff fee but they don't care. They pay for peace of
mind. Is he honest? He's the most trustworthy banker
in the world. Which is why I'm staggered at what I've
discovered.'

'Which is?'

'Huge amounts of laundered money, source unknown,
are passing through the Zurcher Kredit. I can't believe it,
but it is so.'

'Doesn't sound like the portrait of Rhinoceros you
painted.'

'It goes against all his principles. Clever accountancy is
covering up what's happening. I stumbled on it. That's all
I know.'

'And as regards who is financing these worldwide riots?'

'Can't help you. I'll keep looking.'

'One more question. How much is the Zurcher Kredit
worth?'

'Eighy billion dollars. More than Microsoft . . .'

CHAPTER 11

'M. Bleu', as he was known to a small circle of French security, already responsible for the murders of Jason Schulz in Washington and Jeremy Mordaunt at Alfriston, fiddled with his motorcycle, perched by the kerb a short distance from the Elysee in Paris.

He gave the impression he was repairing his high-
powered machine. Tall and slim, he appeared to be more
heavily built, clad in black leather trousers and jacket, his crash helmet pulled well down over his head. From under
his visor he kept glancing at the exit from the Elysee,
official residence of the French President.

He was waiting for the appearance of Louis Lospin, chief aide to the Prime Minister and his most confidential adviser. Walking towards him was a Frenchman, a mechanic by trade. He stopped by the motorcyclist, offered to help.

'Merdel'
Bleu snarled the insulting response.

The mechanic shrugged, resumed his stroll. You couldn't
even offer to help some people. Behind him M. Bleu
glanced up as a car emerged from the Elysee courtyard.
He noted the number plate. It was Louis Lospin's car. He
pulled his visor down further, straddled his machine which
started as soon as he turned the key. He began to follow the car at a discreet distance.

Lospin's car followed the same route it had taken the previous day. When it eventually pulled up in front of an apartment building in the select district of Neuilly, the motorcyclist stopped, parked by the kerb, watched.

In his left hand he held a stopwatch. He was checking
the exact time it took Lospin to emerge from his car, climb
the steps to the front door. He also noticed the chauffeur
who had driven the car
moved off quickly, as he had done
before. Lospin was taking out his key to open the front door when the car vanished at speed round a bend. The
same routine as yesterday.

M. Bleu was infinitely thorough in his preparations, tracking his target day by day, looking for a pattern, a routine. It was only when he had discovered one, had checked the timing by his stopwatch, located an escape route, that he decided he could approach his victim, do
what had to be done quickly, then vanish.

What he didn't know was that at Interpol, situated inside
a fortress building in a city a long way from Paris, there
was a file on M. Bleu. In his tiny office inside the building
Pierre Marin was examining his copy of the file. The
French embassies in Washington and London had wired
data on their subject to Interpol.

Why? Because the French never stop worrying. They didn't
know of any connection between Schulz and Mordaunt, but
they suspected there was one. So did Marin. He had read
the file very slowly three times, even though there was very
little data. Tweed would have appreciated Marin.

Eventually Marin decided this man did not concern him or his country. French security was too tight. Germany was the next likely target. He scribbled a note in French on the last page.
Not for us, could be for you.
He then told an assistant to send a copy of the file by courier to Otto Kuhlmann, chief of the Federal Police in Germany.

Kuhlmann, a quick-witted man, read the file once, read the comment Marin had scrawled on the last page. Taking out a pen he scribbled through the comment, wrote one
word next to it.
Dummkopf.
Which is the German word for 'idiot'.

On the same day, at Park Crescent, Tweed received a call
from his old friend and sparring partner, Superintendent
Roy Buchanan. At times they agreed, then disagreed, but
Buchanan was probably the most efficient detective in
Britain.

'Come over, now if you want,' Tweed suggested.

'That's me knocking on your door. I've something to
show you.'

No more than fifteen minutes later he walked into the
office, carrying a large cardboard-backed envelope. In his forties, Buchanan was a tall, lean-faced, lean-bodied man.
His hair was dark brown and below his long nose was a
neat moustache of the same colour. His eyes were shrewd,
swept round the room at its occupants, all of whom he
knew. Monica, Paula, behind her desk, Newman in an
armchair and Marler, leaning against a wall.

'I've left Sergeant Warden downstairs,' he remarked.

Tweed invited him to sit down and Monica bustled
out to fetch coffee. A stranger's impression of the lanky
Buchanan would have been that he was relaxed, easygoing
- which was a mistake many a villain had made.