Rhinoceros (30 page)

'The docks. I know your meaning . . .'

Kefler reached down the side of his desk, produced a
briefcase of a type no longer in fashion in Britain. He opened it, fumbled inside and clearly it was empty. He
lifted both short legs up and down, in need of exercise, Paula realized. He walked over to the window.

'In the daylight the view is interesting. Great barges
come here. Large freighters. The ferry from Newcastle in
Britain will arrive at 12.30 the pm - in the-—'

The report was shockingly loud. Kefler staggered, fell backwards, face up. Blood streamed over his chest, spilt
over his smoking jacket. Newman dashed to the body
lying on the floorboards, crouching low so he was below
the sill of the window. The glass had been shattered by
one star-shaped hole with another ragged hole in the net
curtain - where the bullet had come through.

'Is he . . .'

Paula barely found herself able to frame the question.

'No pulse,' Newman reported. 'He's dead. Don't look.
The left side of his head is blown away. Explosive bullet.'

'Oh, God! No.' Paula covered her face, with her hands.
She stood up, looked down across the room. 'Horrible. He
was such a nice man . . .'

Newman reacted quickly. Crawling, still well below the
windowsill, he reached up, pulled one heavy dark curtain
across the window, then the other. When he stood up,
away from the window, Paula was standing beside him,
staring down at what remained of Kefler.

Only half a teddy bear, she said to herself, then dismissed
the thought as obscene.

She sat down in her armchair again, tears in her eyes.
She looked at Tweed, choking as she spoke.

'He was
such
a nice man,' she repeated. 'Wouldn't hurt
a fly. In life you sometimes meet someone you know
is
good, even at a first meeting. You like him - or her. Trust
them. So rare.'

'Same technique, same situation,' Tweed said in a very
quiet voice, 'as the murder of Helga Trent off Ebury Street.
Night-time. A figure silhouetted against net curtains, the
light behind them. I should have realized . . .'

'I'm going downstairs,' Newman said, his revolver in
his hand. 'There should be a back door. I can get out
that way . . .'

'Stay where you are.' rasped Tweed.

Newman was ignoring the command, heading out of the
study, when his mobile buzzed. He snatched it out of his
pocket, faced them, standing in the doorway.

'Yes?'

'Harry here.' The voice was very low. 'No one leaves
that house till I call back. That's an order . . .'

Newman, still holding the revolver, repeated what Harry
had said.

'We all stay here then — until Harry calls back,' Tweed
replied. 'Harry knows what he's doing . . .'

Harry Butler, sweating from the heat in his motorcyclist's
black leather kit, had been crawling on his hands and
knees to get closer to where he'd seen Tweed and his
companions disappear into No. 23. A short way ahead
he heard a sound, like the squeak of an old wooden door
being opened. Looking up, he saw a door close on the
control cabin of a monster crane a few yards away.

He was inside the wire that fenced off the docks from
Elbstrasse. Earlier he had picked a padlock, opened a gate.
He continued his crawl, his rifle with the sniperscope in his
right hand, his left hand testing the ground ahead for loose
chains or oil drums.

Arriving at the base of the crane, which reminded him
of a slimmed-down version of the Eiffel Tower, he peered up at the cabin way above him. A ladder led down from it
to the ground. He was uncertain what to do next.

It could be a spy, keeping an eye on Tweed. On the
other hand it might be a stupid vandal. He checked his
watch. Tweed and the others had been inside the house
for a while. He settled down to wait.

He switched his gaze frequently from cabin to house
and back again. There was neither sight nor sound of any
activity from the control cabin. It could be a drug addict
- they did the craziest things,
were totally unpredictable.
Again he looked at the house. There was the same light
in the first floor window, but he'd seen no sign of anyone inside the place.

He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. His grip would slip if he ever had to use the weapon. He looked
back at the house, saw a small figure silhouetted against the light behind the net curtains. He looked up. He never
heard the sound of any movement above him; but he saw
the muzzle flash, jerked his head back to the house, saw
the small figure topple out of sight. The report of the rifle
being fired echoed across the Elbe river.

Taking out his mobile, he rang Newman, gave him his
message. Bracing himself against the base of the crane,
he raised his rifle, aligning the cross-hairs on the cabin. Nothing happened. He crawled to the far side of the crane,
looked up at the ladder.

The cabin door opened. A figure appeared, stood on
a small platform, closed the cabin door, which squeaked
again. Harry could have shot him then but he decided
perhaps there was a chance to take him alive, to extract
information. The figure began to descend the long lad
der, his back to Harry, a rifle strapped huntsman-style
across it.

Harry waited, his own rifle held in both hands. Less than
halfway down the ladder the figure stopped, looked down. Holding on with his left hand, his right hand dived inside
his jacket, came out holding a handgun.

'All right, chum, have it your own way,' Harry said to
himself.

In less than a second the figure appeared in his cross-hairs.
He pressed the trigger. His target stiffened, lost his
grip, came tumbling down from a considerable height.

Harry jumped aside, fearing his target would crash on
top of him. Instead it hit the ground near the foot of
the ladder with a sickening thud. The assassin's rifle had
slipped off his back, had fallen a few yards away.

Harry stepped forward, his weapon aimed. You never
could be sure. He checked the twisted neck's pulse.
Nothing. The corpse lay on its back, both legs broken. To
Harry's surprise the right hand still gripped an automatic.
Reflex action.

He shone his torch on the upturned face. Slavic cheekbones, hawkish nose, thin cruel mouth. Long hair. Harry
called Newman on his mobile.

'You can come out now. Down the footpath. Find me
by watching for my torch flashing.'

While he waited he put on latex gloves, searched pockets
he could reach for identification material. Nothing. From
the mess on either side of the head he guessed the fall had
crushed the back of the skull.

He went to the gate he had opened, flashed his torch
when he saw them coming. Tweed was carrying an old
briefcase. Harry led them in, shining his torch on the
ground so they didn't trip over discarded rusty chains. He
waved Paula back, but she came over.

Butler shrugged. These days you couldn't tell Paula
anything. He led the trio to the base of the crane, switched on his torch — after glancing down deserted Elbstr. Paula found she had no feelings at all about the corpse. This was
the man who had killed Dr Kefler. Butler had aimed his
torch at the face.

'He was up in the control cabin,' Butler said, pointing.
'Did he kill someone?'

'Yes.' Tweed paused. 'Dr Kefler, the man we went to
consult. Who is he?'

'No idea.' Butler extended his hands, showed they were
covered with latex gloves. 'I've searched
him as best I could. Traces of identity? None.'

'Probably a Croat,' Newman commented.

'That would be my best guess,' Butler agreed. 'Shall I
chuck him into the Elbe? His rifle's over there.'

'Certainly not,' Tweed ordered. 'Leave everything as it
is. The police will have to come into this - because of
Kefler. Their ballistics people will prove the Croat shot
Dr Kefler, which is why we must leave the weapon over there. But I don't want you mixed up in their investigation, Harry. Not if we can help it. So chuck your own rifle well
out into the river. Or is that the only one you've got?'

'Another's back at the Renaissance.'

'Good. You do what you have to do quickly, then go back to your hotel. Where's your motorcycle?'

'Well hidden twenty minutes' walk from here. Lights
have come on in the house next but one to Kefler's.
Upstairs and downstairs.'

'Time for us to get moving. I'll call a cab when we get to the point where the cab dropped us earlier. You look
queasy.'

'Yes, he does,' Paula agreed. 'Harry, I've got some stomach-upset pills which work fast.'

'Don't need them. It's the oil stink from empty drums.
I'm off to dump my rifle . . .'

It was unfortunate, but when Tweed later checked the
card he'd been given and called the taxi firm on Newman's mobile who should arrive but Eugen, their original driver.

'Are you all right?' he called out in German when Tweed
told him to take them back to Jungfernstieg.

'Why shouldn't we be?' snapped Tweed. 'We're ship
ping agents. We wanted to check the Hamburg docking
facilities.'

'Pretty good, eh?'

'I think we prefer Europort . . .'

It was Paula who spotted him as Tweed paid the driver near the Jungfernstieg landing stage. No point in adver
tising where they were staying.

'Now what is it?' he asked as the taxi drove off.
'Mark Wendover. Mavericking again. At this hour.'

The American was coming towards them - from the direction of the Zurcher Kredit Bank. He was carrying
his video camera. He began walking back with them.

'I see you've been shopping,' he said, pointing to the
briefcase Tweed was carrying.

'In a manner of speaking. What have you been up to?'

'Raiding safety deposit boxes — lock-boxes, as we call
them in the States.'

Tweed almost stopped dead. He stared at him, then at
a dark woolly cap protruding from a pocket. In fact, Mark
was clad in black from head to foot.

'You are joking, I hope?'