Colin Forbes - Double Jeopardy

'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.

Friday May 29

On the morning of the day when the four security chiefs met in Paris for their afternoon conference, Martel's launch headed for a remote landing-stage on the eastern shore of Lake Konstanz.

Werner Hagen, sole survivor of the windsurfer execution squad, lay helpless in the bottom of the launch. His mouth was gagged, wrists, knees and ankles were bound with strong rope and a band of cloth was tied round his eyes. All he could hear was the chugging of the engine, all he could feel was the compression of the ropes and the glow of the sun on his face.

Inside the wheelhouse Martel steered the craft closer to their objective, guided by Claire who stood alongside him. The mist had dispersed, the shoreline was clear, and he slowed down until they were almost drifting as he scanned the deserted stony beach, the crumbling relic of a wooden landing-stage.

'You're sure we won't run into someone – campers, people like that,' he checked as the momentum carried them forward in a glide.

'Stop fussing,' she chided. 'I told you – I know this area. I used to meet Warner here when he came down from Munich. And last night I parked the hired Audi among those trees before I walked to the nearest railway station to catch a train back to Lindau.'

'I don't see the Audi…'

'You're not bloody meant to see it!' she exploded. 'When are you going to give me credit for being able to cope on my own? You know your trouble, Martel?'

'If I don't do a job myself I start worrying about it…'

'Right! So have a little faith. And – before you ask me – I do know the way to that old water-mill I mentioned, which is another place where Warner and I used to meet. Although why we're driving there I don't understand…'