Colin Forbes - Double Jeopardy

Tweed began to feel drowsy. He closed his' eyes and fell asleep. It was the steep angle of descent which woke him. They were landing at London Airport. It had all been a dream. He had never been away at all. When he arrived at Park Crescent McNeil's expression prepared him for the shock.

Sunday May 31

Clint Loomis parked his car in a different place when he returned from Dulles alone. He knew every inch of the shoreline on both banks and this time he chose an abandoned shed at the end of a dirt track to house the vehicle. Then he started the long walk back to where the outboard was concealed.

It was another brilliant sunny day and the heat beat down on the back of his neck as he dragged the dinghy to the water's edge, got inside and fired the motor. In the distance the cruiser Oasis was gleaming, the sun reflecting off the highly-polished brass. For a moment he was reminded of Tweed when he heard the sound of a helicopter and saw the machine disappearing in the direction of Chesapeake Bay. Then he concentrated on navigating his small craft.

Waldo was waiting for him, barking his head off at the top of the ladder. As he was tying up the dinghy Loomis vaguely noticed a second power cruiser rather like his own heading on a course towards him from Chesapeake Bay. He went through the same security precaution – tipping Waldo overboard and waiting while the dog swam round the boat before hauling him aboard.

The odd thing was Waldo only displayed signs of agitation when he was back on deck. He was shaking himself dry – and Loomis grinned as he recalled how Tweed had taken the brunt of the water the previous day – when the dog stopped, still dripping. His body tensed, his ears lay flat, his teeth were bared and he stood rigid while he emitted a slow, drawn-out snarl.

'What's the matter, boy? Tweed got you nervy…'

Loomis followed the direction of Waldo's stare and his expression changed. Waldo was gazing at the oncoming cruiser which, unless it changed course, would pass close by them on its way upriver. Loomis could see no sign of anyone on board,. which was odd. You would expect someone on deck on such a glorious day. He ran down into the cabin.

In a locked cupboard the ex-CIA man kept a small armoury. Opening it, he looked at the machine-pistol, the double- barrelled shotgun, the three hand-guns. He chose the shotgun.

It was like a ghost ship, the oncoming cruiser, Loomis thought as he came up on deck. Tinted glass in the wheelhouse windows which masked the presence of men who must be inside. Damnit, one man must be at the wheel. Chugging slowly and ominously, a cloth over the side concealing the name painted on its bow, it closed with Oasis.

Waldo was a coiled spring, hairs bristling, the softness of the growl from deep in his throat infinitely more menacing than his normal barking. Loomis glanced round to see if help was near at hand. Only a vast expanse of empty water greeted him.

He crouched low, his shotgun out of sight. If this was trouble one blast through the wheelhouse window was liable to take out anyone inside. The helmsman certainly – which meant the vessel would no longer stay on its remorseless course.

It was due to pass within yards on the port side, the side where Loomis waited. The hell of it was he couldn't initiate any action in case they were peaceful sailors going about their lawful occasions as the Brits would phrase it. The thought made him wish he had Tweed on board. He had a feeling Tweed would not just have sat and waited. But what the hell else could he do?

Stand up and address them through his loud-hailer? And present someone with a perfect target. Already he was working on the premise that the approaching cruiser was hostile – without one shred of evidence. Yes! Waldo was evidence – his reaction to the vessel was unusually violent…

They set about the task in a way Loomis had not foreseen. They were almost alongside Oasis when a flutter of dark, pineapple-shaped missiles sailed across the water separating the two vessels and landed in various places. On deck. On the foredeck. At the foot of the companionway. Grenades! Jesus Christ…!

They had slightly different time fuses. One landed underneath Waldo and detonated on impact. The dog disintegrated – into a flying mass of bloody meat and bone, smearing the woodwork. Loomis went crazy. He stood up.

'Bastards!'

His shotgun was levelled point-blank at the tinted glass of the other vessel but before he could pull the trigger a grenade which had landed just behind him exploded. All feeling suddenly left his legs and he found himself floating backwards, falling down the companionway. He landed at the bottom just as one of the grenades which had ended up in the cabin also detonated. It sliced away half his head.

A boathook grappled Oasis's side when ten separate explosions had been counted. The man holding it. wore a frogman's suit. The engine of the killer cruiser had been stopped and another man, also wearing a frogman's suit, leapt nimbly abroad holding a sub-machine gun.

He took only two minutes to search Oasis, to note that Loomis was dead, that no one else was hiding aboard. Then with the same agile movements he returned to his own cruiser, the engine started up and the vessel set on a new course which took it far away from Oasis as swiftly as possible.

In the burning-glass blue of the sky the pilot of a helicopter turned his machine and headed it away from Washington. Over his radio he spoke one word repeatedly.

Extinction… extinction… extinction…

Sunday May 31

The headquarters of Bundesnachrichtentlienst – the BND, the German Federal Intelligence Service located at Pullach – is six miles south of Munich. Erich Stoller's nerve centre was surrounded by a wall of trees and an inner wall comprising an electrified fence. Stoller, with his dry humour, referred to it as 'my own Berlin Wall'. He had just made this remark over coffee to Martel.

Tweed, due to catch the 13.05 flight back to London, was still fast asleep aboard the Oasis owing to the difference in the time zones. They sat in Stoller's office inside a single-storey concrete blockhouse of a building. Through the armour plate-glass window a stretch of bare earth showed where armed guards patrolled. Beyond was the electrified fence and beyond that dense pine trees. It was another hot morning and the temperature was rising rapidly.

'I spent four years in Wiesbaden with the Kriminalpolizei,' the German told Martel. 'Then I transferred to the BND.' 'And after that?'

Martel watched Stoller's dark eyes as he drank some more of the strong coffee, his manner relaxed, his voice expressing friendly interest.

'A year here and then two inside the Zone…' Stoller's tone became sombre at the recollection of his time in East Germany. 'You know what it's like – going underground. It felt like ten years. Every hour of your waking day on the alert, every waking minute expecting a hand to drop on your shoulder. And you don't sleep too well,' he concluded with a wry smile. 'I thought you knew about that period…'

'Tweed doesn't tell me everything,' Martel lied easily. 'How long have you been back in civilisation?'

'Four years – if you can call Bavaria civilisation just at the moment. The riots are getting worse. The neo-Nazis march, the left-wing people counter-march, the two lots meet – and Boom!'

'The state government elections in a few days should solve all that,' Martel suggested.

– 'If Langer's moderates win. The trouble is Dietrich's party and the frequent discovery of Delta arms dumps may drive people into Toiler's left-wing bear-hug. Then he'll set up Bavaria as some kind of so-called Free State – detached from the Federal Republic…'