`I really had a fabulous time with you. Best company I had by far in Brussels. Everybody else seemed utterly second-rate. Love to repeat the experience at the earliest opportunity. Oh, dear, I'm holding up the troops. Until next time…'
The aircraft was equipped with thirty-six passenger seats. It was half empty when they closed the door and Paula glanced back. The Burgoyne quartet was seated at the rear, well out of earshot. Newman had his face buried in a newspaper: she suspected he hadn't looked up as the new arrivals passed him. Butler and Nield sat away from each other in separate seats. The propellers began to spin, jerkily at first, then racing into a circular blur. Slowly the machine moved forward, accelerated, and then they were airborne.
Paula waited until the pilot announced, first in German, then in English, that they would be flying at a maximum altitude of 21,000 feet and at a speed of 500 k.p.h. Paula looked back at Newman who made a gesture of disgust. The vibration was greater than on a jet.
`You didn't seem pleased to see them come aboard,' she said to Tweed.
`That was the impression I wished to create,' he replied cryptically.
`The Burgoyne quartet.' Paula rather liked the phrase. `It sounds like a jazz combo.' She chuckled.
Tweed's expression was blank. He felt sure Vulcan was on board. But who was he? To say nothing of a woman who was a professional assassin. And who was she?
He went on gazing out of the window. For the first part of the flight they might have been passing over the Arctic. Tumbled masses of white clouds gleamed in the sunlight. Here and there a towering cloud summit looked like some massive iceberg. As they came closer to Hamburg the weather cleared. Tweed looked down with interest on a mosaic of neat green and brown cultivated farmland. They passed over a blue lake, dense islands of green forest. From this lower altitude he had a much better view. The plane had begun its descent…
`Why did you tell her where we're staying?' Paula asked. 'Are you looking forward to another frolic – I think that was the word she used – with her?' she teased.
`They could have followed us in another taxi.'
`I think you want to keep an eye on them,' she probed. `I want us to be first off this plane,' he told her.
Tweed was always pleased to arrive in Hamburg. It had the reputation of being the most 'English' of all German cities. Not that it was a bit like London: the description referred to the friendly attitude of the inhabitants.
`That plane flew like a rusty sewing machine,' Newman remarked. 'And vibrated like one.'
Tweed and Paula were travelling with him in a taxi from the airport. The vehicle had been crawling in a traffic jam down a tree-lined boulevard. The air was fresh, the atmosphere rural.
`It got us here,' Tweed reminded him. 'And in interesting company.'
`Lee nearly had a row with the steward after we'd at long last taken off. She put a cigarette into that fat holder of hers. The steward told her it was a non-smoking plane. She eventually got it across to him she had no intention of lighting the cigarette. And how the blazes did they come to be aboard?'
`I think I've worked it out,' Tweed said. 'Don't ask me yet. I want to be sure.'
`It doesn't seem possible,' Paula insisted. 'You brought us the tickets. As soon as we arrived we boarded that funny little bus which dropped us close to the plane. So where did they get the time to work it out? Maybe it is a coincidence.'
`Don't believe in them,' Tweed advised.
Newman looked back through the rear window. Butler and Nield had taken separate taxis. Marler had told him before they left the Hilton that he'd be hiring a car. A man who always liked independent transport.
They arrived at the palatial entrance to the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten – the Four Seasons – and uniformed porters appeared immediately to take their luggage. Tweed hurried up the wide steps into the luxurious interior. Monica had booked rooms for them and the receptionist informed Tweed their accommodation was ready. After registering he showed Paula his room number, entered the lift by himself, then walked straight out again as he spotted the concierge who had been so helpful on his last visit.
`I want to visit a friend of mine who lives near Blankenese. Hugo Westendorf. Can you give me the exact address and his phone number?'
`The Schloss Tannenberg,' the concierge replied promptly. 'But not quite as far as Blankenese. The schloss is in the district of Nienstedten. You reach it before you arrive at Blankenese. Now, the phone number – and I will draw you a little map to locate the schloss. It is difficult on a printed map…'
Tweed had his old room, number 311, which was more like a suite. There was a lounge area near the windows overlooking the lake – the Binnen Alster. Tipping the porter, Tweed sat down to phone the number as soon as he was alone. The odd atmosphere began with his phone call. He tried speaking in English first.
`My name is Tweed. I know Mr Westendorf. I have just arrived from England and would like to speak to him.'
I understand,' the man's voice at the other end replied. `It would be helpful if you would stay on the line for a moment or two…'
Tweed waited. The butler? The voice had sounded very official but hardly that of a servant. Tweed realized the line was probably tapped – as had been Andover's and, later, Delvaux's. He had reached the stage where he wanted to stir up the opposition. The voice came back.
`Mr Westendorf will be happy to see you this evening. If you could arrive at 6 pm. May I ask where you are staying?'
`The Four Seasons Hotel, room number 311.'
`Thank you, sir. We will be expecting you. At 6 pm.'
Tweed was disturbed as he put down the phone. Nothing had been as he'd expected. He had anticipated Westendorf answering the phone – if anyone at all had responded to his call. He had pictured the German existing on his own inside the schloss – his wife had died several years ago.
Westendorf had one seventeen-year-old son. Tweed had assumed he might well have been kidnapped. Something strange had compelled the German to throw up his career without warning. What was going on in Germany? Tweed sensed the pattern he had uncovered with Andover and Delvaux was now being repeated in Hamburg. Someone tapped on the door. It was Paula.
`What a lovely room,' she enthused. 'And a super view from the window.'
`I think they've installed that lovely fountain gushing in the middle of the lake since I was last here. Maybe I've forgotten it.'
`And if I know you, you've forgotten it's time we went down and had some lunch.'
`Something quick. I don't feel like a full-dress effort. I know. The bar…'
Newman was about to knock on the door when they went into the corridor. Paula was revelling in the peace of the hotel. A chambermaid wished them `Guten Tag' as they entered the lift. The bar opened off the spacious lobby which had a large sitting area. Small and comfortably furnished with leather banquettes, the bar was empty except for the barman who came forward.
`I can make do with ham sandwiches – if that's all right with both of you,' Tweed suggested.
`And to drink, sir?' the barman enquired.
`A bottle of champagne,' Newman decided.
`Mineral water for me,' Tweed ordered.
Once the barman had gone Tweed told them about his call to the Schloss Tannenberg. He had just finished when Marler peered in. He gave a discreet thumbs-up sign and disappeared.
`That means he's got a car,' Newman said.
`It will be after dark when we get there,' Tweed ruminated aloud. 'Odd the emphasis that man put on six pm.'
`We'll find out when we get there,' Newman assured him.
At 5.15 pm. Tweed, muffled against the cold in an overcoat, collar turned up, was walking up and down outside the hotel with Paula. She also wore her coat buttoned to her neck. The night was clear, star-studded, and the temperature had dropped below zero. It was the first day of December.