Newman stood smoking a cigarette as a very large black Mercedes 600 pulled in to the kerb. Paula stared at its size as, behind the wheel, Marler called out through his open window.
`Don't just stand there freezing. Hop in.'
They had left the outskirts of Hamburg behind when Tweed asked the question. They were moving through a district of impressive two-storey villas in spacious grounds behind high railings. Hardly any other traffic.
`How on earth did you get hold of this mobile palace?' he asked.
`Oh,' Marler drawled, 'I said I was driving a top official to visit a Minister. After all, he was one – once.' He eyed Tweed in the rear-view mirror. 'This chariot is costing you a bomb. And from the map you gave me we're nearly there.'
Paula, revelling in the space, the warmth from the heaters, caught glimpses of the solid villas as the headlights swung round bends. A very expensive area.
Marler suddenly stopped, stiffened like a fox scenting danger. He had been driving slowly for the past five minutes, peering at elaborate name plates by the side of high gates and illuminated with lanterns. All the gates had been shut but this pair was open. Schloss Tannenberg. Tweed sensed his alertness.
`Something wrong?'
`I think you ought to go in equipped.' He opened a hold-all on the seat beside him, produced a. 32 Browning automatic which he handed Paula with spare ammo. For Newman he had a hip holster, a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 Special with ammo. Before replying to Tweed he waited while Newman strapped on the hip holster, checked the gun, loaded it, slipped it inside the holster, put his jacket and coat on again. Paula had slipped her Browning into her shoulder-bag after checking and loading it.
`Something is wrong,' Marler reported. 'Look out of the window. Gates wide open – and one of those dragon's teeth chains laid across the drive a few yards beyond the entrance.'
`But where did you get the weapons?' Tweed demanded.
He was annoyed: they had no permits to carry weapons inside Germany. On the other hand Benoit had warned about 'a zone of maximum danger'.
`This afternoon – while you were all having a kip – I was busy,' Marler said in an ironic tone. 'I visited a chum, a German arms dealer on a barge along the waterfront. He told me business had tailed off something shocking since the Berlin Wall went down. I got this lot for a song – plus Walthers for Butler and Nield. And an Armalite for myself. All a question of knowing the right people.'
`Or the wrong ones,' Tweed rebuked him. 'Now I'm going to walk up that drive. Bob, Paula, you can follow at a distance. I don't want to startle Westendorf.'
`I'll find somewhere to park the car,' Marler decided.
Tweed walked slowly up the tarred drive, his footsteps making no sound. He stepped over the dragon's teeth chain – which would rip a vehicle's tyres to pieces and stop it in seconds. It was too quiet.
He could see the old two-storey stone villa in the distance. Lights on in the ground-floor windows behind closed curtains. On either side of the drive high, dense banks of rhododendron bushes concealed the grounds. He reasoned that the oppressive silence was due to the German occupying the villa by himself. Like Andover. Like Delvaux…'
The muzzle of a gun was rammed into the back of his neck. At the same moment a hand descended on his shoulder, a voice growled the command in English.
`Make one wrong move and I'll blow your head off.'
Inside the Four Seasons, Pete Nield, smartly dressed as always in a business suit, wandered into the spacious lounge area adjoining reception. A very attractive woman with a blonde mane, wearing a form-fitting black dress, sat on a couch. The dress was slit up one side and she had her elegant legs crossed. Lee Holmes.
Nield paused by a table of German newspapers and magazines. He pretended to be looking for something to read. Lee called out to him in her husky voice.
`Don't I know you? Surely you were at the Hilton back in Brussels? You were.' She patted the seat beside her. `Do please come and sit with me. I'm bored to distraction. I desperately need some entertaining man. You fit the bill.'
I would have thought there'd be a queue of men – waiting to distract you.' Nield fingered his trim moustache as he sat close to her. 'And of course I do remember seeing you, but you were always chaperoned by some man. Severe-looking type. My bad luck, I thought.'
`A gallant man.' She sighed, her bosom rising. 'How rare these days.' Her bare arm touched his sleeve as she took out her jewelled cigarette holder, inserted a cigarette. Nield flicked his lighter into flame. She shook her head and smiled warmly. 'I'm giving it up – this is testing my will-power. Absolutely silly, really.'
Nield smiled. He had known about her technique, but wanted her to feel he knew nothing about her.
`Why are you so bored?' he asked. 'I saw you with a military type who seemed very distinguished.'
`Brigadier Burgoyne. Distinguished for wanting his own way. Now he's trotted off on some official business, indulging in one of his investigations. He regards me as a piece of the furniture.' She smiled again. 'The only compensation is the pay is good.'
`Thank Heaven for small mercies. What would you like to drink?'
`Champers! To celebrate the beginning of our friendship.'
Tweed froze, remained quite still. The gun muzzle against his neck felt cold as ice. The hand on his shoulder was large and had a strong grip. Then he heard a new voice.
`This gun is pressed into your spine. Drop your own or you'll be a cripple for life. At the best,' Newman concluded.
Tweed heard a tiny click: the safety catch being put on. Then a much louder sound as the weapon hit the tar. He turned round slowly. The first voice had sounded familiar, so he was not too surprised to face Chief Inspector Otto Kuhlmann of the Criminal Police from Wiesbaden.
`A nice warm friendly welcome to Germany, Otto,' he said genially. 'But what the hell are you doing here?'
Newman had holstered his weapon. Kuhlmann bent down, retrieved his own gun, straightened up, and glared at Newman. The German police chief was short in stature but had very wide shoulders. He always reminded Newman of old films he'd seen starring Edward G. Robinson. The same wide mouth, tough face, thick dark hair and eyebrows. The same alert eyes and dynamic energy. A powerhouse of a police chief – and one of Tweed's old friends.
`My apologies,' Kuhlmann began, 'but we get a call from a man who says he is Tweed. That is, one of my officers took that call. Can we be sure of your identity? And in the dark you were just a shadow. We are taking no chances.'
`Neither am I,' Newman told him. 'Like you, I just saw a shadow with a gun. I'm not apologizing.'
`You have a permit for that weapon?' Kuhlmann asked in a gentle voice.
`He hasn't,' Tweed said quickly. 'But if I am right about what has been experienced by Hugo Westendorf protection was in order.'
`I may forgive you, Newman.' Kuhlmann turned to Tweed. 'Shall we see what is going on inside Schloss Tannenberg – before we freeze to death out here…?'
Tweed braced himself for his first sight of Westendorf. He remembered him well from the time the German Minister, as he then was, had visited Britain incognito to attend a meeting of INCOMSIN – the International Committee of Strategic Insight.
The German had been six foot two inches tall, of slim build, and with a strong-boned face and a high forehead. His mind had been like quicksilver, his manner courteous, and his energy phenomenal. Tweed dreaded what he was about to witness.
Kuhlmann pressed the bell beside the heavy closed door four times in quick succession, then once again after a pause. As it was, when the door was opened a few inches the first thing Tweed saw was the muzzle of a Heckler and Koch 9mm sub-machine-gun. The man holding it came into view, a plain-clothes detective without a smile. Was this the voice which had answered him on the phone, Tweed wondered.