`We are now entering Blankenese,' Westendorf said. `Once it was a small fishing port – now no fishing is permitted any more because the River Elbe is polluted. We pay a high price for the amenities of our modern civilization.'
`A society,' commented Kuhlmann, sitting between Paula and Newman, 'which that flood of refugees waiting east of our frontiers would give their right arms to enjoy.'
`Which is one subject I want us to discuss,' Westendorf remarked, and then concentrated on his driving.
He was driving slowly down a steep hill along a narrow tarred road. Paula had the impression Blankenese was a small town huddled on a series of hills. Peering out of the window she saw, as the mist drifted, villas perched high up and reached by flights of ancient stone staircases. They had left the High Street – deserted – behind and Westendorf drove very slowly as the downward gradient increased.
Blankenese, Paula decided, was now a labyrinth of narrow cobbled streets twisting and sheering up on either side in a way that recalled mountaineering. Frequently, instead of these alley-like streets there were treppes – endless stone staircases mounting up out of sight. By the blurred light of a street lamp she saw the name of one – Becker's Treppe. They had reached the riverside level when she saw another street name briefly under the faint glow of a street lamp. Strandweg.
As Westendorf stopped the car Paula found her nerves were twanging. The mist had become a fog. As they stepped out into it she heard the distant moan of a foghorn and shivered. The atmosphere was so like that night she had stood on the edge of the Lymington marina – waiting for Harvey Boyd to come home.
Following Westendorf's limo at a distance, Marler was bothered. From out of nowhere a bloody great brown Cadillac had appeared. There were two men in the front of the great battle-wagon of a car. He had little doubt they were tailing the limo.
Reaching the river level, the Cadillac turned left along the Strandweg, crawling. It stopped suddenly, Marler braked instantly. The Cadillac was a blurred shadow and he didn't think they had seen him: they were too intent on watching the limo. The fog parted for a moment and he saw the rear of the vehicle, a long radio aerial elevating automatically. They were reporting to someone.
Marler waited. The fog had closed in again, blotting out all sight of the Cadillac. He reached under his seat for the Armalite he had assembled while waiting outside Schloss Tannenberg. Locking the car quietly, he walked along slowly to where the car had parked. It was gone.
`Sorry about the fog,' Westendorf said, leading the way to the harbour. 'The met forecast got it wrong.'
The fog lifted again and Paula saw a small oblong basin fenced off from the Elbe by a jetty wall which ran out a short distance, turned at right angles, continued parallel to the silent river.
It was crammed with yachts. Most of them were cocooned for winter in protective blue-plastic covers. Westendorf had reached the end of the short wall, had turned left along the main rampart. He looked back at Paula.
`The Holsten V is moored by the outer wall. No room in the harbour when I brought her back in.'
Tweed followed close behind Paula while Kuhlmann and Newman brought up the rear. Westendorf took Paula's hand to help her aboard a large luxurious motor yacht. He showed her the way with a torch beam, unlocked a door, ran down a flight of companionway steps, opened a second door. He switched on lights and they were inside a well-furnished saloon. Gleaming brass rails, the wood polished so she could see her face in it.
`Sit yourselves down,' he invited. 'Anyone like a drink to drive out the cold?'
Paula didn't sit. She stood near a window, peering out at the fog which was now a solid grey curtain drawn across the glass. Westendorf sensed her restlessness. He took her by the arm.
`You might find it interesting on the bridge. I'll switch on the radar.'
Another companionway at the far end of the saloon led up to the compact bridge. Westendorf pointed to a screen, turned on the radar. She gazed at the screen. Blank.
`Nothing will be out on the river tonight,' Westendorf remarked. 'Not in this fog. I will leave the door open so you can hear us. Come back into the saloon when you feel like it…'
He went back down the steps, took a bottle of Laurent Perrier champagne from the fridge. Tweed was relaxing on a comfortable leather banquette next to Kuhlmann. Newman was gazing out of a window. Westendorf handed round glasses, took one to Paula.
`It stimulates the brain cells,' he said when he returned. `At least, that is my excuse. Prost!'
`You made a reference to refugees,' Tweed began. `Have you ever met a Dr Wand?'
`Once.' Westendorf sat down, crossed his long legs. 'A curious man. I didn't like him. He has established a branch of his organization in Germany, another in Denmark. He said he was anxious that only talented refugees who would be an asset to the West should be allowed in. My impression was that he was lying. I said nothing. He went away. End of story.'
`But not end of the refugee story,' Tweed persisted. 'I remember you held strong views as Minister when you attended a meeting of INCOMSIN in London.'
`That is so. There are literally millions of refugees from all over the East – including gypsy hordes – who are waiting on the other side of the Oder-Neisse frontier ready to swarm in on us. They see Western Europe as a treasure-house of good things and if this tidal wave was to come they would destroy Europe's economy. I proposed taking a leaf out of the old Soviet Union's book – when they stopped their citizens fleeing here. They, of course, were very different, more civilized people.'
`Exactly how would it have worked?'
`To put it bluntly, I wanted to create a new death belt from the Baltic to the Adriatic. The refugee masses would be warned illegal crossing was verboten – would be lethal. I wanted a half-mile zone of no passage. Watch-towers on our side with guards armed with swivel-mounted machine-guns. Armed patrols with fierce dogs. And the lacing of the zone with anti-personnel mines. Also warships would patrol the coasts, checking any vessel from the East night and day. I would have saved Europe – but many illegals are now in our midst.'
`Did it occur to you,' Tweed asked, 'that a hostile power might smuggle in saboteurs and spies among the refugees?'
`It did.'
Tweed produced a copy of the photograph of the German coast, the islands, and the River Elbe including Hamburg. Showing it first to Kuhlmann, he then handed it to Westendorf.
`Does that cross marking a location downriver mean anything to you? A village, perhaps?'
`Oh, this must be Neustadt-Something – I forget the exact name. A new colony of houses. Inhabited, so I hear, by macho young executive types who drive Porsches and similar expensive cars. They keep very much to themselves.'
`How recently was the place occupied? The houses sold?'
`A few months ago. I'm not sure when. But recently.'
`I think Otto should have that photo.' Tweed turned to Kuhlmann. 'May I suggest you go nowhere near the place until I give you the signal. Then you raid it before dawn. I know of a similar colony on the south coast of Britain and another near Ghent in Belgium. It will be very important that we all synchronize the raids – to give no time for one lot to warn another.'
`There is a similar and larger development near the west coast of Denmark,' Westendorf commented. 'In Jutland – between the port of Esbjerg and the German frontier. A lonely area – especially in winter.'
`You mean about here,' Tweed suggested, producing another photograph. 'But how do you know about it?'
`Yes, apparently about there where the cross is marked. How do I know? Andover tracked it down. He travelled a lot, posing as a bird-watcher. He was very clever. At my most recent meeting with him in Liege he said this new development in Jutland was still unoccupied, although all the houses had been sold and furnished. He said because it faced the open sea – and Denmark is such a peaceful country – that the headquarters of a frightening subversive organization would be established there soon.'