Dennis Martin stared at the maze of scaffolding, surrounding the recently built tower block of Paddington Green Police Station, while his driver, drove the black Rover 3500 saloon, into the car park, and stopped in an earlier reserved space. Martin got out of the car and walked inside the back entrance, and after introducing himself to the duty sergeant, was escorted upstairs, to Detective Superintendent Martin Round’s office.
Round greeted the ginger haired, MI5 officer. ‘You must be the man sent from our security service?’
Martin nodded. ‘That’s right. Name’s Martin, Dennis Martin.’
‘Detective Superintendent Martin Round, at your service, sir,’ he politely announced, shaking hands.
Dennis Martin looked around the room. ‘Nice to meet you. Is our man, nice and uncomfortable down in the cells?’
Round laughed. ‘Yes, he is. We’ve let him sweat down there, since bringing him in. I have booked us one of the new interview rooms, and there will also be two-armed officers present, just in case he tries anything nasty.’
Martin nodded his approval. ‘Jolly Good. Well, let’s keep him waiting a bit longer, shall we, Detective Superintendent? How about a nice cup of tea?’
Round agreed, and ushered Martin out of his office, escorting him towards the canteen.
Swan and Janet Ross, walked along the back streets avoiding the busy shopping emporiums of Oxford Street to arrive at Oxford Circus. They crossed the road and then walked down Regent Street in the direction of Piccadilly.
Swan stopped outside a big toy shop and staring into the left window, spied an ideal get well present for a man who had just saved his life.
Ross sighed. ‘Boys and their toys,’ she said sarcastically.
Later, Swan stood on the corner of Burlington Street and gave Ross a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you tonight. Do you fancy dinner with some old friends of mine? How about I pick you up about seven at your place?’
Ross nodded. ‘Yes, of course. But this time, please mind Mrs Simmons’s tabby cat, when you walk up the steps, or she’ll be evicting me, if you tread on it again.’
Swan laughed. ‘I’ll mind the moggy, I promise. See you later.’
Ross turned on her heels to walk back to her work at Leconfield House.
At Paddington Green, Martin leant on the desk, as Trost was brought into the interview room, escorted by two armed uniformed police constables. With both wielding their Walther PPK 7.62mm pistols, they ushered the prisoner to a chair, then withdrew and stood either side of him, leaning alertly, against the back wall.
Martin picked up a packet of cigarettes from the desk. ‘Cigarette?’ he beckoned to Trost, waving the open packet in front of him.
Fleischer’s assassin nodded, casually refusing the offer. Martin took one for himself and lit it. ‘Now, my name is Frank,’ lied Martin. ‘Have you a name?’ Trost stared coldly at the MI5 man, and it was at that moment, Martin realised he was confronting a professional killer.
For the next hour, Trost remained silent, pretending he did not understand English, enjoying his time, as the British inquisitors from MI5 and Special Branch struggled to communicate with him.
Martin was beginning to get agitated by this little man. ‘I know you understand me, just tell me who your target was, and who you work for.’
Trost shrugged, and, in German, he continued to lie about not understanding.
Martin turned to Round. ‘This is getting us absolutely nowhere.’ He walked over to the prisoner, gripped the chair rails either side of the small man, and with his face inches from him, he shouted, ‘Who are you? Who do you work for?’
Trost felt the warm breath of the MI5 officer on his face. ‘Bitte, Ich, verstehen nicht,’ he repeated smiling. He beginning to relish every moment of this charade. How easy this was, to annoy this English special agent, he thought.
Martin raised himself to lean on the desk, then stared at him. ‘Do you know, Fritz, or whatever your name is, we have methods that could make you want to talk to us, and some of these, can be most unpleasant. You can help yourself, by telling us who you are now, or we can take you somewhere else, to a place that would soon wipe that stupid smile off your face.’ Martin waited a few moments for a response, but the German looked back at him with a blank expression. The MI5 man had had enough of this. He turned to Round. ‘Detective Superintendent. Is there somewhere I could make a private call?’
In a few minutes, the frustrated Dennis Martin was on the telephone to John Stratton. ‘I can’t get anything out of him, John. He’s just acting like some dumb tourist, we mistakenly pulled off the street. I think, he’s protecting someone. When I look into his cold blue eyes, I can see his solid commitment to something. So, what do you suggest, we do now?’
Martin listened, as Stratton made his suggestion.
‘But that place has been inactive for two years. Are you sure it will be okay to take him there?’ Martin sheepishly nodded, as Stratton confirmed. ‘Okay John, if you feel there’s no alternative, then that’s what it will have to be. I’ll declare to the police, that he is an Enemy of The Crown, and have him taken into our custody.’ He looked at his watch. ‘What time can I expect Ammo and the boys here, then?’ He listened carefully to his Head of Section. ‘Okay, I’ll inform D S Round, our mutual friend can be taken back down to the cells, until our people arrive.’ Martin replaced the receiver. ‘You silly, stubborn bastard!’ Martin thought out loud. ‘Why can’t you just tell me who the bloody hell you are.’
Gunther Fleischer was at home, when the call he had been waiting, all day for, came through from London. He listened, as Baumann informed him of what had happened at St Pancras. Fleischer’s blood then run cold, as his man revealed Alex Swan was alive, and had escaped Trost’s attempt to kill him. In disgust, Fleischer slammed down the receiver. ‘Gotteswillen!’ he shouted.
Katrina Holz, was in the adjoining room, her feet tucked under her, as she sat reading a magazine. On hearing Fleischer’s cry, she jumped from the sofa, and marched in to him. ‘What is it?’ she asked, consoling him.
Fleischer banged his fist on the desk. ‘Swan is still alive.’
Holz walked around and placed her arms over his shoulders as he sat rigidly in despair. ‘Do not worry. Baumann will get him soon. All we need to do, is know where to find him, then we can kill him. Do we know the location of his office, in London?’
Fleischer shrugged. ‘We do not. All we have, is that he works in Whitehall. It could be any of the buildings there.’
Holz thought for a few moments. ‘Wait, I have just remembered something about the man who found Ruger. The boatman. He may know something, especially if Swan is investigating the incident. They must have spoken, and he may know where Swan can be found.’
Fleischer broke into a hopeful smile. ‘You may be right, my dear. Perhaps, this man does know how to find our elusive Mr Swan. I will contact Baumann, to see if we can find this boatman. Do you remember what his name was?’
Holz disappeared into another room, returning with a pile of copies of Die Welt. ‘I have yet to go through these papers for our files.’ She flicked through them, and eventually finding the copy she was looking for, opened the pages, placing her finger on the article. ‘There, look Gunther, the witness, Edward Stevenson is his name, and it states, he lives on a houseboat in Chelsea Harbour.’
Fleischer suddenly sounded a lot more confident, ‘how I so admire, the accuracy of newspaper reporters, always so useful.’
Chapter 31
The next morning, the sun shone on the colossal Vehicle Assembly Building, at Cape Canaveral, on the Florida coast, and inside the complex, the immense Saturn V rocket of the upcoming Apollo 11 mission, stood erect in segments, ready to be placed together. Next to the building, was the gigantic, multi-tracked transport platform, which would slowly carry the rocket out along the well-worn dust track, to Launch Pad 39B.