Rhinoceros

Marler lowered his window, put his hand out. A few minutes later he felt a breeze. He closed the window, sat up erect, holding his glasses. The fog swirled, evaporated. The bus came back into view, so did the large launch as its bow hit Chesil. He focused on it.

A big man clad in waders, an oilskin, a sou'wester hat came ashore, bent down, picked up a pebble with one hand. In the other he was holding something Marler couldn't identify. Then the big man climbed the steep bank, saw the bus. He returned to the launch, lifted a megaphone to his mouth, called out instructions in as quiet a voice as possible.

Marler couldn't hear what he said but he could see the big man helping to unload his cargo, grabbing men by the arm, shoving them up the bank towards the bus. Marler studied their strange faces, agreed with his contact that this was a right bunch of villains.

Most looked foreign, out of the Balkans. What impressed – and worried – Marler was the military way they filed one behind the other up to the bus, carrying floppy bags. He took out his mobile, pressed the numbers of the police HQ in Dorchester, numbers he'd earlier memorized from a directory in an isolated phone box.

'Police 'ere,' a bored voice said.

'I'm reporting that a gang of illegal refugees are being smuggled ashore at the Swannery end of Chesil Beach. Send patrol cars…'

'Might I have your particulars, sir?' the bored voice asked.

'You'll lose them if you don't move fast. Put me on to a senior officer now.'

'Hold on a minute, sir. Maybe the sergeant will have a word…'

'You'll lose them,' Marler fumed, but there was no one on the line.

He waited, watching a whole column leaving the launch, climbing aboard the bus. He counted twenty men. Once aboard their transport, the bus moved off towards Bridport. Marler saw the big man was still waiting at the edge of Chesil Beach. Then a second tourist bus appeared, performed the same two-point turn, parked so it was also facing Bridport. The fog had cleared off the water and Marler heard the muffled sound of engines. Two large outboards, crowded with men, were approaching the shore where the big man had flashed a torch twice.

'Can I help you, sir? Sergeant Haskins here. What seems to be the trouble?'

'The trouble is you have at this moment a very large gang of illegal refugees being brought ashore at the Swannery end of Chesil Beach. They're being taken away towards Bridport in old tourist buses with the name Topsy Tours.'

'Did I hear you aright, sir? You did say "Topsy"?'

'Yes.'

'Funny name…'

'For God's sake, get patrol cars to intercept the buses. I said they're on their way towards Bridport…'

'I heard that, sir. Might I ask exactly where you're speaking from?'

'Send patrol cars or I'll report this lack of action to the Chief Constable

Marler had had enough. The motorized dinghies had emptied their passengers with astonishing speed. They had scrambled up the bank, were already aboard the second bus. The big man had returned to the launch, was already steering it out to sea where presumably a freighter was standing to until it could winch the launch aboard. Then the freighter might well return to its pick-up point to take aboard another assortment of talent and bring it back to Britain.

Marler had switched off his mobile, feeling it was hopeless. The only thing he could do was to track the buses to their destination. He manoeuvred his car back down the track on to the road leading to Bridport. He rammed his foot down to catch them up.

A few minutes later a patrol car came towards him. Heavens, they had reacted. Then he saw the car was flashing its lights, waving him down. He had reduced speed when he'd seen it was a patrol car and now he stopped. The patrol car swung over to the wrong side of the deserted road, parked its front bumper inches from Marler's. A very young policeman got out, arrived as he lowered his window. Marler sat very still.

'Pushin' it a bit, weren't we, sir?'

'It isn't a built-up area.'

A second, equally young policeman arrived, a portly man who had the look of a man conscious of his importance. He was holding something, bent down to peer in at Marler.

'I'd like you to switch off your engine.'

Marler did so. Then he sat with his arms folded and tried to look expressionless.

'Been drinkin', 'ave we, sir?'

'Yes, this. And only this.'

Marler reached down for the bottle of mineral water. He held it up for the portly policeman to get a good look.

'Would you object to being breathalysed? The alternative is to accompany us to the station.'

Marler took a deep breath, reached out, took the nozzle. He blew into it with all his strength. Portly took out the breathalyser, studied it. The meter registered nothing.

'Thank you, sir. You can proceed now, when we've moved our car.'

'May I suggest,' Marler said politely, 'that you get in touch urgently with your Dorchester HQ?'

'Good night, sir…'

It was 3 a.m. when Marler arrived back at Park Crescent. He wondered where the time had gone. He was also surprised to find everyone waiting for him in Tweed's office. Paula, Newman, Butler, Nield and Mark were drinking coffee. Marler accepted a cup gratefully from Monica.

'You've done a good job,' Tweed began. 'Thank you for calling me on your way back. You must have found the police down there frustrating.'

'I could have strangled them.'

'Don't worry. As soon as you went off the line I phoned Roy Buchanan at the Yard, passed to him all your information. He's phoning the Chief Constable down there – has done – and called me back. They've sent up a helicopter to comb the area you mentioned in search of those two buses.'

'Doubt if they'll find them. From Bridport there are three or four different routes they could have taken.'

'I agree. If you can stand it I'll tell you what's been happening up here while you were down there…'

Marler listened, adopting his usual stance of leaning against a wall. After he'd drunk his coffee he lit a king-size.

'This is developing into an international conflagration. All over Europe and now it's started in the States.'

'We watched a bit on TV,' Monica interjected. 'The pics were frightful and Washington thinks there are other cities targeted. They're trying to guess which ones.'

'I have Keith Kent coming in any moment,' Tweed told her. 'You remember Keith, the brilliant analyst of movements of large sums of money, often secretly. It occurred to me all this is being financed by a fortune, a huge one. Thugs like to be paid for their dirty work. Never mind the slogans "Down With Capitalism". Then there's the transport to move them over long distances. What Marler has told us shows that is going on. So who is paying out these vast sums? And why?'

The phone rang. Monica told Tweed that Keith Kent had arrived and he asked her to tell him to come up right away.

'Poor devil,' commented Mark. 'It's the middle of the night.'

'He's an owl,' Tweed said. 'Works best through the early hours.. .'

Keith Kent walked in. Of medium height, he was slim and clad in an expensive business suit. In his late thirties, he was clean-shaven, had thick dark hair and grey eyes which concentrated on the person he was talking to. Tweed introduced him to Mark, then asked him who could be financing the carnage.

'My best bet,' Kent replied, sitting down, crossing his legs, 'is the Zurcher Kredit Bank.'

'What?' Tweed was taken aback. 'It's a Swiss bank.' 'Used to be. Thank you, Monica,' he said as she handedhim a cup of coffee. 'I'll need this. I happen to have spent a lot of time scrutinizing that bank. I have a strange story to tell you.'

Going back to the late 1790s, Mayer Amschel Rothschild was establishing the banking business, which was to grow into a colossus, in the Frankfurt Judengasse.