He was inside the wire that fenced off the docks from Elbstrasse. Earlier he had picked a padlock, opened a gate. He continued his crawl, his rifle with the sniperscope in his right hand, his left hand testing the ground ahead for loose chains or oil drums.
Arriving at the base of the crane, which reminded him of a slimmed-down version of the Eiffel Tower, he peered up at the cabin way above him. A ladder led down from it to the ground. He was uncertain what to do next.
It could be a spy, keeping an eye on Tweed. On the other hand it might be a stupid vandal. He checked his watch. Tweed and the others had been inside the house for a while. He settled down to wait.
He switched his gaze frequently from cabin to house and back again. There was neither sight nor sound of any activity from the control cabin. It could be a drug addict – they did the craziest things, were totally unpredictable. Again he looked at the house. There was the same light in the first floor window, but he'd seen no sign of anyone inside the place.
He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. His grip would slip if he ever had to use the weapon. He looked back at the house, saw a small figure silhouetted against the light behind the net curtains. He looked up. He never heard the sound of any movement above him; but he saw the muzzle flash, jerked his head back to the house, saw the small figure topple out of sight. The report of the rifle being fired echoed across the Elbe river.
Taking out his mobile, he rang Newman, gave him his message. Bracing himself against the base of the crane, he raised his rifle, aligning the cross-hairs on the cabin. Nothing happened. He crawled to the far side of the crane, looked up at the ladder.
The cabin door opened. A figure appeared, stood on a small platform, closed the cabin door, which squeaked again. Harry could have shot him then but he decided perhaps there was a chance to take him alive, to extract information. The figure began to descend the long ladder, his back to Harry, a rifle strapped huntsman-style across it.
Harry waited, his own rifle held in both hands. Less than halfway down the ladder the figure stopped, looked down. Holding on with his left hand, his right hand dived inside his jacket, came out holding a handgun.
'All right, chum, have it your own way,' Harry said to himself.
In less than a second the figure appeared in his cross-hairs. He pressed the trigger. His target stiffened, lost his grip, came tumbling down from a considerable height.
Harry jumped aside, fearing his target would crash on top of him. Instead it hit the ground near the foot of the ladder with a sickening thud. The assassin's rifle had slipped off his back, had fallen a few yards away.
Harry stepped forward, his weapon aimed. You never could be sure. He checked the twisted neck's pulse. Nothing. The corpse lay on its back, both legs broken. To Harry's surprise the right hand still gripped an automatic. Reflex action.
He shone his torch on the upturned face. Slavic cheekbones, hawkish nose, thin cruel mouth. Long hair. Harry called Newman on his mobile.
'You can come out now. Down the footpath. Find me by watching for my torch flashing.'
While he waited he put on latex gloves, searched pockets he could reach for identification material. Nothing. From the mess on either side of the head he guessed the fall had crushed the back of the skull.
He went to the gate he had opened, flashed his torch when he saw them coming. Tweed was carrying an old briefcase. Harry led them in, shining his torch on the ground so they didn't trip over discarded rusty chains. He waved Paula back, but she came over.
Butler shrugged. These days you couldn't tell Paula anything. He led the trio to the base of the crane, switched on his torch – after glancing down deserted Elbstr. Paula found she had no feelings at all about the corpse. This was the man who had killed Dr Kefler. Butler had aimed his torch at the face.
'He was up in the control cabin,' Butler said, pointing. 'Did he kill someone?'
'Yes.' Tweed paused. 'Dr Kefler, the man we went to consult. Who is he?'
'No idea.' Butler extended his hands, showed they were covered with latex gloves. 'I've searched him as best I could. Traces of identity? None.'
'Probably a Croat,' Newman commented.
'That would be my best guess,' Butler agreed. 'Shall I chuck him into the Elbe? His rifle's over there.'
'Certainly not,' Tweed ordered. 'Leave everything as it is. The police will have to come into this – because of Kefler. Their ballistics people will prove the Croat shot Dr Kefler, which is why we must leave the weapon over there. But I don't want you mixed up in their investigation, Harry. Not if we can help it. So chuck your own rifle well out into the river. Or is that the only one you've got?'
'Another's back at the Renaissance.'
'Good. You do what you have to do quickly, then go back to your hotel. Where's your motorcycle?'
'Well hidden twenty minutes' walk from here. Lights have come on in the house next but one to Kefler's. Upstairs and downstairs.'
'Time for us to get moving. I'll call a cab when we get to the point where the cab dropped us earlier. You look queasy.'
'Yes, he does,' Paula agreed. 'Harry, I've got some stomach-upset pills which work fast.'
'Don't need them. It's the oil stink from empty drums. I'm off to dump my rifle…'
It was unfortunate, but when Tweed later checked the card he'd been given and called the taxi firm on Newman's mobile who should arrive but Eugen, their original driver.
'Are you all right?' he called out in German when Tweed told him to take them back to Jungfernstieg.
'Why shouldn't we be?' snapped Tweed. 'We're shipping agents. We wanted to check the Hamburg docking facilities.'
'Pretty good, eh?'
'I think we prefer Europort…'
It was Paula who spotted him as Tweed paid the driver near the Jungfernstieg landing stage. No point in advertising where they were staying.
'Now what is it?' he asked as the taxi drove off. 'Mark Wendover. Mavericking again. At this hour.'
The American was coming towards them – from the direction of the Zurcher Kredit Bank. He was carrying his video camera. He began walking back with them.
'I see you've been shopping,' he said, pointing to the briefcase Tweed was carrying.
'In a manner of speaking. What have you been up to?'
'Raiding safety deposit boxes – lock-boxes, as we call them in the States.'
Tweed almost stopped dead. He stared at him, then at a dark woolly cap protruding from a pocket. In fact, Mark was clad in black from head to foot.
'You are joking, I hope?'
'No joke. Their security is good, but not that good. And I did pick up a few tricks of the trade while I was with the CIA.'
'What the devil did you think you were doing? I do like to know what's going on.'
'Well, you do know now I've told you,' Mark rapped back. 'I opened almost every box. You wouldn't believe the amount of 1,000 DM bills they have stashed away there. To say nothing of jewellery worth a king's ransom.'
'And you helped yourself?'
'I did not. I was looking for records. Found something in almost the last box I prised open. Can't understand it. A blue leather-bound book full of coded stuff. I'll give it to you when we get back. Well, here we are…'
As they approached the elevators a woman sitting in the room beyond the hall, smoking a cigarette, stood up, walked over to them. Lisa Trent.
CHAPTER 18
Lisa was dressed to kill, Newman thought. She was wearing a close-fitting green dress which went perfectly with her flaming red hair. She was smiling as she approached Tweed, who paused briefly on his way to the elevator.