'This is a devil of a height,' she commented. 'Good job I don't suffer from vertigo.'
She took the binoculars Lisa handed her, focused them, saw Newman's face, quite passive as he stood still. Mark was pacing back and forth. No sign of the two BMWs which had followed them. No sign of their occupants. She remarked on this to Tweed.
'They'll be taking their time, planning their approach. I would, in their shoes. Let's go drink some coffee…'
Paula remained standing while she drank. She was gazing at the view through the windows on the opposite side. Beyond parks with green trees a large stretch of blue water, glittering in the sunlight, spread out. Tiny white triangles, which were yachts, dotted the blue surface.
'Is that the Elbe?' she asked.
'No, not with yachts on it. That's the Aussenalster,' he said, standing beside her. 'The outer alster. "Binnen" is "inner". Why am I saying this? You know German.'
'It's heaven,' she said dreamily. 'Pure heaven.'
Lisa had taken her coffee, put it down on a table near where they had looked down. She was standing by the window. She called out urgently, peering down through her binoculars.
'I've spotted Pink Shirt. Remember him? At Reefers Wharf. Now he's wearing a bright yellow one. Could he be directing an operation? His fat face looks savage, he's just checked his watch…'
'Where?' Tweed was beside her, Paula on her other side.
'See that road curving over to the right – well away from our cars? Half behind a tree on the pavement.'
'Got him.' Tweed was peering through the binoculars she'd handed him. Paula now had the other pair. 'Yes, that's him,' Tweed agreed, 'keeping well away from the action. And I agree – he looks as though he is directing an operation.'
'Never expected to see that bastard over here,' Paula remarked. She moved next to Tweed as Lisa walked several yards away. 'Could he be Rhinoceros?' she said quietly.
'Possible, ^ but we simply don't know.'
'Here they come,' called out Lisa. 'Give me the glasses. Thanks.' She didn't change the focus and her next words were almost hissed. 'Simply don't believe it. Two men, carrying sledgehammers. Barton and Panko. The thugs who followed me in London. Just escaped them in Bedford Square.'
'Don't like the look of those Balkan-type thugs who are coming,' said Paula, binoculars pressed against her eyes.
'Shouldn't we go down and help?' Lisa demanded.
'How could you – against that lot?' Paula asked.
'Look what Marler gave me.' She had opened her shoulder bag. When Paula looked inside she saw a 6.35mm Beretta pistol. 'And he gave me ammo,' Lisa went on.
'Lisa has a Beretta,' Paula warned Tweed.
'We stay here,' Tweed ordered in a strong voice. 'Newman has ordered on no account is there to be a shooting party. Dead bodies in the city would pose a problem for Kuhlmann, who has enough on his hands.' He looked down. 'They'll cope.'
As Barton and Panko, leading the assault, approached, holding their sledgehammers, with the foreign thugs not far behind, Newman remained where he was, his arms folded. Mark attached something to the fingers of his right hand. Knuckleduster.
Barton reached the second car, was starting to lift his weapon when the rear door was flung open on the pavement side. It slammed into him, knocking him off balance as Butler jumped out. His right foot, booted, swung up like a spring being released, hit Barton a savage blow between the legs. Barton dropped the sledgehammer, groaned in agony, bent forward. Butler grabbed his hair, swung him round, rammed his head against the car. It sounded as though his skull had cracked.
Panko dropped his sledgehammer. A long-bladed knife appeared in his hand. He was grinning. Newman had skipped to the side of his attacker. His right hand, stiffened, struck Panko on the side of his scrawny neck. Karate chop. Panko dropped, lay motionless close to the unconscious Barton.
Then it became a melee as the foreign thugs rushed forward. Marler appeared behind them. Earlier, seconds before they parked, he'd seen an old metal railing sagging away from the pavement, probably hit by a car. His gloved hand had tugged at a rail, twisted it, forced it free. Running up behind the thugs, he stooped, swung the iron rail at the back of the legs of one thug, hitting him behind the knees. The thug screamed, sagged, wriggled on the pavement. Marler administered the same treatment to another thug.
A ferocious-looking bandit was wielding a vicious machete. He swung it behind him for the blow which would have taken Mark's head off his shoulders. Mark's knuckleduster smashed into his exposed face, broke his nose, a cheekbone. Blood streamed from his face. Mark hadn't finished – he hammered the knuckleduster into his jaw, broke that. Pete Nield had jumped out of the other side of the car, plunged into the gang. Two stood close together for protection, their backs to him. He took a swift, firm hold of them by their hair, jerked them apart, jerked them together, the heads colliding with tremendous force. Both men sank to the pavement.
Another bandit, holding a knife, had come up behind Newman, was preparing to drive the knife into his back. Marler hoisted his iron bar, brought it down, hitting the elbow of the thug, breaking it. There was a scream of pain, the knife clattered on the pavement. Newman swung round, hit the thug in the face. He staggered back, his right arm limp. Newman followed him, hit him again, then once more. He toppled over backwards.
The first bandit Marler had dealt with was still screaming, wriggling on the pavement.
'You're making too much noise, buddy,' Mark told him.
Stooping, he hit the culprit on the side of his head with the knuckleduster. The wriggling stopped, the bandit lay motionless, silent.
Newman rubbed his hands together, looked all round. No more. And there was not a single pedestrian in sight. He remembered reading in a magazine in the hotel lounge that an erotic exhibition was being held. One day only. This day. He pictured long crocodile queues waiting for ever to get into the place.
'Clearance time. Anyone know where they parked the BMWs?'
'Just round the corner,' Marler said. 'Follow me.*
'Harry,' Newman called out. 'Gloves. We're fetching the ambulances.'
Harry held up his hands, covered with latex gloves. He followed Marler and Newman. The cars were parked only a few yards out of sight. And in each they'd left the ignition keys. For a quick getaway, Newman guessed.
They worked quickly. The moment they had parked the BMWs a few yards behind their own cars, leaving the pavement side doors open, Operation Clearance began. The bodies, all alive but unconscious, were tumbled inside the BMWs without ceremony. The doors were closed. Butler suggested a refinement. Together with Pete, he picked up the sledgehammers that were then used to batter in the windscreens.
'Job's done,' Newman announced.
Gazing down from the cafe windows way up in the Turm, Lisa and Paula had watched, fearfully at first, then with astonishment, the scene below.
'Reefers Wharf was a children's party compared to that,' Lisa commented.
Tweed had been aiming his binoculars at Fat-Face, Pink Shirt, watching the debacle with his arms folded. As it ended he straightened his jacket, wandered out of sight. It was his expression that intrigued Tweed. Rage? No. Disappointment? No.
'We'd better get down,' Paula said. 'Newman's waving at us.'
'We'll go down and away from here as fast we as we can…'
When they arrived back at the hotel, Newman asked the porter to garage their cars. Tweed ran up the steps with Paula close behind him. He had checked his watch. Keith Kent stood in the hall, waiting for them.
'Welcome, Keith. I'll get the material out of the hotel safe.'
Then he noticed the man sitting at the back of the hall, facing the staircase up to the security room. The Brig sat erect in his chair, motionless as a graven image, observing their return.