Rhinoceros

About five feet four inches tall, he had wide shoulders and a wide chest. His head was large, his complexion healthy, his skin smooth. He had neatly brushed white hair, thick eyebrows of the same colour. His nose was prominent, almost Roman, the mouth below it firm, the lips compressed above a strong jaw. In his fifties, sixties, early seventies? Impossible to tell.

He eventually lowered his gaze, produced a small silver box. Lifting the lid he took out a toothpick, used the box to conceal his usage of it. Paula had glanced down, realized the toothpicks were made of ivory. Rondel rested his hands on the table as though to leave it. His companion said something and Rondel stood up, disappeared. Watching him seated alone, Tweed recalled Paula had said he radiated dynamic power. He agreed with her. Tweed was sipping champagne when Rondel appeared.

'Welcome to the Fischereihafen. I personally think it is the best restaurant in Germany. May I join you?' He sat next to Tweed. 'My partner sends you his greetings. Yes, I will taste the champagne,' he said as a waiter brought a glass. He looked across at Paula, smiled warmly. 'I want to see if it's any good.'

'I can assure you it's delicious,' Paula replied, smiling warmly.

'Then I bow to what I am sure is your excellent judgement.' He smiled at her again, took a sip. 'And I was right – you have a subtle taste, Miss Grey.'

'Please call me Paula.'

'And I am Victor.' He smiled at Newman, turned to Tweed. 'And now we come to the important question of selecting something which will justify your visit. Of course…' He laughed. '… It really should be fish. But they have the greatest variety. Waiter, another bottle of champagne.'

Paula thought he was a handsome man. The table light gleamed on his smooth blond hair. His sea-green eyes kept glancing at her. His nose and other features reminded her of a bust of Apollo she had once seen. But his main attraction was his bubbling personality, his manners, his way of speaking English with perfect articulation. He would be easy to go out with, she thought.

Paula chose a soup, followed by sole. She had started a trend. After studying the menu, both Tweed and Newman ordered the same. Tweed looked down again at Rondel's partner. He still held the silver box close to his mouth while he worked his teeth. His eyes were again swivelling round the restaurant, pausing now and again, then moving on. " 'You must excuse our bad timing,' Rondel said to Newman. 'We arrived early, were voraciously hungry, so we dined before you arrived. My apologies. My partner,' he went on, glancing at Tweed, aware of his gaze downwards, 'is quite happy to linger for hours over coffee. He drinks it by the litre. And he does not mind being on his own for a while. It gives him the chance to think. He never stops thinking.'

'He lives round here?' Tweed enquired.

'A good question.' Rondel was leaning forward, refilling Paula's glass. 'He lives everywhere. He travels so much. London, Paris, New York, San Francisco. And he takes the trouble to preserve his privacy. Tweed, you strike me as a very private person.'

'Yes and no. Depends on the circumstances.'

'He can be extremely sociable,' Paula said. 'Depending on who he is with and, as he just remarked, on the circumstances.'

She liked the way Rondel kept the conversation going fluently. The way he included everyone in what he said.

'Has your partner a home in Hamburg?' Tweed asked when they had ordered.

'Yes, he has. On the main road to Blankenese, if you know where I mean.'

'Millionaires' Row.'

'Yes, some still call it that.' Rondel laughed gently. 'But times have changed. I have nicknamed it Crooks' Road.'

'So such people have arrived there?'

'I'm afraid so. As you clearly know, it is a rather expensive area for property. But some of the nouveau riche, to be a shade more polite, have accumulated fortunes by questionable means. Going close to the edge of the abyss, as my partner would say.'

'Two sets of ledgers,' Tweed suggested.

'Pardon?'

'There are corporations, some large ones, who use clever accountants to create two ledgers recording the financial activities of their company. One ledger for the tax man -another for themselves.'

'Oh, I see.' Rondel chuckled. 'Yes, I am sure there is a lot of that about these days.' He looked across at Paula as the soup was arriving. 'You ride as well as you can handle a gun, Paula?'

'What makes you think I can handle a gun, Victor?'

Secretly, Newman gave her top marks for swift verbal reflexes. The question had been thrown at her without warning.

'The answer to that is simple.' Rondel smiled very warmly. 'It is part of our business to know things about key people on this planet. Information is more valuable than diamonds.'

'I didn't know I was a key person,' she fenced.

'But you are the close and confidential assistant to Mr Tweed. Need I say more?'

'You can if you wish to. I'm fascinated.'

Top marks to you again, Paula, Newman thought to himself. He's clever but you're more than a match for him.

Paula began to drink her soup. She looked across at Rondel, raised her eyebrows, inviting him to take the conversation further. He grinned, shook his head in a 'You win' gesture.

'It's gone very quiet,' said Tweed, then sipped more soup.

'I might be on firmer ground,' Rondel began, 'if we discussed the state of the world. We've heard rumours that far bigger riots are being planned in the near future to take place all over the West.'

'Lots of rumours floating around all the time,' Tweed commented.

'We have very good contacts,' Rondel insisted amiably.

'Did these very good contacts warn you about the imminent murder of Jason Schulz in Washington, then of Jeremy Mordaunt down in Alfriston?'

'No, they didn't. But you know what America is like -people are getting shot almost every day over there.'

'And in Europe. So what's next on the agenda, to use an ugly word?'

'Chaos, if much larger riots do take place.'

'And then?' Tweed enquired.

'We all go and live in Nepal.'

Tweed had glanced down at the table below them. Rondel's partner had perched a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles on the bridge of his nose. He was checking the bill. Without looking up he made a gesture towards Tweed's table, signed, sat back while the waiter took the bill away.

'My partner would like to meet you tomorrow at his house on the way to Blankenese,' Rondel said suddenly, he took out a notebook, scribbled with a gold pen, tore out the sheet, handed it to Tweed.

'There is the address. It's on the right-hand side as you head for Blankenese. The timing is of your choice. At your convenience. But my partner is anxious to meet you.*

'Eleven o'clock tomorrow morning any good?'

'Agreed. Splendid. I'm sure my partner will be pleased. And Paula and Bob Newman would be most welcome to accompany you.'

Paula glanced down at the table below them. The chair previously occupied by the man equipped with gold-rimmed glasses was empty. He had gone, like a ghost at daybreak.

'Before I leave,' Rondel said as he stood up, 'I want to say how much I have enjoyed the company of everyone at this table.' He held out his hand, leaning across to Paula. 'Maybe we can find some activity we have in common. Like ping-pong.'

'I'll murder you,' Paula replied with a smile.

'There have been too many murders already,' Tweed said.

Rondel shook Tweed's hand, squeezed Newman's shoulder as he passed him, then he also was gone.

'Don't discuss anything while we're in this place,' warned Tweed.

They were outside the Fischereihafen, about to get into a waiting taxi, when Marler appeared, took Tweed aside, spoke softly.

'Damnit, he's done it again. Mark Wendover. Gone off on his own.'

'Did he say where he was off to?'

'Yes. Four Seasons. He'd got an idea in his head that Keith Kent needed guarding. I suppose he had a point – with Kent working on those papers. But he didn't ask me – he told me. Said he knew you'd agree, so I didn't argue.'