Rhinoceros

'I will tell you something very few people in the world know. My name is Milo Slavic. Which shows I trust you.'

'Why should you?' Tweed asked outright.

'Because before I get even a little close to someone I have him checked out meticulously.' He drew out the word as m-e-t-i-c-u-l-o-u-s~l-y. 'I have had you checked out on two continents. You are a unique man. I never flatter.'

'So what did you want with me?'

'Direct, too. Do you believe that, with all the weakness of present Western governments, we need something stronger?'

'Depends on how strong. In the last century we have had Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Josef Stalin. Do we need men as strong as that?'

'There was chaos when those men took power. The masses were frightened, looked for strength. Perhaps it may have to happen again?'

'Are you related to an earlier member of the Frankenheim Dynasty?' Tweed asked suddenly.

'Ah!' His host chuckled, an odd sound. 'History sometimes does repeat itself. You know about the Frankenheims – I can tell. The first Frankenheim took the name, pretended to be a Jew, made himself indispensable to Mayer Amschel, that brilliant man who created Rothschild. We are back in the late 1790s. Frankenheim, as he continued to call himself, then learnt all the tricks of the profession from his mentor – left him, founded his own bank in Paris. Jump forward to 1940. As a very young man I met the last of the Frankenheims, who had no son, no heir. I was naturally gifted in mathematics, in accountancy and solved for him a problem he had found insoluble. He obtained a Swiss passport for rne, as he had for himself, and soon I was Director of his bank in Zurich. When he died I found he had appointed me his heir. I have simplified a rather complicated history.'

'So where do you come from?'

'Slovenia.'

'The northernmost state of what used to be Yugoslavia in the time of Marshal Tito. Adjoins the border with Austria. Has gained its complete independence.'

'Not everyone would know that. Are you concerned with what is happening?'

'Yes. We could be on the edge of a catastrophe.'

Tweed looked at Slavic. He was broader across the shoulder than he had realized, looking down on him at the restaurant. He emanated physical strength as well as mental power. Tweed was still unsure.

'Your mutual chauffeur is an unusual man,' he remarked.

'Danzer. He is my chauffeur. Blondel prefers to drive his own Bugatti, Maserati – whatever is his latest toy. Shall we turn back? We are close to the house.'

'You said "Blondel". I thought your partner's name was Rondel.'

'Ah.' Slavic chuckled unpleasantly. 'Vanity. He has blond hair, so dislikes his real name. Calls himself Rondel. Had a French father, a German mother. We must meet again soon. My headquarters are in the far north. I like privacy.'

'How shall I know where you are?'

'I, Mr Tweed, will always know where you are.'

'I may need to call you something to the closest members of my team. So what name do I use?'

'Simply call me Milo. It sounds as though they are enjoying themselves.'

They had almost reached a side door open to the park.

Tweed could hear Paula laughing with Rondel. A middle-aged woman with blue-rinse hair appeared out of nowhere, carrying in her hands large clusters of hydrangeas. Milo Slavic waved her away. She looked disappointed as she retreated.

'That is Mrs Gina France, my chief accountant. A most professional accountant but with a volcanic personality.' He paused. 'You do believe, then, in iron governments?'

'Depends on how strong they are,' Tweed replied.

'We must meet again.' Slavic sounded urgent. 'I will contact you when the moment arrives. Then you must come quickly.' His voice changed, became mellow as they walked in through open doors into the room where Rondel sat with Paula and Newman. Slavic remained standing.

'I think we should leave now,' said Tweed.

'So early!' Rondel jumped up. 'This charming lady and I are just getting to know each other.'

'There will be another time, Victor,' Paula said, smiling as she stood up and Newman followed.

Tweed turned to thank his host, but the man from Slovenia had vanished. Instead he looked at Rondel.

'Please tell your partner I found the conversation most illuminating. I look forward to the possibility sometime of repeating the experience…'

Rondel led the way along a devious route through the complex mansion until they emerged into the hall and he opened the double doors. As he did so, another figure appeared at the back of the hall, watching them. The chauffeur. Danzer.

'Safe journey,' Rondel wished them and then they were outside and the doors closed behind them.

They were moving slowly down the drive when Tweed glanced back, saw Mrs France dashing after them, still clutching her hydrangeas.

'Stop the car,' he ordered, lowering his window.

'It's Floral Dress,' said Newman, looking back. 'The lady who was feeding ducks, who spoke to you as we walked along the edge of the Alster.'

Mrs France was almost out of breath when she reached them. She thrust the flowers through the open window and Paula took hold of them. She smiled at the plump-faced lady who had a high colour. Mrs France peered through her huge thick-lensed spectacles.

'These are really beautiful.'

'That is very kind of you,' said Tweed, smiling.

The woman pushed her face inside the window. She was very nervous and her hands were trembling. She tried to speak, then had to start again.

'Mr Tweed, I need to come and see you on my own. Something is happening which is very serious, which you should know about. I expect they are watching me from the house.'

'Four Seasons Hotel,' Tweed said quickly, keeping his back to the house. He gave her his suite number. 'You would like to come and see me soon? This afternoon? Three o'clock any good to you?'

'I will be there at three. Oh, thank you so much. You are a nice man. I must go now. They will question me. I will say I heard Miss Grey comment when you arrived how much she admired the hydrangeas.'

'I do…' Paula began.

Mrs France didn't hear her. She was hurrying back up the drive to the house.

'That,' said Newman, 'is one very frightened lady.'

CHAPTER 25

On the day Tweed was driven to Millionaires' Row, in London Gavin Thunder stood in his Whitehall office and gave orders to Montagu Carrington, the aide who had replaced Jeremy Mordaunt.

'You will, nominally, be in charge while I am away. I am flying abroad on holiday for five days. Try not to make too big a mess of things in my absence.'

The heatwave was intensifying and Thunder wore tropical kit. His sharp features seemed even more pronounced, as though he was in a state of tension. His temper was on a short fuse.

'A sudden decision, sir,' commented Carrington, a pale-faced man in his thirties who regarded himself as a high flier. 'May I ask where you are going so I can contact you?'

'You damned well may not. How can I get a quiet holiday if people like you are bothering me? My destination is both private and secret. Has your thick head grasped that?'

'I can at least arrange for a limousine to drive you to the airport…'

'You bloody well won't. I'm driving myself. Got it?'

Carrington, clad in a grey suit quite unsuitable for the weather, frowned. He shifted his feet.

'You are a Minister, sir. You should at least have two bodyguards wherever you are going. Somewhere hot?'

'I know I'm a Minister, you idiot. Has anyone ever told you that you're like a mangy dog which keeps on chewing its bone?'

'No, sir, they haven't…'

'Well, I'm telling you now.' Thunder's mouth was tight, his eyes impaled Carrington's. 'No bodyguards. No limousine. No nothing. Shall I write it down for you?'