During the following week, they suddenly appeared to be in business at the office in Bedford Square. Memos and instructions began to filter down from on high. Documents, obviously from the late Phillip Dahl's satchel, were being brought over by special messengers, and the staff began to follow the various paper trails from the many boxes of files, and computer tapes that had been taken from the main offices of Tann International.
They slowly started to make sense of Tann's many far-flung business dealings. Most of it was simple arms dealing, but with the help given to them by Phillip Dahl, whose body had been brought back for burial --- which John Bannon and Tyreen Mackenzie were strictly forbidden to attend --- they started to see exactly what lengths the multimillionaire was prepared to go in supplying buyers with the latest in arms and military matériel. This was not a small business, running little loads of Semtex or M-16s and AK-47s to the IRA, but an operation on a huge scale. Aircraft to Libya, tanks and missiles to Iran and Iraq, a plethora of shady deals throughout the Middle East, specialist equipment to just about every known terrorist group in the world. Tann had been, literally, the quartermaster to countries on which there was an embargo, and to major terrorist groups. Some of the items were more than worrying --- plutonium, unaccounted for, to North Korea; ground-to-air missiles to terrorists who had long claimed that they would soon be capable of bringing down commercial airliners at the major airports of the world, including Heathrow.
The evidence built very quickly with the leads from Dahl, but in spite of the urgency, John Bannon found himself getting fidgety and irritated. It was nothing new, for this feeling of being trapped within four walls of an office had been a problem he had borne, with a certain amount of stoicism, throughout the years whenever he had been forced to work out of the office. He was a man of action, happy only when he was out there in the midst of danger, almost like a person with a death wish. And he knew that Tyreen Mackenzie was feeling the same way.
As the days went by, he wanted nothing more than to be allowed to leave the country and hunt down Tann, kill him or put him where he could do no more harm. With Tann still at large, the deals would continue to go down.
There were times when he even contemplated putting himself out to grass and resigning. He knew that Tyreen felt the same way, as if she was shackled to a desk in London instead of being active in the field. If nothing else, she was smoking and drinking even more than before.
Toward the end of the week, Bannon took a call from C's assistant Miss Pennington. "Sorry to tell you this, John, but C's been taken ill. He's at home, and there's a nurse in residence. He's been asking for you."
It was noon when he took the call, and Bannon immediately made plans to get out of the office. He instructed his new secretary, telling her that he would be away for the rest of the day. He gave her C's private number in case of any major panic, then left the building, taking the Saab and heading out toward the M4, turning off at the Windsor exit, making for C's home Quarterdeck --- the beautiful Regency manor house on the edge of Windsor Forest. He stopped off for a pub lunch, and finally arrived at the house just before two-thirty.
His ring --- on the famous ship's bell that hung outside the main door --- was answered by a nubile nurse who introduced herself somewhat formally as Nurse Forester.
"Thank heaven," she breathed a sigh of relief when he told her his name. "He's not the best of patients. Should rest all the time but is always working on papers, or making telephone calls. I tried removing the phone yesterday, but had to let him have it back. He works himself up into such states. Come on up. Perhaps you can persuade him to relax. If he doesn't, then I fear he'll not be long for this world." This last said with a hint of sadness that worried and depressed Bannon.
"I have my doubts about that." He followed her up the stairs to C's bedroom.
The old man lay back, propped up by pillows, the bed covered with papers and notepads.
"Bannon, my boy. Thank heaven you've come. I am being driven half mad by interfering women."
Nurse Forester raised her eyebrows and quietly left as C beckoned Bannon over, telling him to sit by the bed.
"I am swinging the lead a bit, my boy. Doing a bit of poodle-faking, if you want the truth." Though his speech was bright and strong, the look on his face told a different story. Under the tan, which the old man cultivated, there was a paleness that Bannon had never seen before, and the weather-beaten face showed signs of strain. "Now listen to me." He hardly paused for breath. "I know you have no leave due, but I'm wondering if you can get away for a long weekend. Something's come up that I would entrust to nobody but you --- well, maybe you and Mackenzie."
"I think we can creep out of the office, sir."
C frowned, then gave a thin-lipped smile. "Wouldn't be the first time, eh?"
"I suppose not, sir."
"Right, let me put you in the picture, then. You already know that we drew a blank in Spain?"
Bannon nodded. He had carefully read the seven-page memo that dealt with the follow-up to the incident in Seville. With the assistance of the Spanish authorities, they had pinpointed Max Tann's villa in the hills above the town, but by the time arrangements had been made to raid the place, the cupboard was bare, and there were signs of an unexpectedly hasty departure.
"Well." C leaned back against the pillows and the tired look came back into his eyes. "In the satchel poor Phillip Dahl was carrying there was a short letter addressed to me personally. There's been a delay in it being passed on to me, unhappily. Nowadays things get so snarled up. The Branch think it's their show now."
"So I understand, sir. The letter?" He wanted to get to the meat without tiring the old man unnecessarily.
"Mmmm." C stretched out to the night table and took a neatly folded single sheet of paper. "Read it for yourself." He handed the paper across the bed.
It was short and to the point:
Dear Admiral,
Just in case I don't make it, a small piece of information has just reached me. It appears that Lady Tann is not conversant with Sir Max's business, as we know it. I am unaware of her status of enlightenment, but she has left this morning for Jerusalem. I have no details of where she will be staying, but you may recall that, as Tasha Nicoletti, she has made frequent visits to Israel, so it is just possible that she may have an apartment in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem. It might be worthwhile following up on her. I have a vague notion she sometimes uses an Israeli doctor, though cannot swear to it.
Hope to see you soon.
It was signed in a neat hand, "Phillip."
Bannon handed back the letter. "You want me to go and take a look-see, sir?"
"I have no real authority to send you, John. By rights I should hand this straight over to The Branch, but... Well, as it was a personal letter, I thought I should handle it personally. I've been in touch with your old friend Jacob Chernow. Tasha Nicoletti is booked into the King David. You might just care to drop in on her. It's possible, of course, that she is looking for somewhere safe. I can't see that lady taking to her husband's dealing too kindly. If she would like safety... Well, why don't you bring her back to London?"
"I'll do all I can, sir."
"Yes." C nodded gravely. "When there's talk of peace, that little country becomes a shade heated, but you've been there before."
"I'll slip off on Friday night."
"Tomorrow? You can't manage it tonight, or in the morning?"
"Don't think that would be wise, sir. Don't worry, though. I'll report back to you personally before I bring anyone else into the charmed circle."
"Good, and in return I'll make certain you're covered at this end. Get onto the usual number if you need backup. You know how to get hold of Chernow?"
"No problem, sir. Now, don't you think you should get some rest?"
"I'll have plenty of time in the hereafter, John. Stay and talk with me for a while. That dratted nurse has a good manner, but she has no heart."
As if on cue, Nurse Forester appeared with a tray on which she had set tea, three cups, and a plate of biscuits. "It's time for the Admiral's medicine anyway." She gave them a bright smile. "I thought tea wouldn't come amiss."
It soon became obvious to Bannon that he was also part of C's medicine, for Nurse Forester began dropping broad hints that he should stay and talk. At one point she said quietly that it would be a good idea to tire her patient so that he would be forced to rest. In the end it was after five before he left, heading back to London.
As soon as he opened the door to the flat, he knew that Tyreen was not in the best of moods. "You didn't even have time to let me know you were going to be out?" she asked, a tincture of acid in her tone.
"It was very secure, I'm afraid, but..."
"Yes, I got that impression from Lady Muck in your office. I suppose you do know that she treats everyone as if she's the boss when the boss is away?"
"No, I..."
"Oh, yes. Acts like a wife, and has that stupid name --- Chastity --- which certainly doesn't go with her figure. Her skirts have been getting shorter by the day since she took over, but I don't suppose you would notice anything like that?"
"Will you shut up!" Bannon shouted at her. "This is important and it concerns you."
There was a long pause, during which they seemed to smolder at each other across the room. Then, "What concerns me?"
"Going to Jerusalem tomorrow. There's a lot to arrange."
Tyreen remained silent during his explanation of the visit to C, except at the point when he mentioned Nurse Forester. Under her breath she muttered something about nurses' uniforms and she supposed this one was a hundred and three.
He cut her down. "No, mid-twenties and very attractive, but I was there to talk with C."
"So we tell nobody?" she asked when he had finished relating the entire story.
"Not a soul, so you keep your pretty little mouth closed."
"Now?" she asked, sidling up to him and lifting her face to be kissed.
No, her pretty little mouth did not need to be closed.
When they arrived at Ben Gurion International, Tyreen Mackenzie felt the same paradoxical sensation. Around her couples greeted each other with hugs, kisses, and even tears. These were people returning to their homeland, and they emanated a huge sense of joy. Yet mixed with the joy there was always a feeling of danger. Every time she flew into this part of the world she felt it like a dark cloud around her, and saw it in the faces of the soldiers and police on duty at the airport. It epitomized the way this tiny country had clung like a lion to the small strip of land it called its own, the homeland, the hope, Israel.
"John." The familiar figure of Jacob Chernow came striding from the crowd waiting for passengers on the El Al flight from London Heathrow. "John, it's good to see you." He embraced Bannon like a long-lost brother, then turned to Tyreen. "Tyreen." He embraced her like a long-lost sister, ending with a kiss on the cheek.
He then led them outside where a car waited to take them into Jerusalem.
"I hope the King David's okay for you two." Chernow had an unfortunate habit of driving as though the traffic would take care of itself, for he constantly took his eyes off the road, even turned right around in his seat while traveling at speed.
"Still as noisy as ever, I presume?" from Bannon.
"Terrible, but if you build a hotel in the middle of Jerusalem, what can you expect? You've stayed at the King David, Tyreen?"
"I haven't had that pleasure."
"Oh, then you're in for a treat. It's faded Victorian England at its best. Well, perhaps not at its best, because it's sort of a mixture --- Victorian elegance with a blend of the Orient. The pool and Oriental gardens make me forget I'm in the middle of a city as old as Jerusalem. Nothing fazes them, either. I sometimes think the staff all imagines they're still living under the British Mandate." He launched into the old story, perfectly true, that while the war of independence was at its height a telephoned bomb threat to the King David was taken with typical British sangfroid --- with disastrous results. They simply did not see it fitting to warn guests or take any precautions, but simply waited for the blast, which, when it came, did a great deal of damage and killed dozens of people.
Chernow waited in the lobby as they were taken up to their room. Together they went into the famous Regency Grill, where they could have been eating in the heart of London --- the menu was more British than most of the hotel restaurants in the capital of the United Kingdom, but by the same token it also included the best of Jewish food.
They talked like any old friends meeting for the first time in a couple of years. It was not until they were about to leave that Chernow said quietly, "She's in suite 514. I can provide any help you might need, if she wants to go back to London with you. A beautiful lady, and her companions are equally exciting."
"Companions?" Bannon queried, exchanging glances with Tyreen.
"Couple of girls she's traveling with. They seem to be very close, but they're a pair of stunners." Chernow gave Tyreen his charming smile, and a promise to call them in the morning.
"I think we should try her straightaway." Bannon explained that, with the limited time they had available, it might be best to see what Lady Tann could add to the information they already had in their possession. "If she feels under any threat from Max, she might like to know that she has our support."
Tyreen simply grunted as they got into the lift, and Bannon stood back to let two young women --- a blonde and a brunette --- into the cage. As the doors closed, he took a quick look in the direction of the two girls; there was something inexplicably familiar about them. They were dressed in a similar manner in stylishly designed pantsuits, one in gray, the other in blue, and both with white silk shirts. It was only when they all walked out of the lift on the fifth floor that he saw the bandaged hand on the blonde.
At the same moment, the brunette spoke in a low, husky voice. "How nice to see you, Mr. Bannon. We thought we'd never meet again."
"But we have," the blonde added. "And with the lovely Ms. Mackenzie as well."
Tyreen's mouth dropped open as the truth hit her.
"It's really us," said Cuthbert.
"In the flesh and in our true personas. You didn't even guess that we were girls, did you? I'm Anna --- my proper name as well --- and this is Carla. We presume you've come to visit our boss, Tasha Nicoletti. Well, just step this way. She's going to be so excited."
"Almost as excited as us," chimed Cathy. "We've all been absolutely dying to see you again, haven't we, Anna?"
"Going out of our minds." Anna gave a tinkling little giggle.
"Just wait while I open the door." Carla, in her new rôle, slid the oblong plastic security key into its slot, waited until the light changed from red to green, then opened the door to 514, walked in, and called, "Tasha, we're back, and we've brought some nice old playmates to see you."
Anna came in behind them, closing the door, calling, "Tasha, where are you? We've got a lovely surprise."
She came out of the bathroom, and even Tyreen gave an audible gasp. They had both seen many photographs of Tasha Nicoletti's dazzling face and figure --- indeed, who had not? --- from the days when she was a top model before her marriage to Sir Max Tann. To see this gorgeous creature in the flesh was a different matter altogether, as both Bannon and Tyreen could affirm from Cambridge.
She wore a sliver evening minidress with a diamond choker, but at first sight all they took in were the famous legs, long and incredible, reaching up forever and a day, for she was just over six feet tall. Though enviously slim, she was beautifully proportioned, with a nut-brown tan, and that other great attribute, the thick long black hair that had been a trademark in the old days.
Then they saw her face.
What had once been called both elfin and gamine by a hundred fashion journalists must still have been there under the livid bruises, and the obviously broken nose, for it was as though someone had used her features as a punching bag. When she spoke, there were traces of nasality, and a slight tremor.
"So?" She glanced from Anna to Carla and back again, not even trying to meet Bannon's or Tyreen's eyes.
"This is the Mr. Bannon, and Tyreen Mackenzie. We told you about them. They're friends. In fact, I think Mr. Bannon's probably a knight in shining armor."
Tasha gave a kind of lopsided smile. "Mr. Bannon I have already met and talked with. Ms. Mackenzie I've only seen from a distance. It's nice to see you again, Mr. Bannon, and good to meet you..." She nodded in Tyreen's direction. "Forgive my state of physical dishabille, and please call me Tasha."
"You've talked to...?" Anna began, then lapsed into silence.
"Just a minute." Tyreen had stepped over to Anna, her hand taking the blonde's undamaged wrist, gripping like a steel trap. "The last time I saw you --- dressed as a very unpleasant thug --- you were arguing with this lady's husband outside Hall's Manor. You wanted to come up to the room in which you'd left John and myself. You were very clear about your intentions. You wanted to come up to finish us off. You made bizarre men, the pair of you, and I'm not sure I prefer you as women --- if that's what you are?"
"Of course we're women," Carla almost spat at her. "We did the other thing for Tasha here."
"Including trying to kill us?"
Under Tyreen's tight hold, with her arm strained behind her back, Anna let out a little groan. "We were trying to let you go," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Carla was coming back to tell you what was really going on. We had the handcuff keys. Tann would only have let us come up to you if we said it was to kill you. You've no..."
"She's telling the truth." Tasha Nicoletti nodded, and Tyreen saw that it even hurt her to speak. There was some wiring on her jaw on the inside of her mouth. "She's being honest with you. It was all done for me. They persuaded Max that it would be a good idea to get you both out of the way. He was reluctant, but finally allowed them to stay behind in Cambridge. Please, they're telling the truth."
Unwillingly, Tyreen let go of the wrist. "Why should I trust you? Any of you?"
"Sit down. Please." Tasha gestured to the chairs and a long sofa. "Carla, get a bottle of champagne and we'll have a drink. I'm in need of it, the painkillers are wearing off, and I can't take any more for a couple of hours." The grimace on her face was evidence enough that she was not acting.
"Who did this to you?" Bannon asked, one hand rising to indicate her face.
"Who do you think?" She gave a cynical little laugh and patted the place next to her on the sofa. Tyreen gave a long sound, as though clearing her throat, and indicated one of the comfortable easy chairs. Bannon raised one eyebrow at her as she cut in front of him and seated herself next to Tasha.
As he sat down, his eyes caught Anna's; she had been glowering at him. Now she gave a little knowledgeable smile, then glowered again, touching her hair. "Wigs," she snapped. "Wigs for us both until our hair grows again."
"I prefer you with real eyebrows as well," Bannon said, straight-faced.
Anna made an obscene gesture as Carla came back into the room with an ice bucket in which rested a bottle of Dom Perignon, and glasses.
"Who?" He turned to Tasha again.
"I asked who do you think?"
"Your husband?"
"Part of it. Max likes to inflict pain, but he leaves the real bone breaking to that bastard Connie Starks."
"Then this isn't something new? Sir Max has a penchant for battering you?"
"It's one of the reasons I brought Carla and Anna into the marriage."
"You brought...?"
"I am right in saying you are with the British authorities, and that you want to put Max Tann into a high-security prison for a thousand years, aren't I?"
"A thousand and one, actually."
"Make that two thousand," said Tyreen.
"Good." Tasha accepted a glass of the Dom Perignon from Carla, who had waved away Bannon's offer of help. She took a long sip. "I need this. If I have to talk for a while, I need help at the moment."
"Take your time." Tyreen patted her arm.
"You said that you brought Carla and Anna into the marriage?"
"Look, Mr. Bannon. I know I've been an idiot. I had the pick of the field. I could have married anyone. Max could be amusing, and he had other things to offer --- like money. I married him for his money, that's plain and simple. I knew he got some of his kicks through hurting women, but before we married. I thought it wasn't all that dangerous. Games. You know the kind of thing. Then, well, he suggested that once we were married, I should have a couple of bodyguards. He said he'd arrange it. I said that I would arrange it. That's where Carla and Anna come in."
"We offered a service for lots of people in the business," Carla joined in. "We're trained in the martial arts, and we know how to shoot." She pirouetted and a small automatic pistol appeared from under her jacket. As Bannon moved, she gave a small laugh and returned the weapon to its hiding place. "We can be a right pair of dangerous bitches when we want. Also, we got on well with Tasha. She came to us with a proposition, and we ran with it."
"Max wouldn't have taken them seriously as women," Tasha began.
"Max is still your average male chauvinist." Carla shook her head, as though male chauvinists were an endangered species.
"It meant disguising them," Tasha continued, "and they looked bizarre enough for Max to take them seriously as women. He has some odd tastes in bodyguards."
"You knew he could be violent. Did you also know anything about his business affairs?" Tyreen again.
"Not until much later. The girls knew before I did, because Max gave them a couple of jobs to do. They weren't that happy about it, but they did try and shield me from the worst."
"Until it was too late." Anna sat in a good upright posture on one of the easy chairs.
"What is the worst?" Tyreen asked. "The scope of his illegal arms dealing, or the contempt he shows by constantly abusing you physically?"
"Oh." She frowned and looked a little bewildered. "Then you don't really know Max at all. I can normally put up with his bouts of sadism, but about five years ago I discovered the end product of his deals and intrigues." She took another sip of her drink. "At first I couldn't understand when he became angry every time I visited Israel --- I make a couple of trips here each year." She explained that some ten years before she had undergone treatment for a slight eye problem. "My doctor did the procedure and follow-ups in Harley Street. Then, being a good Jew, he finally decided to leave London and live here, in Israel. So I had my six-monthly checkups with him. Here in Jerusalem. Anna and Carla always came with me."
"Funny." Tyreen looked first at Anna and then at Carla. "I thought I chased you two all over Seville on motorcycles. I thought I had killed the pair of you."
"You did what?" Anna sat up even straighter.
"If you left with Tasha, you missed a little unpleasantness. I killed two of his toughs, and a man called Phillip Dahl got murdered."
"Oh, no." Tasha put her hands to her face. "Phillip? He was one of the nicest men around Max."
"He was also providing us with information and his luck ran out, I'm afraid."
"You probably did in Pixie and Dixie," Carla supplied.
"Pixie and...?"
"That's what everyone called them. They had been stunt drivers at one time. Stunts with cars and motorcycles. Very nasty gentlemen. Did a lot of unpleasant jobs for Max. Their real names were never mentioned, and I got the impression they were wanted by the police in about seven different countries." Tasha took a deep breath and held out her glass for more champagne. "But to get back to Max, I really laid into him when we got to Seville. I knew a lot more by then, but I was out of my mind with anger and grief. It would've been more prudent to keep quiet, but I told him the truth and this is the result. He was so furious that he did most of it. Connie then broke my nose and jaw. Max, as you must know, suffers from a kind of folie de grandeur. He's done nothing but spread death and destruction for most of his adult life, but he thinks he can, in some way, make amends. When he does, he reckons that everyone's going to forget about the weapons and people --- because he also deals in people, mercenaries mostly --- and hail him as a hero. As the true hero. I shouldn't have told him on that last day in Seville."
"What was this horrific thing you told him, Tasha?"
"You can't guess?" She gave a bitter little laugh. "I told him the truth, knowing that it would explode his mind. The truth. You see, I'm a quarter Jewish, on my mother's side, and me a good Catholic girl. My father was Italian, and my mother English. When I was coming up to my First Communion they told me. It was a big family secret. A quarter Jewish, and that was enough to spark off my dear husband when I threw it in his face."
"He just beat you up and then let you walk away?" Bannon still only had an inkling of what she really meant.
"Not quite." Again the bitter laugh. "He lost control. Said he would have to bathe four times a day for the rest of his life, to get the Jewish filth from his body. He shouted at me. Said nobody must ever know; said he loathed himself. Did some damage to my face and ribs. I said I was going, so he put Connie in. I think the idea was to disable me so I couldn't leave, but Connie hadn't banked on the girls."
"You took Connie out?"
"We kind of incapacitated him." Carla did her roguish smile.
"Let's say he won't be satisfying any ladies for a while. Yet, knowing Connie, he's probably able to hobble around by now."
"Tasha, I'm sorry." Bannon was searching for the right words, not quite certain that he understood the complete subtext of what she had told him. "Are you saying that Max has anti-Semitic tendencies?"
This time her laugh was not bitter, but one of genuine amusement, and it was echoed by chuckles from Anna and Carla.
"John," she said finally. "No, Max does not have anti-Semitic tendencies. I thought you already knew. In fact, I really thought that was why you're after him. Max Tann is not just another Fascist. Max Tann thinks of himself as the Nazi Messiah. He's the reincarnation of Hitler, Himmler, Goebbels --- you name them, he is it. The whole arms-dealing thing has been a means to an end. Stage one in his comeback. Weapons poured into the wrong hands over the past couple of decades have been for one reason: the complete destabilization of Europe --- if not the world."
He tried to disguise his horror and fascination. "And he let you walk away when you told him about your Jewish blood?"
There was a pause before Tasha said, "It's not quite as easy as that, John. Like the Nazi leaders of old, he has that uncanny knack of being able to double-think. After the first few years of our marriage I realized that he really regarded me as a showpiece. He just may be able to ignore the tiny bit of Jewish blood in my veins. Max has a terribly long reach. He can probably find me and have me hauled back, though I think his hands're pretty full at the moment."
"Like the Nazis who turned a blind eye to Jews they needed in order to function?"
"Exactly. Do you know that Hitler was always aware that the gravediggers within the Nazi kingdom were Jews? They didn't touch them because they were necessary. Certain people are necessary to Max, and I might be one of them." She gave her head a little shake, as though trying to get rid of some nightmare. "Let me give you another instance. He owns --- that's the right word, owns --- an African-American girl who happens to be a junkie. He talks to her using the most appalling racist language. That is when he's forced to go anywhere near her. But he tolerates her because she is an assassin who takes a pride in her work. Orders are given to her by either Connie or Maurice, because, while they're loyal to Max, they do not really have the same scruples about being near her. When he's around, he makes certain she keeps to her own quarters. If she has to be in the entourage, he makes sure she travels in a different car."
"What's her name?"
"Beth. I don't know any other name for her. Everyone calls her Beth. That's it."
"But, Tasha, I gather he claims lineage with the von Tann family..."
"I don't think he needs to just claim lineage. I think it's genuine. But..."
"But the Nazis are supposed to have murdered his family."
"A family that, over the years, he's come to despise."
"I see." The shock of the latest revelations was just starting to bite home.
"Max is powerful, John. Don't ever doubt that. He is a very dangerous beast."
"You wouldn't happen to know where he is now?" Tyreen made it sound so casual that it almost went unnoticed, but Bannon saw Anna stir and flash a look toward Carla.
"He could be checking in downstairs, for all I know." Tasha's hand went up to her hair for the first time since they had been in the room, fingers splayed, raking deeply into the thick soft forest. "But I don't think so. What you're really asking me is where you can go and pick him up, yes?"
Bannon leaned forward. "We can offer you safety, Tasha."
"Oh, please." She laughed. "You cannot offer me safety until you have him six feet under. He has an army out there."
"Tasha," Tyreen took over, "we can give you some safety. We can get you out of Jerusalem first thing in the morning. Once we have you in England we're certain we can keep you safe. You and the girls."
"The girls can always look after themselves, but, yes, I'd like them around for a while."
"Then you'll come with us?"
"I've nowhere else to go, and Max will know I'm here. Even Connie will have it figured out. Yes. Okay, take me to London and squirrel me away where none of Max's people can get their hands on me. What's in it for you?"
"Your safety, Tasha," from Bannon. "Your safety, and cooperation."
"You have my cooperation in any case. You want to know where Max is? Okay, I can tell you where I think he'll be, if he's not on the way here to take me back by force."
"Is that a possibility?"
"Always, but I don't think he has much time to come chasing me at the moment."
"So if he's not on his way here...?"
"Well, maybe not yet, but eventually he'll end up in Athens."
"Playing with his toy cruise ships?"
She gave a tired smile, and the pain showed through again. "He has two main operating bases, both of them really sewn up. Seville is one. Being an inland port, it's useful. He paid a lot of people not to ask too many awkward questions, so many of his container ships pass through Seville. The other port he uses is Naples. You only have to look at a map to tell how valuable that is."
Just south of Rome, Naples stands in the middle of the Mediterranean.
"And he has that one closed up as well?"
"Pretty much. He also owns some property there, and on Sicily. We have a suspicion that he stashes cargo away there and that is where he plans to become a world hero." That "we" included the girls, for she waved her arms in their direction, and both Carla and Anna nodded in agreement. "We think he owns warehouses, and other little bits of real estate, and he's spread money around the place as though cash is going out of fashion."
"So he runs a complex operation from two distinct base. Both in the Mediterranean, where he has some kind of ace up his sleeve?"
"That's about the size of it. His merchant bank launders the money, I should imagine."
"You imagine correctly. We're getting that sorted out. There's a great deal of evidence, and we're putting the financial side together now."
"He said that part could never be broken." Carla had gone back into one of the other rooms and brought another bottle of Dom Perignon. "In Seville, I heard him say that his banks were a hundred percent foolproof."
"It would've taken until doomsday if it hadn't been for Phillip Dahl."
Anna stirred. "You said he was dead."
"He left us a little legacy. A map of the laundry, so to speak."
There was a short pause, during which Tasha and the girls did not look at each other. Then Tasha broke the silence. "Poor Phillip. At least he did something worthwhile before he died. Max trusted him absolutely, and I would never have thought he was the spy in the camp."
"You suspected a spy?"
"No, but Max did. He was paranoid about it. Always changing procedures, and playing games to trap people. Though he never did --- trap anyone, that is."
"Well, he did more than trap Dahl, and he almost destroyed the information." Tyreen went on to describe what had happened in Seville, leaving out the most gory of the details.
Again there was a silence. A pause that went on a shade too long. Tasha Nicoletti once more put a hand to her hair, then quietly said that she was sorry but she really had to lie down.
"So, Max is going to do something in the Mediterranean. Where else might he be?"
"He could be in Germany. Wasserburg. He's quietly restoring Tannenwerder --- the old family seat --- to its former glory."
"He is?" Bannon asked of nobody in particular.
"Then tomorrow we'll take you back to London and some safety?" Tyreen asked.
"Yes. Yes, of course. It's all I want now: to be out of it all and in some normal kind of life."
"What time?" Carla asked, sounding businesslike.
"We'll give you a call first thing." Bannon had already decided to book seats on the first possible flight back to Heathrow. "I think there's a flight at around noon. Now, are you going to be all right?"
"If we're not, we'll give you a call." Anna sounded smug and, if anything, overconfident.
"So, what do you think?" John Bannon asked when they were back in their own suite.
"You mean the amazing sex change, the distraught Lady Tann, or the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler?" Tyreen Mackenzie had started to undress.
"All three, I suppose. You happy with them, Tyreen? Trust them?"
"The dedicated-crazy-Nazi thing shook me, but I can see it's probably true enough, and the time is ripe in Germany. There are so many dedicated Nazi organizations coming out of the woodwork now. The skinhead groups, the Neo-Nazis toughs, but that's the wrong name for them. They are Nazis plain and simple: Germany for the Germans, and then only the purebred Germans. Out with any foreigners. Even people who, up to a couple of years ago, said it could never happen twice are now having doubts. As for the rest, right up until we mentioned Dahl, I trusted them. Then things came apart slightly."
"Could be that Lady T was having a ride around the park with Dahl."
"The thought had crossed my mind. Either her or... No, they wouldn't have let their guard down --- the girls, I mean."
"To be perfectly honest with you." Bannon raised his voice as Tyreen passed through into the bathroom. "To be perfectly honest, I wouldn't trust those two with anyone --- except La Nicoletti, of course. They're obviously devoted to her."
"And I'll be perfectly honest with you, my darling, I wouldn't trust any of them with you. Even with the bashed-up face, Tasha was drooling, and the two terrors would have kept you busy for hours."
"I didn't notice anything unusual. I think you're exaggerating, Tyreen."
She did not reply, so he smiled to himself and went over to the telephone to call both El Al and BA. There was an El Al flight from Ben Gurion International to Heathrow at noon, and they had seats. He booked five, giving their names and saying that he would get back to them with the information on the other three passengers first thing in the morning. As ever, El Al was tight-lipped.
They both slept well, spooned close together in the big double bed. The telephone dragged them up through a few layers of unconsciousness. Bannon looked at his watch and saw that this was not his wakeup call requested for seven, as the time showed ten minutes past six. Groggily, he croaked into the phone.
Jacob Chernow came on strong and clear at the other end, telling him that this was a secure line. "I think you might have a small problem." The Mossad man dived right in.
Bannon was immediately wide awake. "What kind of problem?"
I don't know how you got on last night, but I've just had a call from BG International. It appears that Tasha Tann and her entourage left on the six o'clock to Paris."
Bannon replied with a single oath. "Shit!"
It took them less than ten minutes to decide that it would serve no purpose for them to stay on in Jerusalem, and that there was no point in chasing Tasha Nicoletti and the girls to Paris.
It was raining, there had been a shooting in Jerusalem, some kind of tear gas and stone-throwing clash in Tel Aviv, and another bit of violence on the road between the two, which eventually made them nearly late for the flight --- El Al suggesting around three hours before check-in, instead of the former two. It was all part of the constantly shifting dangers of the Middle East, but there were other passengers who arrived almost at the last minute, which made for a very late departure and an unhappy flight crew.
They were back in the London flat at around seven in the evening to find twelve messages waiting on the secure telephone and one showing on the private line. The twelve on the secure telephone were quick and to the point --- would Bannon call the Minister as soon as possible; would Bannon call Bill Turner as soon as possible. They had started coming in late on the previous evening, and the last had been left only an hour before their return.
Bannon called C's Chief of Staff first, for at least he knew where he stood with Bill Turner. There was panic in the streets, according to Turner, and the Minister had been searching for Bannon to attend a meeting at the Home Office. It appeared that there had been a break in the Tann case.
He immediately called the Minister's private number to be told the same thing. "We've been away for a couple of days," Bannon said lamely.
"I can get people together within the hour, so would like you at the Home Office by eight o'clock sharp."
"Bang goes a quiet evening in front of the television." Tyreen tried to sound piqued when Bannon relayed what Turner had said.
"Since when have we ever had quiet evenings in front of the television?" He looked up, saw her grin, and shrugged.
He was tempted to leave the message on the private phone, but he ran it back and pressed Play almost automatically.
The husky female voice was immediately recognizable. "This is Carla, John. We're sorry that Tasha decided to run out on you at the last minute, but as you can imagine, she really doesn't trust anyone at the moment --- anyone except us, of course. Don't worry, we'll see that she comes to no harm, and we'll keep in touch."
While the tape was still playing, he touched the button on the box next to the telephone. While it couldn't trace the call, it could report the originating number. "Well, they're not in Paris." He frowned. "That was made from an 071 London number. The girls've brought her here, and how in the blazes did they get this telephone number?"
Tyreen said that she would get the number traced to an address and call him at the Home Office. "We don't want you to upset the Minister by being late," she soothed. "That would never do."
He was at the door. "Oh, Tyreen, could you contact C's nurse --- Forester --- and see how the Old Man's getting on?"
"Of course, but how are you going to handle the Minister?"
"In what way?"
"You going to lay the news on them about the Nazi thing? This is for real, John. Every other night, here in Europe, we're warned on television about the far-right wing in Germany. The marches, drumbeats, acts of violence against foreigners: the whole grotesque display of the Neo-Nazi movement."
"The Nazi movement, Tyreen. There's nothing neo about those fanatics. As for the Minister, I'll use my own judgement. It's possible that we should keep that piece of information in reserve. They might already know, of course. That could be the break in the Tann business."
He left with a black cloud hanging over him, and anger too near the surface of his emotions.
Along with the Minister, Bill Turner was at the Home Office reading room, representing C. The Head of The Branch, Wilson, had a Chief Superintendent with him, while the Director General of the Security Service was represented by three people, a trio about whom Bannon had deep reservations. The first of these was a rake-thin man named Skinner. With him were two female officers, Janice Jameson and June Smith, both known to have great influence with the Director General. Everyone looked edgy and concerned.
Bannon reflected that he had crossed swords with them on relatively minor matters before this. Their presence only suggested a clash of wills over Tann.
"At last." The Minister sounded more than a shade sarcastic. "The prodigal returns."
"Where in blazes have you been, Bannon?" from Skinner.
"Trying to find Tann, if you really want to know."
"Speaking of Tann, that's the latest break. The man's back in this country. We have proof positive." The Minister signaled to Turner, who went over to a tape player next to a large television set, and slipped a tape into the machine.
"The soft route, via Dublin, late yesterday afternoon," June Smith said by way of introduction. The tone of her voice suggested that Bannon should actually have been present.
The screen cleared to show the long corridor up to the baggage-collection area in Terminal One at Heathrow. Some seventy people straggled past the immigration officer and the one man from the Security Service who always manned the desk at the entrance to the baggage carousels.
No chances are taken with flights coming in from Dublin. Normally a bus picks up the passengers and brings them straight into the terminal, where they are herded through a one-way door. Like sheep, they are forced to pass this checkpoint. It is rare for anyone to be stopped. Security cameras double-check the passengers, and arrests sometimes take place as they go through customs. In other cases, a "face" --- which is Security Service language for a suspected criminal or terrorist --- is quietly followed. The system is reckoned to be foolproof, though sometimes it is just proof of fools.
There, large as life and twice as natural, walking calmly into the baggage-collection area, came Max Tann. In the distance the camera picked up Maurice Perkins and Connie Starks, followed by a muscular, fit-looking black girl in jeans, white shirt, and a fashionable vest. Without knowing exactly why, Bannon suddenly realized that this was Beth, the girl who had met them in the dark at Hall's Manor --- the girl whom Tasha Nicoletti had called an assassin.
"Thinks he's bloody omnipotent." There was a growl in June Smith's voice. Bannon could only think of Tasha's remark about Tann being a victim of folie de grandeur.
"So we've got them boxed in?" he asked.
There was a slight shuffling of feet and the odd cough.
"Unhappily, our people lost them." Skinner did not even look distressed. "They were picked up again, in London." The Security Service officer seemed to imagine they were all involved in some game.
Wilson cleared his throat. "My officers, together with members of the Security Service, moved in, but I fear the whole bunch got away again."
"Whereabouts in London?"
"A flat behind Harrods. It's owned by Tann; nothing but the best for him."
"And have you ID'd the black girl yet?"
"What black girl?" Janice Jameson from Security asked sharply.
He made them rerun the tape and pointed out the girl following Perkins and Starks.
"We didn't even make her. Who do you think she is?" From Skinner, who seemed to have lost his casual attitude toward the situation.
"The one called Beth who was at Hall's Manor."
"Ah. Better put her on the list, then."
"Talking of Hall's Manor, not everything's lost..." The Minister tried to sound cheerful. "We have one other piece of interesting information. As you know, Bannon, we were running a check on the Manor."
Bannon nodded. His gut reaction to all this was not good. Something was badly wrong.
The Minister continued. "It appears that the last remaining member of the Hall family finally relented. The whole estate --- a thousand acres and the house --- was sold off in January: bought by a firm that calls itself Bulwark Real Estate."
"Don't tell me." Bannon leaned back in his chair. "Bulwark is a subsidiary of Tann International."
"Got it in one." The Minister sounded very pleased.
"So you're all banking on Tann going up to that ruin?"
"I think it's a natural assumption."
"You do, sir? The place is falling down. It's also right out in the open. You had no idea that Tann owned a flat in Knightsbridge, so, for all we know, he could have a dozen bolt holes here in London."
"I think not." June Smith sounded smug. "One of Commissioner Wilson's units came back to us --- a little late, I admit --- with the information that a car traced to Tann had been spotted on the M11."
"What exactly do you mean by 'a little late'?"
"It was a borderline speeding case. They took the reg, then recognized it when my people sent out the details," Wilson blustered. "Called in straightaway."
"So let me rephrase my former question. You all know Tann is going up to that ruin?"
"Indeed." The Minister spoke in the kind of voice used by schoolmasters who will brook no argument. The Pontius Pilate voice, as Bannon called it --- "What I have written, I have written."
"Well, I presume you have people surrounding Hall's Manor at the moment?"
"No. We have one man. Security brought him in from SAS. He's very good, and they got him in and hidden by late last night. If Tann shows up there, we'll know within seconds." The Minister smiled benevolently, as though he had already trapped Max Tann single-handed.
"Why would a man like Tan risk coming back into the country with half his entourage, sir?" Bannon asked quietly, knowing there could be no clear answer. "He came in clean, no attempt to hide his identity. Now, I believe he's got something going which he reckons will be a boon to society, and he'll risk anything to see it through. I haven't a clue as to what it is. But I do know that politically, he's slightly to the right of Adolf Hitler and Genghis Khan. People like that often truly think they're invincible. Only a fool or a zealot would walk into the country so brazenly. The question is, why did he come back?"
"Must be something important." The Minister coughed, then frowned when he realized that he had made an obviously statement.
"And you believe he's at Hall's Manor?"
"What else can I believe? The man can't run far."
"Can't he? I think he can probably run us all off our feet. To come into Heathrow as he did means that he knows the score: knows how we operate with suspects. He came in to lead us on some merry dance, sir. I'd put money on it."
"Nobody's asking you to put money on it."
"No, but I would. He's here either to get something or deal with unfinished business, and he wants us to know about it. You think you lost him by chance? No, sir. This man's obsessive. He's been arming renegade armies, selling death to terrorists, providing arms and means to countries and organizations who will use the weapons --- and not in any good cause, either. He's a world-class political loose cannon, sir. He's also a man who rarely takes chances. I repeat, he wanted you to know he was here, so he'll also probably let you know when he's left."
"So you don't think he'll be heading for Hall's Manor?" It was a rhetorical question.
"He could well be going straight there, sir. But I don't think it wise to have only one man waiting for him..."
"That was a conscious decision, Bannon. One that wasn't made lightly. We agreed that one trained member of the SAS would be able to give us radio information very quickly and without being detected."
"And you've got a whole troop of SAS people sitting a few miles away so that they can go in and get him?"
"We have armed police and security officers on standby. They can be there in a matter of thirty minutes."
"If that's where he's heading."
"Every policeman in the country, every security officer, every airport and seaport is on the alert for him. He's in, and it's up to us to be sure that he doesn't get out."
"Again, sir, why here? Why take the risk?"
The Minister was about to speak when the telephone purred on the table. He answered and, sounding very irritated, told Bannon that it was a Ms.Mackenzie wishing to speak with him. "And I trust that it's business, Bannon. Something concerning this case."
"I've no doubt that it's business." He took the instrument and spoke into it quietly. Everyone in the room realized there was something wrong by the way his back stiffened, and his eyes traversed every face in the room. "Wait there. I'll be back soon, and thank you."
He replaced the handset and looked straight at the Minister as he repeated the address just passed on to him by Tyreen. It was a flat situated in an area just behind Harrods in Knightsbridge. "Is that where you thought you had him cornered, with his people?"
"Yes. How do you know? Outside of this room, only a select number of trustworthy police and security officers have that address."
"Because there was a telephone message on my private phone when I got back to my flat, sir. The ID box gave the number of the place behind Harrods. Ms. Mackenzie has been checking it out for me."
"A telephone call?"
"That's what I just said, sir. I think Tann's intent on leaving a message at Hall's Manor for us. A very unpleasant message."
"Bannon, you're not talking sense."
"I'm talking a lot of sense, sir, and I want your permission for me to go up to Hall's Manor with Ms. Mackenzie immediately."
"I need to know why. Have to get in touch with our man on the ground there."
Quietly and quickly, Bannon explained some of the facts of life --- particularly those pertaining to Lady Tann, and the control Sir Max had over Seville and Naples. "I gather that, eventually, he's going to provide some spectacular event in the Mediterranean, and that's going to be sooner rather than later." He left out the fact that Max Tann --- and presumably many others --- regarded himself as the Nazi Messiah. "My fear is that your SAS man could be in serious trouble."
"Why just you and Ms. Mackenzie? Why not send police and SAS in now?"
"You want a pitched battle in which we might be seen to have acted a little prematurely? I need your authority to get up to Hall's Manor, and I need it now."
"I don't think I can..."
"You can, sir. I'm privy to quite a lot of information about Tann. I don't think you can really get him without my help. I'll wait outside until you've made up your minds." He rose and stalked out of the room.
Ten minutes later, Bill Turner joined him. "They're not very happy." He did not look too jovial himself. "But they've agreed to your request within certain limits."
"Which are?"
"That if they've heard nothing by one in the morning, they'll issue their own orders, one of which will probably be your arrest, for precipitating matters."
Behind Turner the door opened and a worried-looking Minister stood just inside the room. "It appears that we've already got another problem." His eyes showed uncertainty. "We can't raise the SAS man at the Manor. The line's open, but he's not answering any signals."
"Voice signals?" Bannon asked.
"No, we've got a code with a series of clicks, so that Tann's people can't pick him up on any scanners they might be carrying."
"So we can go?"
"Turner's told you about the deadline?"
"Yes, sir. That's okay by me. If you don't hear anything from us by one A.M., we'll need you to take over, because we won't be operative if you don't get a report."
They wore black. Black jeans, black rollnecks, black leather gloves, and black sneakers, while their heads were covered with black balaclava helmets. They carried weapons and equipment on broad black belts: John Bannon with the ASP, a radio that would allow him to signal London, a standard field compass, and a high-powered flashlight. Tyreen Mackenzie with her Walther and a couple of flash-bang grenades. They had left the maps and other gear in the car, parked in a side road a mile away from Hall's Manor.
Now they approached the old house from the west, through a wood and scrubland, occasionally taking bearings with the compass. It was in the wood that they found the SAS sergeant's body, and there was no need to switch on the flashlight to know that the man was dead. The black stain running form his neck told of a severed throat.
It made Bannon even more apprehensive, for if a man trained to the perfection of this sergeant had been taken by surprise, he and Tyreen would be easy game.
They crouched on the edge of the scrub, the ground uneven, the silhouette of the big house stark against the sky. There were no sounds except for predatory night animals. No lights. No sign of life, but they both knew this was no guarantee that Tann and his crew were not out there, waiting and watching in the dark.
The luminous dial of Bannon's watch showed it to be fourteen minutes past midnight. They had, in fact, made incredibly good time, and now he wondered if they should just go charging in, or take it stealthily all the way. The deadline was running out.
"Gently," he whispered to Tyreen, and together, crouching low, they moved forward. "Shoot first and then ask the questions," he breathed again as they reached the house. He saw her nod, then put a hand out to touch the stone.
They circled the entire building, pausing close to windows, their eyes fully adjusted to the darkness and the now-slanted moon.
The front door was open, almost as they had left it on their last visit, but they knew others had already been there before that night; might still be there, silent and unmoving in the shadows. Taking a deep breath, he nodded to Tyreen and took a step inside the door into the hall, switching on the flashlight held next to the automatic pistol, firm in his hand. The smell of must and decay hit them like an invisible wall, but mixed with it were other scents: the smell of women's perfume and other luxurious lotions. If the house was truly empty, it had only recently been vacated.
Together, they began moving from room to room on the ground floor, sweeping each room and passageway as they made slow progress, jumping at shadows, hearing the creaking of the old place, and standing, listening, waiting for another of Tann's horrors to come leaping out at them.
The ground floor and the belowstairs area were clean, so, at last they began to make a steady progress up the stairs, which gave out loud cracks and little squeals under their feet.
The next floor was also clean, and they both felt the fringes of fear as they began to go on upward, toward the little room in which they had been held prisoner. As they moved along the short passage that led to the door, half open, there was a distinct noise from within the room: the sound of something straining, followed by a subtle hint of movement.
Bannon raised the flashlight, his finger tightening on the trigger of his pistol as he edged inside the room. Tyreen gave a loud gasp --- almost a scream --- as she saw it, then began to breathe rapidly. The light beam traversed the room quickly and then went back to the thing that hung, swinging from a crossbeam in the ceiling, centering on the face.
The bruising was still visible, though in death the face seemed to have swollen into a caricature of itself, the mouth open and tongue half out. He thought immediately that Tasha Nicoletti had probably been strangled before they had hoisted her up on the rope, her lovely long black hair falling to her shoulders on either side of the grotesque face. The feet were together, but her arms seemed to be spread away from her body, making her look like a huge terrible doll hung up by some evil child.
Then, from directly behind them, came the husky voice. "A horrible way for her to die, wasn't it?" said Carla.
This time Tyreen did scream, backing against the wall, as though trying to push her body through the lath, plaster, and stone, while Bannon swung around, his flashlight's beam illuminating the empty doorway. Later he realized that, at that moment, he expected death to come hurtling in from either Carla or Anna, but there was no one there, and the only sound was the macabre creaking of the rope around Tasha Tann's neck.
He allowed the flashlight to sweep completely around the room, the beam finally falling on a long black box in the corner. He went over to examine it and found it was a stereo tape machine with a wire that had been stretched to another small gray box screwed to the floor just inside the door. He recognized it immediately as an electronic eye, cheap but serviceable. The kind of thing you could buy at any electronics store to help fit a do-it-yourself security system. The eye had sent a signal to the tape machine as Bannon and Tyreen had crossed into the room, switching on a prepared tape.
"Meant to scare the pants off us." He played the light on the Tyreen and saw her relax.
"I know of better ways," she breathed, summoning a smile.
Neither of them could keep their eyes from the obscene corpse that swayed slightly on the rope, so Bannon took Tyreen by the shoulders and gently led her from the room. In the passageway outside, he unhooked the radio from his belt and pressed the Send button. Within seconds a static-laden voice came from the speaker.
After the identifying exchanges, he reported the situation. He was then told that the authorities were on their way, and to report back for a briefing at nine A.M.
Together they went downstairs to await the arrival of the authorities, Bannon restless, moving from room to room, peeping into bare, moldy cupboards and examining doors and windows.
In what had once been a huge dining room he came across burned papers in the grate of an elaborate fireplace, so he stirred the black mess around, soiling his fingers but revealing a couple of small pieces of paper that hand not been wholly consumed. One was the edge of a large sheet, and some numbers were still clearly visible. The other charred piece looked as though it had come from a memo pad --- the kind of thing that executives carry around: little oblong pages that fit into a leather holder. The writing on this was only partly readable. He could make out Call followed by the British Telecom get-out code and the German get-in code and a series of digits. There was a checkmark against this telephone number and a scrawl that said, Book for four nights from and the day's date.
He went back into the hall and called the main headquarters overlooking Regent's Park. Identifying himself, he asked if someone could trace the number.
It took only forty-five seconds with the magic of the mainframe computers. The number was that of the Vier Jahreszeiten --- Munich's best address. The hotel for the rich and famous.
Munich, he thought. Munich tonight; Munich, the old capital of Bavaria and within easy reach of Tannenwerder and Wasserburg am Inn. At least he knew where they were heading, and this time they had not wanted him to know.
Fifteen minutes later three cars pulled up in front of the house, and both Bannon and Tyreen gave short statements before getting a ride back to their car, stashed a mile away.
"So you think Carla and Anna have sold out?" Tyreen was restless and did not seem to be getting comfortable in the passenger seat. Usually she had that wonderful gift of being able to remain still and unmoving in any situation. Now she was all muscular tics, arranging and rearranging her body as though she could not find a restful position.
"That's certainly what we're meant to believe." Bannon was driving fast, just within the limits, streaking up the M11 toward London. "With these people it's difficult to know what's the truth and what's just laid on for our benefit." Presently he said that his gut reaction told him Carla and Anna had belonged to Tann almost from the word go. "Money, as they say, talks. It's possible they were originally hired by Tasha, who admitted marrying the man for his money. Max Tann appears to have a way to circumvent loyalty, and that way is almost certainly through his checkbook and ideology. Yes, I believe both of them are part of the Tann organization, and have been for some time. Lord knows who else has been bribed."
They drove back to the flat, took a shower together, and stretched out for a much-needed rest, for, by now, it was almost five in the morning. Bannon could not sleep. His mind would not carry him off into the healing dreamless dark, while Tyreen still seemed restless.
He had his back to her when she whispered, "You still awake, love?"
"Too much on my mind. Are you too tired to talk?"
"No, I'm still haunted by that body. Unusual for me, I know, but I thought Tasha was a nice person. In a way I looked forward to seeing her after all this was over. Women need women friends, John, and I've precious few of those in this business."
"Give it time. Look, I've got to talk to you. Serious stuff."
"Work serious, or personal serious?"
"Work." He seemed lost in thought for a full two minutes before telling her about the fragment of paper and what he had discovered. "If they're off to Munich today it probably means that Max is going to see his German lawyers in Wasserburg, and is also possibly taking a look around his ancestral home. I'd like to see exactly how things stand. You recall what Tasha told us? That Max's quietly restoring Tannenwerder; and there's the whole matter of his family claim to the place. We've even got the name of his lawyers --- remember the dossier? Rollen, Rollen, u. Saal, who still have their offices in the Marienplatz, Wasserburg am Inn."
The first call in the morning was to Bill Turner, still minding the office during C's illness.
"Should I tell the Minister?" Turner asked after Bannon had outlined his intention to go to Germany.
"I don't see why not if it makes him happy."
After calling Turner, Bannon spent half an hour hunched over the telephone calling Lufthansa and booking a flight to Munich leaving late that afternoon, then reserving a room at Munich's Splendid, where they would be well out of the way, particularly hidden from the Tann party staying at Vier Jahreszeiten. The Splendid had long been the Munich resting place for those who wished to keep a low profile.
Another call assured him of a rental car that he could pick up at the Munich airport, and lastly he dialed a final German number --- the Hotel Paulanerstuben, in Wasserburg am Inn. Its main draw was the address --- Marienplatz 9 --- the same square in which the Tann lawyers, Rollen, Rollen, u. Saal, had their offices.
When all these arrangements had been made, he packed a light garment bag, then dragged his special briefcase from its hiding place in a disguised part of the wainscot. The automatic pistol, together with the Applegate Fairbairn combat knife and scabbard, all went into the compartment at the bottom of the case, where they would not be detected by electronic security scanning devices. The latest in miniature cameras --- which would take clear photographs of documents under most conditions --- gloves, a set of lockpicks disguised as a Swiss Army Knife, and other items, including maps and documents, went into the main open, top section of the case. He also retrieved everything he needed for his James Barnett identity, the one he used often when traveling abroad --- passport, wallet complete with credit cards, and several letters addressed to J. Barnett Esq. at a fictional business that was really a front for the Service's overseas mail.
Tyreen also had a similar case, this one containing her Walther PPK Special and her identity as Mrs. Teresa Barnett. For obvious reasons they dared not use the Baxter identities.
The flight to Munich was, as usual, boring, and the German efficiency at passport control left nothing to be desired. The Barnetts collected a red Audi, driving straight to the Splendid, where the car was parked for them by the staff of the hotel, the façade of which managed to draw everyone's attention away from the place. It was one of the delights of the Splendid that it looked like nothing and yet, for comfort, security, and service, was everything that an incognito traveler would wish.
They ate a dinner so light and frugal that the headwaiter raised his eyebrows and frowned. With no signs of Tann watchers on their back, they returned to their room.
Both of them woke, totally refreshed, when the telephone rang with the wakeup call at five in the morning. Bannon was on the road by just after six-thirty, and by seven had left the outskirts of Munich far behind, heading out on the B-304. Before eight o'clock he came into Wasserburg, which seemed to rise from the light morning mists like a great, faded ancient galleon.
With its untouched, medieval atmosphere, the town appeared to be surrounded by water from the river Inn. Wasserburg was built within a few yards of a tight lazy curve in the river, which nuzzles the southern limits of the town's center and enfolds its eastern boundary with great crags of rock, plunging straight down to the gentle flowing water below.
He drove the Audi into the large parking lot on the northern bank of the river and set off on foot for the traffic-free town center, his garment bag over his shoulder. He walked quickly through the narrow lanes until they spilled out into the Marienplatz, the very center of the town, with its Gothic brick town hall and the fourteenth-century Frauenkirche.
He stopped on the edge of the square, listening to the soft flush of the river less than a hundred yards away, while taking in the timelessness of the view. He even caught sight of the castle, to the south, from which Wasserburg --- Water Castle --- takes its name.
The town was already bustling: a cassocked priest walked from the Frauenkirche, with its old watchtower, while the few old shops were open and local people could be seen hurrying to them, or leaving with baskets of fresh bread and other produce.
At the Pauanerstuben they showed no surprise at this guest arriving at eight in the morning, but welcomed him in, showed him their pleasant room overlooking the square, and offered him a second breakfast, which he accepted, ruminating on the many four-star hotels throughout the world where he had been treated as a pariah when arriving this early in the day.
Assenting to a second breakfast was not a matter of greed but a way to engage the one elderly waiter in conversation, so the meal passed with skirmishes of dialogue. His German was excellent enough for him to pass as a native, and the exchanges yielded several useful pieces of information. The local people were slightly reserved when it came to foreigners, and he soon learned that this conservative trait had reached a high level during the week.
"It's the new owner of the Tannenwerder estate," the waiter told him, shuffling around, constantly fiddling with slightly shaky hands. "It's said he's the last living relative of the old von Tann family, and already he has over one hundred men and women restoring the house. There's no room for these people here in the town. How can there be? Anyway, the ancient boundaries of the estate stop a couple of kilometers from Wasserburg. We can't compete with these workmen as we have none of their skills, so we won't prosper from anything just yet."
"Surely when things settle down..." Bannon began to say, but the elderly man cut him off.
"Something funny's going on." He shook his head in marked disapproval. "Nobody knows how this claimant to the von Tann name has survived. There's even a story that he's been living in places all over the world under the name Tann, and this Tann was supposed to have died, only recently, in a road accident in England. Can you believe any rumors these days?"
He went off to bring a plate of ham and eggs, which he set in front of his customer, carrying on his monologue as though uninterrupted. "Yet here he is. Large as life. Yesterday I saw him. He visited the lawyer Rollen, over there," pointing to an old half-timbered building across the square, beside the door of which was a brass plate. "The Rolens have managed the von Tann estate for six generations. Old Helmut Rollen has blocked any purchase of the place since the end of Hitler's war. I'm not saying he's a liar or a cheat, but I think he would do anything to keep his hands on that estate. It's kept the Rollen family in style for a very long time. This new von Tann could be Rollen's man, for all we know. Put there to keep the Rollens in the style to which they have become accustomed over the years."
Bannon told him that he wanted to see a lawyer with regard to purchasing property nearby, but was brushed aside with a "You should go to Fritz Rollen, Helmut's brother. He deals with the purchase of property, but there are other things the town's not happy with."
"Such as?"
"Such as this new von Tann allowing dubious young people to camp in the grounds of the estate. Some of them look to us like the skinheads who do terrible things in the cities --- you know what I mean: attacking foreigners, burning buildings, parading in the streets. Let me tell you, I heard stories of people like that from my father. I can even remember some of them myself. Hitler's people, that's who these young ruffians behave like."
"How long has this been going on?"
"The skinheads? Only a couple of days, but some have come into town to buy food, and they haven't always been too pleasant to the shopkeepers. We've turned them away from here. Anyway, they'll be gone tomorrow or the day after, I understand. They're here for some rally the master of Tannenwerder's allowed them to have in his grounds. Don't hold with it myself." The old boy went off mumbling to himself about how it wasn't like this in his day.
No, Bannon thought, you're of an age when it was, first, the survival of the fittest and utter obedience to the Nazi Party; then an age when the German people were trying to live down the excesses of Hitler's régime, which had brought your country to its knees. The old man, he considered, had also seen the upsurge of West Germany as the thriving industrial center of Europe, and now reunification appeared to be just over the horizon. The restoration of a single Germany would bring with it its own problems and a desperate search for a new identity --- or worse, an old identity. He could not blame the waiter for being edgy about foreigners, and these German skinheads were, particularly, foreigners here in Wasserburg am Inn, a town that had survived, almost unchanged, centuries of Sturm und Drang.
After breakfast he returned upstairs, surprised that such an old and beautiful building actually provided telephones in the few available rooms. The local directory was not large, and he found the number of Rollen, Rollen, u. Saal. Within seconds of dialing, he was speaking to Herr Fritz Rollen, explaining that he was a British businessman looking for perhaps a large property in the area. An investment, you understand. For a consortium, you will follow. Naturally, Herr Barnett.
Rollen was bright and friendly on the telephone, but gloomy about the prospects, though, eventually, he remembered that there were a couple of estates on his books. Perhaps Herr Barnett would call on him at the office, say in half an hour. Herr Barnett would be pleased to accept the invitation.
The building from which the Rollen brothers and Herr Saal carried out their business, while obviously very old, had been constantly renovated over several centuries. Initially, the building had probably been a small townhouse for some local worthy. From the half-timbered exterior and the visible leaded windows, he reckoned that it probably had a largish entrance hall, with rooms to left and right, while upstairs it possibly maintained what had originally been three bedrooms.
On reaching the door, he found that it was a solid oak panel with metal bindings and hinges, into which had been set a large Yale-type lock --- much bigger than the kind of thing you saw on houses in the rest of the world, but still small enough to slip with a thick piece of celluloid or a credit card.
He took a good look at the doorjamb and all the windows, and sought out any telltale wiring or electronic boxes signaling a sophisticated alarm system. There were none, and the telephone wiring came in high, from an overhead pole on the right-hand corner at the front of the building. He knew by the size of the telephone input box that it was unlikely to contain any extra surprises.
He pressed the bell, and some seconds later the door was opened. He found himself staring into a pair of large gray eyes toped by amazingly long lashes. Below the eyes was a pert little nose and below that a wide mouth, obviously designed by the Almighty to set a completely new standard of temptation for men. The woman wore her thick blonde hair in what at one time would have been called a French plait. Nowadays he had no idea what they called the style, but the hair was so perfect and thick that he had an immediate desire to plunge a hand into it and see if there were gold coins hidden under the smooth glossy surface.
The vision looked to be in her mid-twenties and was dressed modestly, in a manner at variance with her looks --- and also the twinkle in her eyes. A second later he saw a black-haired young woman, identically dressed, in a kind of long black nylon coverall that certainly hid whatever street clothes either of the girls wore. This signified that the young women wore these rather ugly uniforms as a protection against damaging or marking their own clothes while laboring in Rollen, Rollen, u. Saal's vineyard.
By the time he could draw his eyes away from the blonde's charms she had asked if he was Herr Barnett. He somewhat haltingly said yes and he was here to see Herr Fritz Rollen.
Her smile remained warm, embracing even, as she asked him to follow her upstairs --- something she said in a slightly arch fashion that made it into a more personal invitation.
He pulled himself out of his reverie and looked around, realizing that he would have to examine the lower interior of the building more thoroughly on the way out. His casual glance revealed nothing in the shape of electronic code pads for alarm activation. In fact, all the electronics appeared to be two computers and a large laser printer. The dark girl he had glimpsed briefly was now seated in front of one of the computers, rattling away at the keyboard as though her life depended on it, which, he thought, bearing in mind the association of the Rollens with Max Tann, it probably did.
As he had thought, there were three doors that led from a small landing at the top of the stairs, plus a short corridor that slid off to the right and ended in another door, which, he concluded, was a bathroom.
The three doors were individually marked with the names of Herr H. Rollen, Herr F. Rollen, and Herr K. Saal. The blonde vision tapped at Herr F. Rollen's door, opening it immediately and announcing, "Herr Barnett."
Fritz Rollen appeared to be sitting behind a huge desk angled into one corner of the room, but it was only when Bannon gave him a smiling bow that he realized Herr Rollen was standing, prior to coming around the desk.
It was impossible to put an age on the man, and his appearance immediately brought to mind the Tenniel drawings of either Tweedledum or Tweedledee from Through the Looking Glass. The head was slightly out of proportion to his stature, which was, to be politically correct, impaired. In plain language, he was a dwarf of not much more than four feet, including the obvious lifts built into his shoes. Like others in his predicament, Rollen made up for his lack of inches by a cheerful, even ebullient, manner. He greeted Bannon with a firm handshake, and very quickly it became obvious that his height in no way affected his voice, charm, or business acumen. Returning to his desk, Rollen pushed two folders toward him. They were both of moderately sized estates --- though one was a working farm --- and for the next half hour or so they discussed the possibilities.
Eventually, Bannon said that what his consortium was really looking for was a place the size of --- he went though a show of looking up the name in a notebook --- Tannenwerder, which he was under the impression had been left to wrack and ruin.
Rollen shook his head sagely. "Tannenwerder," he said without the hint of a smile, "is something else altogether. To be truthful, Mr. Barnett, I'd rather not discuss it."
"I understood that you had dealings with that particular property."
"No. No, I personally have no dealings with it. My brother, and our father before us, deals with Tannenwerder. If I had my way, we would have passed it to another firm decades ago, but I fear that I rarely get my way in this company. You see, it's the only thing my brother Helmut deals with, and we have not spoken for twenty years on account of it." He gave a sad little laugh. "I would have left this firm years ago if it hadn't been for our strange legal position. No male of the Rollen or Saal family is allowed by our company articles to leave the firm, except, of course, in the event of death."
"That's a strange legal point."
"Very strange, and drawn up a number of centuries ago. The firm is tied to Tannenwerder and the von Tann family as if by an unbreakable umbilical cord. Unhappily, the very anomaly of the company articles makes it more binding. Originally, the Rollens and Saals were the stewards of the von Tanns. They moved up in the world to become lawyers, but the von Tanns saw to it that we remained, for all time, joined hip and thigh."
"And all this has caused a split in your family?"
"As I say, I have not spoken to my brother in twenty years --- and he's seven years older than I. His wife does not speak to my wife. To the end of their days, my mother was on good terms with me, and my father did not even acknowledge me in the street. It's a strange world, and has nothing to do with my shortness of stature. Every fourth male Rollen is born a dwarf." He made a small waving motion with his hand. "Yes, we're supposed to talk about ourselves in a different way these days, but I have never been politically correct --- and the politics of my country are slowly descending into the pit of the 1930s again. Did you know that?"
"I have heard about it, and have seen some of it."
"If you want concrete proof, just go over to Tannenwerder at nine o'clock tonight and you'll see what our ancestors saw in the 1930s. History, particularly when it is the history of politics, is a circular thing. As the Americans say, what goes around comes around. The scourge of the thirties and forties is coming around yet again."
They talked for another fifteen minutes, with Fritz Rollen making notes regarding the mythical consortium and its requirements. Bannon gave him the London address and he said he would be in touch.
Rollen walked with him to the door and out onto the landing. They were just shaking hands once more in farewell when the door to K. Rollen's office opened. Bannon stepped back a pace, for the man who looked out from this office was a giant. He stood around six foot seven, had hands like bunches of steel bananas, a large shaven head, and a face that reminded Bannon of a gargoyle.
"It's all right, Karl," Rollen said gently. "Nothing for you to worry about."
"Ah, so good." The voice was as slow and lumbering as that of a retard. The grin did not reach his vacant eyes, and he withdrew into his office as though that simple action was a feat of great skill.
Rollen looked up at Bannon. "Every sixth male child of the Saal family is born with a defect also. Yet he is a partner who does nothing. He's incapable of anything but the simplest task, and he can be a shade intimidating. Also, he has an uncanny memory. He remembers things and people from twenty years ago. I once heard him describe, completely, his own baptism. Unhappily, when roused, poor Karl can be violent. Rather dangerously violent, unless you know how to deal with him." He gestured toward the bottom of the stairs. "Now, our lovely Heidi will see you out."
"Lovely Heidi" was the blonde eighth temptation of man.
"I think I once read a book about you, Heidi," Bannon said with a smile as she held the street door open for him.
"Oh, no, Mr. Barnett. She was my Swiss cousin. Also, she was a good little girl."
Out in the Marienplatz again, he allowed Tyreen to come flaring into his mind, and quickly she banished all thoughts of what could be done with Heidi, given the right time and place.
He then pondered on the near nightmare quality of the law firm of Rollen, Rollen, u. Saal, realizing that in all probability the throwbacks in both families came from some incestuous relationships, when Wasserburg had been truly a Bavarian backwater some hundreds of years ago.
He strolled slowly to the edge of the square and turned into an alley, which took him to the rear of the buildings. It needed only a casual glance at the back entrance of the lawyers' office to be certain that there was no overt security or alarms on the place. Also, he noted that the back door appeared to have only a normal lock. As long as they did not secure that lock with its retaining catch, the rear door would be his easiest way in.
Turning, he headed to the parking lot where he had left the car. Given what he intended to do that night, he thought it would be best to look over the landscape --- in particular the escape routes.
He opened the car and rummaged around in the front for a few minutes, glancing into the mirrors to make certain that he was not being observed. He could see nobody, and that sixth sense that had so often saved him before told him he was clear.
Outside again, he walked back to the parking lot exit, strolling along the road that would take him onto the B-304. A few steps along this side road he saw a lane turning off to the right. On the wall, beside the lane, there was a notice warning of danger. This narrow road led out onto a smooth plateau that ended abruptly in rocky outcrops and a line of white warning poles. He could hear the river from practically anywhere around Marienplatz, but now the roar was very close and, on reaching the wooden poles, he saw that he stood at the edge of a huge craggy cliff face. Two hundred feet below him, the waters of the river Inn snarled over more rocks.
The local Lovers' Leap, he thought, retracing his steps and making his way back to the hotel, where the first person he saw was the elderly waiter who told him they had excellent Gänsebraten mit Karoffelknödeln for dinner. "People come from a long way to sample our roast goose with potato dumpling," he added. "I should be quick into the dining room, or you will miss this delight."
Back in the room he called Tyreen, still back at the Munich Splendid. In between endearments he told her what he had learned so far. In between further endearments, they planned their respective evenings. Then, not fully satisfied with just the sound of her voice but having no other alternative, he went back downstairs for dinner.
Indeed, the goose was a delight, and the potato dumplings were probably the best he had ever tasted, but he left the table a little concerned, for Bavarian food, while tasty, could lie heavily on the stomach. His mind, however, dwelt on the strangers he had seen in the square on his way back to the hotel. Thugs, toughs, young men and women, many of the men with their heads shaved, all of them in various kinds of disreputable dress. The kind of louts, he thought, who over the past couple of years had made the German cities unsafe: attacking foreigners, firebombing synagogues, and marching in antigovernment protests.
It was nine-thirty by the time he had changed into black jeans, rollneck, and denim jacket. The holster for his automatic was firmly in place on his right hip and hidden by the jacket, while spare ammunition magazines were distributed about his body, and the knife was strapped on his left forearm. He also carried the disguised Swiss Army Knife and a small, powerful flashlight in his pocket. Earlier he had sat on the bed and memorized the route from the map of Tannenwerder so thoughtfully provided by the hotel.
It took less then three minutes to reach the back of the lawyers' offices, and only thirty seconds to slide a credit card between the curved bolt and its housing. Nobody, it seemed, had bothered to clip down the retainer, which would have posed difficulties.
He stood for a moment in the darkness inside the office, switching on the flashlight and shielding it with his hand, then making his way along the passage that led to the large entrance hall. All was silence, and he could see the computers under their protective hoods. Again he stood listening. Not a sound, so he began to move silently up the stairs, across the landing, and to the door with its little notice that read H. Rollen.
He had expected to need his lockpicks to get into Helmut's office, but the door was open, and he was able to swing the flashlight beam around the room. The huge desk was similar to the one in Fritz's office, but the wall opposite was lined with a tall bank of gray filing cabinets.
Listening again for a few seconds, he went over to the one window and pulled down the blind, then made for the cabinets, which were neatly lettered by alphabet. The letter T took up half of the wall, so it look little brain to realize that Helmut Rollen kept a large number of documents on Tann and Tannenwerder there in his office.
The latest legal work for Tann, Bannon decided, would be in the last drawer labeled T. Slowly he removed his lockpicks, in their Swiss Army Knife disguise, and got down to the business at hand.
The cabinets were normal commercial pieces of equipment, about as easy to unlock as a child's moneybox. This was either too simple, or Helmut was a lawyer with a very trusting nature. The last drawer clicked and slid open, displaying about ten files hanging neatly on their rails. As he removed the first folder, Bannon tried to use some logic on the situation. Helmut Rollen had installed no special alarms or security equipment because Wasserburg, in all probability, had a low crime rate. The people of this unique little town were all descendants of families who had lived and died here over the centuries. Wasserburg was not the kind of place you moved into from somewhere on the other side of the country. This, being a given fact, meant that few would ever want to look at the files concerning Tann and the estate. True, there had been small legal skirmishes over the yeas, when consortiums, and even the authorities in Munich, had tried to take over the estate, but even that would not be any cause for concern. Possibly there were very old documents that traced the estate's history back over centuries, but they would be stored in some safe vault. More recent papers could be kept here in the office with impunity. Any legal firm that still clung to archaic laws concerning generations of Rollens and Saals would not give a thought to having its documents behind ultra-secure locks and warning devices.
He moved the file over to Helmut's desk and began to examine the papers within, holding the small light in his teeth. The very first item showed that he had struck pay dirt, for it was a copy of an application for one Maximilian Erwen von Tann to reclaim his German citizenship. Attached to it were copies of the official correspondence concerning the application, and the final page showed that the whole thing had been granted the previous March.
Other papers in this one file alone concerned the issue of a passport to Tann, while the last section of documents were copies of a court order banning anyone else's claim to ownership of the house called Tannenwerder and its considerable estates. The whole shooting match had legally belonged to the said Maximilian Erwen von Tann since the previous January, even though he had not officially reclaimed German citizenship until March.
There was enough to satisfy anybody that Sir Max Tann, business tycoon and philanthropist, was not quite what he seemed. Certainly, as dual nationality could not apply, he had been sailing and flying under a false flag for some time.
He took out the camera and began adjusting it in order to get clear, well-lit shots of the papers. As he put his hand down on the corner of Helmut's desk he glanced toward the right-hand set of drawers that ran down to the floor. The bottom one was slightly open, and he glimpsed a small red pinpoint of light from within.
Opening it further revealed a combination answer-phone set to pick up any incoming messages. He touched the little arrowed button, knowing that sometimes people did nothing about rewinding the tape after they had played it back. When it stopped he pressed the button to play back the message, heard the beep and then the second shock of the night.
"This is most urgent," said a disembodied voice on the tape. "An agent from the British Intelligence Service is on his way to Wasserburg. His mission is to run a check on Max and on the current Tannenwerder situation. The man will be operating under the name James Barnett, and I would advise that Max give him the disappearing treatment." Then followed a description of himself, John Bannon, together with a few other facts.
It was not the message so much as the voice that rocked Bannon on his heels. It was one he recognized immediately. Someone with whom he worked very closely and would never have thought capable of penetrating The Committee. Reaching down, he removed the tape from the answer-phone and slipped it into his pocket. Going back to the job of photographing the documents, he found himself working like an automaton. The identity of the person who had betrayed him was so devastating that he could think of little else, but he completed the work, returned the file to its place in the cabinet and, using his picks again, relocked the drawer. It was one of the things he had learned very early in his training. If you become involved in a covert burglary it is always best to leave things at least approximately how you found them.
He even did a quick search of the other drawers in Helmut's desk to see if there was an extra tape for the answer-phone. Eventually he found a small packet of these tucked away beside the instrument itself and cursed that he had not looked more carefully to start with.
Now all he had to do was get back to the hotel, pay his account, and head for Munich. There was still no sign of life outside the offices of Rollen, Rollen, u. Saal, and as he quietly made his way down the stairs, Bannon at last began to think that maybe he would get away with it.
He reached the bottom of the stairs when the lights came on.
"So, Mr. Barnett, or should I call you Mr. Bannon? Would you like to talk with me for a while?" She looked as tempting as ever, in a military-style raincoat. The only thing he did not like about her now was the lethal little automatic she held in her right hand, very close to her delicious body.
"Heidi? Hi," he said, allowing a smile to creep over his face. "So you got my note. I didn't really expect you to come." He showed no sign of having seen the pistol as he walked forward, his arms outstretched as though to embrace her.
"Your note? I... What're you talking about, Mr...?" His greeting had thrown Heidi just enough for her to pause before doing anything --- like pulling the trigger.
Bannon kept on going, straight toward her. "Heidi, I'm so pleased. Now where would you like to have dinner?" By this time he was only two steps away and could clearly see the puzzled expression.
He moved in close, and her right hand brushed his left side so that he could trap the wrist and gun with his left arm, cutting in like a vise. She opened her mouth just before he brought up his right elbow and struck her violently on the side of the jaw.
"I do hate striking women, Heidi, but you should have stayed a good little girl." The pistol dropped to the floor as he applied more pressure with his left arm, while the next blow was a hard chop to the base of the neck with the heel of his right hand.
She went down completely, sprawled at his feet. Quickly he felt the pulse in her neck to make sure she was still alive, which she was, though she would probably remain unconscious for a good ten minutes maybe even more.
Scooping up her pistol, he headed straight to the rear of the building, letting himself out and quietly closing the door behind him. At a steady jog he made for the parking lot, making the car in three minutes flat, realizing that he did not have the time for such niceties as collecting his luggage or paying the bill at the Paulanerstuben.
He had just started the engine and was pulling out of the space beside the main exit when a black BMW roared in front of him and a similar-colored Mercedes-Benz blocked off the exit.
