Rhinoceros (40 page)

Looking down at the table below them on the lower level
he saw the blond-haired Rondel, seated with his back to
him. Opposite him was a shorter man, well built and, like
Rondel, in a dinner jacket. Tweed knew he'd seen him
somewhere before, then remembered the man at the Four Seasons who had descended in an elevator and then gone
back up again. The man looked up at him, said something
to Rondel. He was still looking at Tweed, who felt he'd
reached a decisive moment.

CHAPTER 23

Tweed went on looking at the man. His eyes. They were
like glass marbles but there was no hint of a lack of
humanity. He was simply scrutinizing Tweed, who felt
he could see right inside his head. Earlier, while listening
to Rondel, the eyes had swivelled, in short penetrating
scans of different tables in the restaurant. Now they were
motionless as he gazed at Tweed.

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

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

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

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

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

'Please call me Paula.'

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

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

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

'He lives round here?' Tweed enquired.

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

'Yes and no. Depends on the circumstances.'

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

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

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

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

'Millionaires' Row.'

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

'So such people have arrived there?'

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

'Two sets of ledgers,' Tweed suggested.

'Pardon?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And then?' Tweed enquired.

'We all go and live in Nepal.'

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

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

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

'Eleven o'clock tomorrow morning any good?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Did he say where he was off to?'

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

'How long ago since he pushed off?'

'Very soon after you entered the restaurant.'

I'll have a word with him. The last thing Keith will want while he studies what I gave him is a bodyguard hanging round his neck . . .'

During the journey back no one spoke, probably because
Tweed had earlier warned them to keep quiet. At that hour Elbstrasse was deserted but there was a moon. By
its illumination the towering cranes seemed to Paula even
more menacing. She found her eyes drawn to look up at
No. 23. The police tape still closed off the house and a
uniformed officer stood in front of it. Much good that
would do now.

They were very close to the hotel, proceeding up
Neuer Jungfernstieg, when Tweed noticed that a section
of the pavement on the hotel side was cordoned off with police tape. Patrol cars, their blue lights flash
ing, were parked opposite the hotel. He had an awful
premonition.