Andrews puffed hard. âThe Soviets wouldnât like that. If you put it all down, pretty near everyone on both sides had a reason for getting rid of him. The right and the left.â
How about the CIA, the policeman thought but didnât say. Youâve put a few people away.⦠He watched the American. He knew the type. Thorough, cold-blooded, ruthless bastards. But a deal was a deal and allies were allies.
âIs there anything we can do to help?â
Andrews paused; a waitress was passing their table. âOne of those was a Berlin address,â he said. âYou could find out if Steinerâs made contact, and what sort of questions he asked. Iâm going over to Bonn. Youâll be able to contact me at the Königshof Hotel.â
âIâll send someone round,â the Inspector promised. He left before Curt Andrews, and made no attempt to pay the bill.
The two Swiss businessmen had asked for adjoining rooms. They had flown from Geneva to Munich via Frankfurt, hired a car at the airport and driven to a pension . The proprietress looked at the booking, and briefly at them. She was used to homosexuals, although neither of them gave that impression. They signed the register: Stanislaus Kesler, Maurice Franconi. They had booked in for a week. They were shown to their rooms, and when they were alone in Keslerâs bedroom Franconi brought out his road map. They studied it together.
âBerchtesgadenâwe take the Ell, branch off hereââFranconiâs finger traced the red line of the autobahnââthe last exit in Germany at Bad Reichenhall, and we should reach it in about two hours.â
Kesler frowned. âWe could start at the convent,â he said. âSettle the one at Berchtesgaden and then go on to Berlin.â
âI donât fancy the convent,â Franconi said. âI was brought up by nuns.â
âSheâs not a nun,â Kesler pointed out. Franconi shrugged and went back to the map. It had taken exactly twenty-four hours to locate the people they had undertaken to murder. Their contact was a detective agency in Cologne with informants in Interpol and the major European police headquarters. A sum of money substantial enough to satisfy the agencyâs principal contact in the Federal German police had produced the addresses to fit the names.
âI think we should start at Berchtesgaden,â Franconi persisted. âItâs a nice drive. Iâd rather get to hell out after weâve dealt with her .â The tip of his finger touched a name.
âAll right,â Kesler agreed. âWeâll set off as soon as weâve unpacked. We can have lunch on the way.â
âI like Bavarian food,â Maurice said. âBut itâs terribly fattening.â
âYou donât have to worry,â Kesler protested. âIâm the one with the belly.â
Within the hour they were driving their rented Opel through the centre of Munich and on to the autobahn Ell, heading towards the majestic range of the Bavarian Alps. The tops of the mountains were crowned in snow, and they sparkled in the clear sunshine. The countryside was green and wooded; they left the autobahn, drove through picture-book villages and stopped in one at a roadside café to eat a large lunch. At four in the afternoon they arrived in the small hamlet five miles outside Berchtesgaden. Franconi parked the car in the little square opposite the church. They began to walk at a leisurely pace along the quaintly cobbled street with timbered houses on each side. They stopped at the fourth down on the right, glanced at each other, smiled, and knocked on the door.
An elderly woman answered. She held the door open and said, âYes?â
Kesler was spokesman. His German was flawless. âWeâve come to pay our respects to Herr Schmidt,â he said softly. âMy friend and I have travelled from Munich. Would you tell him weâre
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