attractive stewardess brought him a glass of champagne and he leaned back to enjoy himself. The pilot had earlier filed a flight plan for Schiphol Airport near Amsterdam.
The flight took less than an hour. Landing at Schiphol, the passenger left the machine and stepped into a waiting limo. It drove him to the best hotel in the city where he alighted while the chauffeur, who had collected his case which had been aboard the jet before he'd arrived, handed it to a porter.
He registered at the desk. Victor Rondel. Once alone in his suite he noted with satisfaction a bottle of champagne waiting in an ice bucket. He went into the bathroom, locked the door.
Removing the blond wig carefully, he exposed thick dark hair. He checked the time. Have a sleep here first, he decided, then a good dinner downstairs. When it was nightfall he would leave the hotel and wander down a certain street Amsterdam was famous for. Beautiful girls, wearing very little, would be sitting in showcase windows. He would take his time selecting the one he preferred.
Earlier, back at Heathrow, the other passenger who had alighted from the helicopter strode across the field towards his terminal, carrying an ordinary case. He wore a beret and a dark overcoat as he stepped it out. When the pas senger trolley returned from the jet he climbed aboard and was transported to the terminal. He showed his passport in the name of Rene Pinaud and was just in time to board his next flight.
It was a boring trip of about fifty minutes to his destination. Glancing now and then out of the window he saw nothing but a sea of cloud. He refused all refreshments. When the plane landed he was among the first off. After passing swiftly through the formalities he climbed inside a company car waiting for him. It drove him to the area for private planes and he boarded the twelve-passenger Gulfstream private jet. Its interior had been luxuriously refurbished and he sank with relief into a leather armchair. The male steward in a fresh white uniform approached him. He spoke in German.
'Would sir like something to drink?'
'Just a brandy,' the passenger replied in the same language. 'Also a bottle of mineral water. Flying dehydrates . . .'
When the steward returned, his passenger had removed the beret he had worn pulled down tightly over his head. He took out a mirror and combed his blond hair.
'Something to eat also, sir?' the steward enquired.
'Nothing, Hans. A meal will be waiting for me when we get there . . .'
He glanced out of the window and again saw nothing except a sea of cloud. Alone, he took out a special mobile phone — special because it had a device which made interception impossible and was safe to use in flight. He pressed a series of numbers. At the other end a voice said 'Yes?' in German.
'Rondel speaking. I'll land in about a half-hour. I have to say the situation is building up dangerously. They are assembling formidable—'
'I prefer you to wait until you have arrived . . .'
There was a click and Rondel realized the connection had been broken. The voice had been, as always, auth oritative but without a trace of arrogance. It had spoken slowly and each word was exceptionally clear. It was the voice of a very remarkable brain.
The sun came out as they were crossing the coast and Rondel concentrated on gazing down at the rippling blue of the Baltic Sea. On the mainland he had a glimpse of Traveműnde and then it was nothing but blue sea.
The Gulfstream was losing height and he stared down for a sight of the island. Berg Insel - or Mountain Island - was located well clear of all shipping routes, a private fastness. The plane lost more height and he caught his first glimpse. A sloping mountain peak reared up at its centre. On the southern side sheer granite cliffs fell into the Baltic - the harbour and runway were on the northern shore. As the machine dropped even lower he saw at the summit of the mountain the lighthouse which always functioned as dusk fell, or
The flight took less than an hour. Landing at Schiphol, the passenger left the machine and stepped into a waiting limo. It drove him to the best hotel in the city where he alighted while the chauffeur, who had collected his case which had been aboard the jet before he'd arrived, handed it to a porter.
He registered at the desk. Victor Rondel. Once alone in his suite he noted with satisfaction a bottle of champagne waiting in an ice bucket. He went into the bathroom, locked the door.
Removing the blond wig carefully, he exposed thick dark hair. He checked the time. Have a sleep here first, he decided, then a good dinner downstairs. When it was nightfall he would leave the hotel and wander down a certain street Amsterdam was famous for. Beautiful girls, wearing very little, would be sitting in showcase windows. He would take his time selecting the one he preferred.
Earlier, back at Heathrow, the other passenger who had alighted from the helicopter strode across the field towards his terminal, carrying an ordinary case. He wore a beret and a dark overcoat as he stepped it out. When the pas senger trolley returned from the jet he climbed aboard and was transported to the terminal. He showed his passport in the name of Rene Pinaud and was just in time to board his next flight.
It was a boring trip of about fifty minutes to his destination. Glancing now and then out of the window he saw nothing but a sea of cloud. He refused all refreshments. When the plane landed he was among the first off. After passing swiftly through the formalities he climbed inside a company car waiting for him. It drove him to the area for private planes and he boarded the twelve-passenger Gulfstream private jet. Its interior had been luxuriously refurbished and he sank with relief into a leather armchair. The male steward in a fresh white uniform approached him. He spoke in German.
'Would sir like something to drink?'
'Just a brandy,' the passenger replied in the same language. 'Also a bottle of mineral water. Flying dehydrates . . .'
When the steward returned, his passenger had removed the beret he had worn pulled down tightly over his head. He took out a mirror and combed his blond hair.
'Something to eat also, sir?' the steward enquired.
'Nothing, Hans. A meal will be waiting for me when we get there . . .'
He glanced out of the window and again saw nothing except a sea of cloud. Alone, he took out a special mobile phone — special because it had a device which made interception impossible and was safe to use in flight. He pressed a series of numbers. At the other end a voice said 'Yes?' in German.
'Rondel speaking. I'll land in about a half-hour. I have to say the situation is building up dangerously. They are assembling formidable—'
'I prefer you to wait until you have arrived . . .'
There was a click and Rondel realized the connection had been broken. The voice had been, as always, auth oritative but without a trace of arrogance. It had spoken slowly and each word was exceptionally clear. It was the voice of a very remarkable brain.
The sun came out as they were crossing the coast and Rondel concentrated on gazing down at the rippling blue of the Baltic Sea. On the mainland he had a glimpse of Traveműnde and then it was nothing but blue sea.
The Gulfstream was losing height and he stared down for a sight of the island. Berg Insel - or Mountain Island - was located well clear of all shipping routes, a private fastness. The plane lost more height and he caught his first glimpse. A sloping mountain peak reared up at its centre. On the southern side sheer granite cliffs fell into the Baltic - the harbour and runway were on the northern shore. As the machine dropped even lower he saw at the summit of the mountain the lighthouse which always functioned as dusk fell, or
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