SEVEN.

Eusden was unsure in retrospect how he endured the four-hour journey to Hamburg. The train was old and slow and grubby, the route a grim haul through industrial towns and stretches of countryside veiled in darkness. Most of the passengers looked about as happy to be aboard as he was. They were travelling, like him, because they had to.

Eusden had been sorely tempted to call Gemma and offload some of the concern he felt for Marty and the anger that filled him at being put in such a position. But there was nothing Gemma could do except worry. And it was not her fault that Straub had laid a trap for one of them to walk into. Eusden suspected it might at least partly be Marty's fault, however, a suspicion he intended to voice once he was sure his friend had come to no harm. All he could do meanwhile was stare out at the night-blanked North German Plain and stifle his frustration.

Hamburg central station was thinly populated at 1.15 in the morning, a deadening chill invading its cavernous, empty spaces. Eusden, drained by sleeplessness and anxiety, tracked down the left-luggage lockers as swiftly as he could and opened number 43.

The keys were there, as Straub had promised. And so was the tag. The address written on it in bold block capitals meant nothing to him. He could only hope a taxi driver would be able to find it.

The night he walked out into was still and numbingly cold. He clambered into the lead cab in a short queue of more or less identical cream Mercedes and proffered the tag to the driver. A glance and a nod was all he received in return. Then they were on the move.

A ten-minute surge through a deserted city centre and they were there: Brunnengasse, a pedestrianized link-route between a main road and a residential side street. Modest but reputable apartment blocks lined the route, prettied up with window-boxes and Juliet balconies. The address on the tag was number six: a single door serving twelve flats, each equipped with electronic bell-pushes, speakerphones, and mailboxes next to the entrance. There was, however, no way of telling which flat belonged to Straub's mother.

Eusden let himself in with one of the Yale keys and started checking the names displayed alongside the front doors of the flats. He had reached the third floor before he found what he was looking for: FRAU B. STRAUB. He rang the bell. There was no response. He tried again, pressing his ear to the door. Was that a muffled groan he heard? Maybe. Maybe not. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The picture on Straub's phone had prepared him for what he would see. But what he could actually see was very little. The flat was in darkness, a wedge of amber lamplight from the street illuminating only a portion of carpet in a room ahead of him. There was that groan again, apparently emanating from the same room. Eusden groped for the light switch and pushed it down. Nothing happened.

Another groan, louder this time. He headed for the wedge of amber and entered what various hummocked shadows suggested was a lounge, with a pair of windows affording a view of the flats opposite. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, one shadow resolved itself into a figure lying on the floor. It was Marty. He had toppled the chair over at some point, but was still tied to it, slumped on his left side.

'It's me, Marty,' said Eusden, stooping over him. He caught a pungent whiff of stale sweat and urine. Marty turned his head and rolled his eyes. 'Hold on.' Eusden located one end of the strip of tape and pulled it free as gently as he could.

'Good to see you, Coningsby,' said Marty in a hoarse whisper. The use of Eusden's college nickname was reassuringly spirited. It was a reference to his family's supposed descent from the eighteenth-century poet laureate Laurence Eusden, sometime rector of Coningsby, in Lincolnshire. The pair had driven up there from Cambridge one Saturday in pursuit of the poet's shade, but had only succeeded in becoming so drunk in the village pub that they had had to stay overnight before driving back. 'Not that... I can actually see you.'

'The lights don't work.'

'Werner turned them off at the mains. Just as well the block's centrally heated, otherwise I'd have frozen to death. The fuse box is in the hall cupboard.'

'OK. Hang on.'

Eusden retreated into the hall and opened the cupboard. After collapsing an ironing board on himself, he succeeded in feeling his way to the fuse box. He pushed up all the switches. Overhead lights came on in the hall and lounge. He hurried back.

The scene was stark. Marty lay trussed and crumpled. There was far more grey in his hair than when they had last met. And he had lost weight. He looked like an old man, lying where he had fallen. But he still sounded like the younger version of himself Eusden recalled. 'If you're still as good at untying knots as you were in the Scouts, it'd be quicker to fetch a knife from the kitchen.' A nod pointed Eusden in the right direction.

The kitchen, like the lounge, was fitted out in an old-fashioned style. Frau Straub did not appear to be an enthusiastic modernizer. Eusden discovered several formidably bladed knives in one of the drawers, however. He chose what seemed the sharpest.

'For Christ's sake be careful,' croaked Marty as Eusden set to work. 'I don't want to bleed to death after surviving twenty-four hours bound and gagged in this hellhole.'

'I am being careful. There.' He released Marty's wrists and started on his ankles. Once those ropes were also free, he pulled the chair away and watched Marty roll slowly forward, groaning and grimacing as he gradually straightened his arms and legs. 'How d'you feel?'

'Oh, tip-bloody-top, thanks.' Marty gasped as blood coursed back into starved limbs and joints. 'How do I feel? How do you think I feel?'

'Sorry.'

'No need. At least you came. Where would I be if you hadn't?'

'What's this all about, Marty?'

'Didn't Werner tell you?'

'Hardly.'

'No. I suppose he wouldn't.' Marty coughed and sat up gingerly, supporting himself against the chair. 'Any chance... of a drink of water?'

'Of course. I should've thought.'

Eusden filled a glass from the kitchen tap. Marty gulped the contents down and handed it back for a refill. 'I'd never have thought German tap water would taste so good.'

'You shouldn't drink too much too fast.'

'OK, nurse. I'll sip the next one.' Marty ran a hand along the rope that still fastened the chair to a radiator pipe. 'Then I might think about standing up.'

Eusden refilled the glass. Obediently, Marty drank slowly this time, the glass shaking in his hand as he did so. He gave Eusden a pained smile. 'Sorry about the state I'm in, Richard.'

'Don't worry about that.' Eusden sat down in a nearby armchair. 'We'll soon get you cleaned up.'

'Gemma talked you into taking her place, did she?'

'Yup.'

'Thought she might.'

'You did?'

'I can read her like a book. You too, come to that. You gave the attache case to Werner, I assume.'

'I wouldn't say gave. It was his price for the address of this place. And the keys. I didn't have much choice.'

'You could have told him to go to hell. I'm a dying man, Richard. Didn't Gemma mention that?'

'She mentioned it.'

'So, saving my life is... a temporary achievement at best.' Marty raised a trembling hand. 'Don't get me wrong. I'm glad you came. See what was in the case, did you?'

'No.'

'But Werner opened it in front of you?'

'Yes. He seemed satisfied with what he'd got.'

'I'll bet. Was he alone?'

'Yes. Shouldn't he have been?'

'There was a hired heavy waiting when we came here on Sunday night. Ill or not, I might have got the better of Werner on his own. Maybe he took the bloke on for just the one job. You should be grateful he didn't add roughing you up to the contract. Not that he needed to, of course. I guess he was confident whichever of you and Gemma showed up would cooperate. Leaving Werner in the clear.'

'We should report what's happened to the police, Marty. You were assaulted, for God's sake. And I was robbed.'

'Forget it.'

'Forget it?'

'I mean forget going to the police. Werner knows I can't do that.' Marty swallowed some more water. Then he braced himself against the chair and rose unsteadily to his feet.

'Careful.'

Eusden was at his side. But Marty signalled to be left alone and smiled stubbornly at his success in standing upright. 'What happened after you handed over the case?' he asked, rubbing his sandpapery chin.

'I caught the train here.'

'I didn't know there were through trains from Brussels.'

'We were in Cologne. We travelled that far together. Straub said you were waiting for us at the Hotel Ernst. That's where he... presented his terms.'

'Cologne? Well, I guess that makes sense. An hour from Frankfurt airport on the high-speed line. He'll make an early start.'

'You think he's planning to leave the country?'

'No. He's planning to meet someone off a flight from the States. Someone I was supposed to be meeting with him. Looks like I've been... iced out of the deal.'

'What is the deal, Marty?'

'You don't want to know.'

'After the day I've had, yes, I do.'

'Sure about that?'

Eusden nodded emphatically. 'Absolutely.'

'OK. Tell you what. I'll take a shower. The water'll probably be cold, but at least I'll smell sweeter. You didn't bring a change of clothes with you by any chance?'

'I came straight from the office.'

'I should've guessed from the way you're dressed. Never mind. Maybe Werner's mother hasn't chucked out everything that belonged to his father yet. You could check that while I shower. And see if the old bat left any food in the fridge when she jetted off for her fortnight in the sun.' Marty set out at a totter across the room. 'When I'm clean and less hungry, I'll tell you what you think you want to know.'

EIGHT.

Marty's instinct about Frau Straub's disposal policy was sound. There was a wardrobe in the main bedroom filled with suits, shirts, sweaters and trousers that could easily have come from a German equivalent of John Collier circa 1970. Eusden laid out a hopeful selection on the bed and headed for the kitchen. The pickings there were thinner: a few rye crackers in a tin, an unopened pack of Emmental and several bottles of Lwenbru. He opened one of the beers for himself and went back to the lounge.

As he entered the room, the telephone started ringing. At 2.25 a.m. he thought the caller was unlikely to be Frau Straub's sister in Stuttgart. Maybe it was a wrong number. On balance, he hoped so.

After ten to twelve rings, it stopped. Then, a moment later, it started again. He picked it up.

'Hello?'

'Check the mailbox.'

'What? Who is-'

But the line was already dead. Eusden replaced the receiver and gazed out through the window into the night. Then he crossed to the light switch and flicked it to off, plunging the room into darkness. He returned to the window and peered down into the street. There was no sign of life. After a struggle with the latch, he succeeded in opening the window. He leant out for a wider view. But there was nothing to see.

The shower was still running in the bathroom. Marty could not have heard the telephone ring. Eusden debated with himself what to do. The message could be a trick, devised to lure him or Marty outside, but Straub would surely not have given up his only set of keys. If his 'hired heavy' was the caller, he was probably equipped to let himself in. Besides, he could have waylaid Eusden when he arrived if he had wanted to. And they would have to leave sooner or later anyway. Eusden headed for the door.

His confidence had ebbed somewhat by the time he reached the ground floor. Through the window beside the main door he could see nothing beyond an empty stretch of paving, the light of the porch lamp leaching away beyond that into velvety shadows. He took several deep breaths to calm himself. By rights he should be at home in Chiswick, sleeping soundly after an undemanding day in Whitehall. Instead he was in Hamburg, behaving like a Cold War spy making a pick-up from a dead-letter drop in the middle of the night.

He finally tired of his own apprehensiveness and yanked the door open. Nothing moved on the street. No shadow in human form loomed into view. The mailboxes were only a few steps away. He reckoned the smallest key on the bunch would fit the lock on Frau Straub's box. And so it proved.

Inside was a thickly filled brown envelope. He lifted it out, closed the box and retreated indoors. There was neither name nor address written on the envelope. It had clearly been delivered by hand. It had also been left unsealed. Eusden pulled back the flap. A chunky wad of banknotes met his surprised gaze. The topmost note was 100. So were the next few. He gasped, shoved the envelope into his pocket and started up the stairs.

'Where the hell have you been?' demanded Marty when Eusden walked back into the flat. 'I come out of the shower and you've vanished into thin air.' He cut a bizarre figure in white shirt, hound's-tooth-patterned sweater and twill trousers that finished an inch or two above his trainers. He had a beer in one hand and a hunk of cheese in the other. His hair was still wet and he had a towel looped round his neck to catch the drips. 'Plus you switched the lights off. Are you trying to spook me?'

'We had a phone call. Announcing a special delivery.' Eusden took the envelope out of his pocket. 'I've just been down to collect it.'

'What is it?'

'Money. Rather a lot, by the look of it.' Eusden dropped the envelope on to the coffee table. 'See for yourself.'

Marty sat down in the armchair and plonked the bottle of beer on the table. He put the cheese in his mouth and devoured it as he fanned the wad of notes, then counted them. 'Bloody hell,' he said when he had finished. 'There's ten thousand here. What did the caller say?'

'"Check the mailbox." Nothing else.'

'It has to be from Werner.'

'You think so?'

'No one else owes me a cent, Richard. This is my pay-off. A pittance compared with the profit he's hoping to make. But enough, he's calculated, to persuade me to give up and go home.'

'And will you?'

Marty took a swig of beer and sat back in the chair. 'It'd make the time I've got left more comfortable than it's likely to be otherwise. And it'd make my landlord a happy man.'

'But it wouldn't pay the Swiss specialist's bill, would it? Not from-' Eusden stopped. The incomprehension on Marty's face told him what he should already have guessed. 'There is no clinic in Lausanne offering a revolutionary treatment, is there?'

''Fraid not. Nice idea, but... no.'

'Straub said that's what you needed the money for that you were going to make from selling the contents of the case.'

'Just as well he was lying, then. Since this is all the money I'm likely to see now.'