Текст книги "The Seventh Scroll"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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to be taken too seriously."

"And it will be an Ethiopian prison they toss you into.

That you can take seriously."

"You too," he grinned, "if they catch us."

You can be certain that HE has already registered a formal complaint

with the President's office," Geoffrey told them as he drove them to the

airport the next day. "He is most upset at the whole business, I can

tell you. Deportation orders and all that rot.

Never heard the likes."

"Don't fuss yourself, old boy," Nicholas told him. "As it is, neither of

us intends coming back here again. No harm done."

"It's the principle of the thing. Prominent British subject being

treated like a common criminal. No respect shown." He sighed. "Sometimes

I wish I had been born a hundred years ago. We wouldn't have to put up

with this sort of nonsense. just send a gunboat."

"Quite so, Geoffrey, but please don't let it upset you." Geoffrey

hovered around them like a cat with kittens while they checked in at the

Kenya Airways counter. They had only their hand luggage, two small cheap

nylon holdalls that they had bought that morning at a street market.

Nicholas had rolled his dik'dik skin into a ball and wrapped it in an

embroidered shamma that he had purchased in the same market.

Geoffrey waited with them until their flight was called and waved to

them after they passed through the barrier, aiming this affectionate

display more at Royan than Nicholas.

They had been allocated seats behind the wing, and Royan was beside the

window. The Kenya Airways plane started its engines and began to taxi

slowly past the airport buildings. Nicholas was arguing with a

stewardess who wanted him to stow his precious dik-dik skin in its

purple nylon bag in the overhead locker, while Royan peered out of the

porthole beside her for her last glimpse of Addis during takeoffs

Suddenly Royan stiffened in her seat, and while still gazing out of the

window reached across and seized Nicholas's arm.

"Look!" she hissed with such venom in her tone that he leaned across her

to see what had excited her.

"Pegasus!" she exclaimed, and pointed to the Falco executive jet that

had just taxied in and parked at the far end of the airport buildings.

The small, sleek aircraft was painted grpen and on its tall tail fill

the scarlet horse reared on its hind legs in that stylized pose. While

they watched through the window, the door in the fuselage of the green I

Falcon was lowered, and a small reception committee waiting on the

tarmac pressed forward expectantly to greet the passengers as they

appeared in the doorway of the jet.

The first of these was a small man, neatly dressed in a cream tropical

suit and a white panama straw hat. Despite his size he exuded an air of

confidence and command, that special aura of power. His face was pale,

as though he had come from a northern winter, and it looked incongruous

"in this setting. His jaw was firm and stubborn, his nose I prominent

and his gaze beneath dark beetling eyebrows penetrating.

Nicholas'recognized him immediately. He had seen him often enough on the

auction floors at Sotheby's and Christie's. This man was not the type of

person whom anyone would forget in a hurry.

"Von Schiller!" he exclaimed, as the German surveyed with an imperial

gaze the men who waited on the tarmac below him.

"He looks like a bantam rooster," Royan murmured, "or Thai') a standing

cobra."

Von Schiller raised his panama hat and ran down the steps of the Falcon

with a light, athletic tread, and Nicholas said quietly, "You wouldn't

think that he is almost seventy." moves like a man of forty," Royan

agreed. "He "He must dye his hair and eyebrows – see how dark they are."

"My oath!" Nicholas was startled. "Look who is here to greet him."

There was the glint of sunlight on decorations and regimental insignia.

A tall figure in blue uniform detached itself from the welcoming group

and touched the shiny patent-leather brim of his cap in a respectful

salute, before taking von Schiller's hand and shaking it cordially.

"Your erstwhile admirer, General Obeid. No wonder he could not meet us

yesterday. He was much too busy."

"Look, Nicky," Royan gasped. She was no longer watching the pair at the

foot of the steps, who were still clasping hands as they chatted with

animation. Her whole attention was focused on the top of the steps of

the Falcon jet, where another, younger, man had appeared. He was

bareheaded, and Nicholas had the impression of sallow skin and dense,

dark, wavy hair.

"Never seen him in my life before. Who is he?" Nicholas asked her.

"Nahoot Guddabi. Duraid's assistant from the museum.

The man who now has his job."

As Nahoot started down the steps of the Falcon their own aircraft

trundled on down the -tarmac, then swung out on to the main taxi-way and

blocked any further view of the gathering beside the Pegasus jet. Both

of them fell back in their seats and stared at each other for a long

moment.

Nicholas recovered his voice first.

"A witches' sabbath. A convocation of the ugly ones.

We were lucky to witness it. There are no more secrets now. We know very

clearly who the opposition is."

"Von Schiller is the puppet-master," she agreed, breathless with anger

and horror. "But Nahoot Guddabi is his

,Bell hunting dog. Nahoot must be the one– who hired the killers in

Cairo and turned them loose on us. Oh God, Nicky, you it's should have

heard him at the funeral, going on about how much he admired and

respected Duraid. The filthy, murib derous hypocrite!'

They were both silent until the aircraft had taken off and climbed to

cruise altitude, then Royan said quietly, "Of course, you were right

about Obeid. He is deep in von Schiller's pocket also."

"He may simply have been acting as the representative of the Ethiopian

government, paying respect to a major foreign concession-holder,

somebody who they hope is going to discover fabulous copper deposits in

their poverty stricken country and make them all rich."

She shook her head firmly.

"If it was as simple as that, it would be one of the cabinet ministers

meeting him, not the chief of police, No, Obeid has the stink of

treachery on him, just the same as Nahoot." kIN Seeing her husband's

killers in the flesh had reopened the half-healed wounds of Royan's

grief and mourning.

These bitter emotions were a flame that was burning he  up ee, like the

bushfire in the trunk of a hollow forest tr consuming her from within.

Nicholas knew that he, could not quench that flame, that he could only

hope to distract her for a while. He talked to her quietly, turning her

dark thoughts away from death and vengeance to the challenge of Taita's

game and the riddle of the lost tomb.

By the time that they had changed planes at Nairobi and landed at

Heathrow the following morning, the two of them had sketched out a plan

of action for their return to the Nile gorge and the exploration of

Taita'spool in the chasm. But although now Royan appeared on the surface

to be her usual calm and cheerful self once again, Nicholas knew that

the pain of her loss was still there beneath the surface.

They landed at Heathrow so early that they walked through the

immigration gates without running into a queue, and since they had no

bags in the hold they did not have to play the customary game of

roulette at the luggage carousel – will they arrive or won't they?

carrying the dik-dik skin in the nylon bag under his arm, and with Royan

limping on her cane on his other arm,  Nicholas sauntered through the

green channel of HM Customs, as innocent as a cherub from the roof of

the Sistine Chapel.

"You are so brazen," she whispered to him once they were through and

clear. "If you can lie so convincingly to Customs, how can I ever trust

you again?"

Their luck held. There was no queue at the taxi rank, and in a little

over an hour after touch-down the taxi deposited them on the pavement

outside Nicholas's town house in Knightsbridge. It was only eight-thirty

on a Monday morning.

While Royan showered, Nicholas went down to the corner shop under an

umbrella to fetch some groceries Then they shared the task of cooking

breakfast, Royan taking care of the toast while Nicholas whipped up his

speciality, a herb omelette.

"Surely you're going to need expert help when we go back to the Abbay

gorge?" Royan observed, as she let the butter melt into the hot toast.

I already have the right man in mind. I have worked  before," he told

her. "Ex-Royal Engineers. Expert with hi in diving and underwater

construction. Retired and living in a little cottage in Devon. I suspect

he is a little short of the ready, and bored out of his considerable

mind. I expect him to jump at any opportunity to alleviate either

condition."

As soon as they had finished breakfast, Nicholas told her, "I will do

the dishes. You take the films of the stele to be developed. There is a

one-hour service at the branch of Boots opposite Harrods."

"That's what I call a fair distribution of labour," she remarked with a

long-suffering air. "You have a dishwasher, and it's raining again

outside."

"All right," he laughed. "To sweeten the pill, I'll lend you my

raincoat. While you are waiting for the films to be developed you can go

shopping to replace the togs you lost in the rockfalls I have some

crucial phone calls to make."

As soon as she had left, Nicholas settled at his desk with a notepad at

one hand and the telephone at the other.

His first call was to Quenton Park, where Mrs. Street tried not to show

how delighted she was to have him home.

"Your desk is about two feet deep with mail awaiting your return. It's

mostly bills."

"Cheerful, aren't we?"

"The lawyers have been pestering me, and Mr Markham from Lloyd's has

been ringing every day."

"Don't tell any of them that I am back, there's a good girl." Nicholas

knew exactly what they wanted from him the same thing that persistent

callers always wanted, money. In this case it was not simply five

hundred guineas for an overdue tailor's bill, but two and a half million

pounds. "It's probably better if I stay in York, rather than at

Quenton," he told Mrs. Street. "They won't be able to find me at the

flat."

He pushed his debts to the back of his mind, and concentrated on the

task at hand. "Have you got your pencil and notepad ready? All right,

here's what I want you to do."

It took him ten minutes to finish his dictation, and then Mrs. Street

read it back to him. "Okay. Get on with it, will you. We'll be back this

evening. Dr Al Simma will be staying indefinitely. Ask the housekeeper

to prepare the second bedroom for her at the flat."

Next he rang the number in Devon, and while the phone rang he imagined

the converted coast guard's cottage of the cliffs overlooking a, grey,

storm-whipped on top winter sea. Daniel Webb was probably in his

workshop in the back garden, either tinkering with his 1935 Jaguar, the

great love of his life, or tying salmon flies. Fishing was his other

passion, the one that had originally brought them together.

"Hello?" Daniel's voice was guarded and suspicious.

Nicholas could imagine him, his bald head freckled like a plover's egg,

gripping the telephone with a hairy, workscarred fist.

ave a job for you. Are you a starter?"

"Sapper, I

"Where are we headed, Major?" Although it had been three years, he

recognized Nicholas's voice instantly.

"Sunny climes and dancing girls. Same pay as the'last time.

"I' a starter. Where do we meet?"

"At the flat. You remember it from last time.

bring your slide rule." Nicholas knew that Tomorrow. Danny put no store

by these newfangled pocket computers.

"The jag is still in good nick. I'll leave early and be there for lunch

tomorrow."

Nicholas hung up, and then made two more calls: one to his Jersey bank,

and the other to the Cayman Islands.

The funds in both his emergency accounts were running low. His budget

for the expedition that he hadmorked out with Royan on the flight was

two hundred and thirty thousand. Like all budgets, he knew that it was

optimistic.

"Always add fifty percent," he warned himself "Which that the cupboard

will be bare by the time we are mean finished. Let's hope and pray that

you are not pulling our legs, Taita."

He gave the passwords to the respective bank account ants and instructed

them to make transfers into his holding accounts, ready to draw on

immediately.

There were two more calls he had to make before they left for York. The

fate of all their plans hung on them, and the contacts that he had for

both of them were at the best tenuous, and at the worst chimerical.

The first number was engaged. He rang it five times more, and on each

occasion got– the irritating high-pitched busy tone in his ear. He tried

one last time and was answered by a reassuring west country accent.

"Good afternoon. British Embassy. How may I help you?, Nicholas glanced

at his wrist-watch. There was a three-hour time difference. Of course,

it would be afternoon in Addis.

"This is Sir Nicholas Quenton-Harper calling from the UK. Is Mr Geoffrey

Tennant, your military attache, available, please  Geoffrey came on the

line almost immediately. "My dear boy. So you made it all the way home.

Lucky you."

"Just thought I would set your mind at rest. Knew you would be losing

sleep."

"How is the charming Dr Al Simma?"

"She sends her love."

"I wish I could believe you." Geoffrey sighed dramatically.

"Big favour, Geoff. Do you know a Colonel Maryam Kidane at the Ministry

of Defence?"

"First-rate chap," Geoffrey affirmed immediately. "Know him well. Played

tennis with him last Saturday, actually.

Demon backhand."

"Please ask him to contact me urgently." He gave Geoffrey the telephone

number of the flat in York. "Tell him it's in connection with a rare

breed of Ethiopian swallow for the museum collection."

(up to your shenanigans again, Nicky. Not enough that you get slung out

of Ethiopia on your ear. Now you are trading in rare birds. Probably

CITES Schedule One.

Endangered species.)

"Will you do it for me, Geoff?"

"Of course. Serve to Lead, old boy. Always the sucker."

"I owe you one."

"More than one. Half a dozen, more like it." He had less success with

his next call. International Enquiries gave him a number in Matta. On

his first attempt he received an encouraging ri riging tone.

me," he pleaded in a whisper, but on

"Pick it up, Jan the sixth ring an answering machine cut in.

"You have reached the head office of Africair Services.

There is nobody available to take your call at the moment.

Please leave your name and number and a short message after the tone. We

will get back to you as soon as possible.

Thank you."Jannie Badenhorst's rich South African accent was

unmistakable.

"Jannie. This is Nicholas Quenton-Harper. Is that broken-down old Herc

of yours still airworthy? This job should be a lark. What's more, the

money is good. Call me at the flat in the UK. No hurry. Yesterday, or

the' day before, will do just fine."

Royan rang the doorbell a minute after he finished the last call, and he

ran down the stairs.

"Your timing is impeccable," he told her as she came in with the end of

her nose pink with cold, shaking the raindrops off the coat he had lent

her. "Did you get the films developed?"

She pulled the yellow packet out of the coat pocket and brandished it

triumphantly.

"You are a master photographer," she told him. "They have turned out

perfectly. I can read every character on the stele with the naked eye.

We are back in Taita's game again."

They spread the glossy photographs across his desktop and gloated over

them.

"You have had duplicates made? A set for each of us.

Excellent," Nicholas approved. "The negatives will go into the safe

deposit box at my bank. We won't take a chance on losing them the second

time around."

Using his large magnifying glass, Royan studied each of the prints in

turn, and she picked out the clearest shot of each of the four sides of

the stele.

"These will be our working copies. I don't think we are really going to

miss the rubbings that we lifted from the stone. These should suffice."

She read aloud a snippet from one of the blocks of hieroglyphics. "'The

cobra uncoils and lifts his jewelled hood. The stars of morning shine

within his eyes. Three times his black and slippery tongue kisses the

air."' She was flushed with excitement. "I wonder what Taita is telling

us with that verse. Oh, Nicky, it's so exciting to be unravelling the

mysteries again!'

"Leave it alone now he ordered sternly. "I know you.

Once you start, we'll be here all night. Let's get the Range Rover

packed up. It's a long, hard haul up to York, and there is an AA warning

of black ice on the motorway. A bit of a change from the weather in the

Abbay gorge."

She straightened up and shuffled the prints into a neat pile. "You are

right. Sometimes I do tend to get carried away." She stood up. "Before

we go, may I make a phone call home?"

"By home, I take it that you mean Cairo?"

"Sorry. Yes, to Cairo. Duraid's farnily7-'

"Please! No need to explain. There is the phone. Help yourself I'll be

waiting downstairs in the kitchen when you are finished. We both need a

cup of tea before we get going."

She came down into the kitchen half an hour later looking guilty, and

told him directly, "I am afraid that I am going to be a nuisance again.

I have a confession to make."

"Spit it out, he invited.

"I have to go back home – to Cairo," she said, and he looked at her

startled. "Just for a few days," she qualified hurriedly. "I was

speaking to Duraid's brother. There are some of Duraid's affairs that I

have to see to."

I don't like you going back there on your own," he shook his head,

'after your last experiences."

"If our theory is correct, and Nahoot Guddabi was the danger, then he is

in Ethiopia now. I should be quite safe."

"Still, I don't like it. You are the key to Taita's game."

"Thank you kindly, Sir" she said with mock outrage. "Is that the only

reason you don't want me bumped off?"

if forced into a corner, I may admit that I have also wn rather partial

to having you around."

I'll be back before you know I've even gone. Besides which, you will

have plenty to keep you busy while I am away."

"I don't suppose that I can stop you," he grumbled.

When do you plan to leave?"

There's a flight at eight this evening."

(A bit sudden. I mean, we have only just arrived." He made one last

feeble protest, then capitulated. "I will run you out to the airport."

"No, Nicky. Heathrow is out of your way. I can catch the train."

"I insist."

On a Monday evening the traffic was reasonably light and, once they had

cleared the main built-up area, they made good time. The journey was

further lightened by their animated discussion as he related the

contents of the phone calls he had made in her absence.

"Through Maryam Kidane, I hope to be in contact with Mek Nimmur again

pretty soon. Mek is the kingpin of the whole plan Without him we cant

even make the first move on Taita's bao board."

He dropped her off at the departures entrance at Heathrow. "Phone me

tomorrow morning from Cairo to let me know you are all right, and when

you are coming back.

I'll be at the flat."

"Reversed charges," she warned him as she offered him her cheek to kiss.

Then she slid across the seat and slammed the door behind her.

He watched her waiflike figure in the rear-view mirror as he pulled

away, and he was filled with melancholy and a sense of loss. Then quite

suddenly he was aware of a new sensation of disquiet. His early-warning

bells were jangling. Something unpleasant was afoot. Something ing nasty

was about to happen when she reached Egypt.

Another dangerous beast had escaped from " its cage and was prowling the

darkness waiting its opportunity to pounce, but it was still too early

for him to discern its colour or shape.

"Please don't let anything happen to her," he spoke aloud, but he did

not know to whom his plea was addressed. He thought of turning back and

making her stay with him, but he had no rights in the matter, and he

knew she would not obey him. Short of physical force, there was no way

he could impose his will upon her. He had to let her go.

"But I don't like it one little bit," he reaffirmed.

His private secretary, and the other men who worked for him, knew

exactly what he expected of them. Everything was as he required it.

Gotthold von Schiller looked around the interior of the Quonset hut with

approval. Heim had done well in the time that he had been given to

prepare the base for his boss's arrival.

His own private quarters occupied half the long portable building. They

were spartan, but sterilely clean and neat. His clothes hung in the

cupboard and his cosmetics and medicines were set out in the bathroom

cabinet. His private kitchen was fully equipped and stocked with

provisions. His own Chinese chef had flown out in the Falcon with him,

bringing everything with him that he needed to provide the meals that

his master demanded.

Von Schiller was a vegetarian, a non-smoker and a teetotaller. Twenty

years ago he had been a famous trencherman who loved the hearty food of

the Black Forest, the wines of the Rhine valley and the rich dark

tobaccos of Cuba. In those days he had been obese, with rolls of chin

sagging over his collar. Now, despite his age, he was as lean and fit

and vital as a racing greyhound.

In the autumn of his life, the pleasures were of the mind and the

emotions, more than of the physical senses.

He placed a higher value on inanimate objects than on living creatures,

either human or animal. A piece of stone carved by masons who had been

dead for thousands of years could excite him more than the soft warm

body of the most lovely young woman. He loved order and control.

Power over men and events sustained him more than did the taste of food.

Power and the possession of beautiful and unique objects were his

passions, now that his body was running down and his animal appetites

were losing their zest.

Every item of all that vast and priceless, collection of ancient

treasures that he had already assembled had been discovered by other

men. This was his chance, his last chance to make his own discovery, to

break the seals on the door of a Pharaoh's tomb and be the first man in

four thousand years to gaze upon the contents. Perhaps that Was his real

hope for immortality, and there was no price in gold and human life he

was not fully prepared to pay for it.

Already men had died in this passion of his, and he cared not that there

would be other sacrifices. No price was too high.

He checked his image in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall

opposite his bed. He smoothed the thick, coarse, dark hair. Of course it

was dyed, but that was one of his few remaining conceits. Then he

crossed the uncarpeted wooden floor of his own quarters, and opened the

door into the long conference room which would be his headquarters over

the days to come.

The persons seated there rose to their feet immedi.

lately, their attitudes servile and their expressions obsequious. Von

Schiller strode to the head of the long table and stepped up on to the

block of wood covered with carpeting that his private secretary had

placed there for him. This block went everywhere with him. It was nine

inches high. From this elevation von Schiller looked down upon the men

and one woman who waited for him. He looked them over unhurriedly,

letting them stand a while.

>From the vantage point of his block, he was taller than any of them.

First he looked at Helm. The Texan had worked for him for over a decade.

Completely reliable he was strong both physically and mentally and would

follow orders without question or qualms. Von Schiller had come to rely

on him. He could send him anywhere in the world, from Zaire to

Queensland, from the Arctic Circle to the steaming equatorial forests,

and Helm would get the job done with the minimum of fuss and with very

few unpleasant consequences. He was ruthless but discreet, and like a

good hunting dog he knew his master.

From Helm he looked at the woman. butte Kemper was his private

secretary. She ordered and directed the details of his life, from his

food to his block, from his medicine to his social calendar, No man or

woman was ever received into his presence without her prior arrangement.

She was also his communications expert. The mass of electronic equipment

that occupied one wall of the hut was her preserve. He was able to find

her way through the ether with the– infallible instinct of a homing

pigeon. From the archaic art of the keyboard and Morse code 'to burst

transmissions and random switching he had never known another person,

male or female, who could match her wizardry. She was at that perfect

age for a woman, forty, slim and blonde, with slanting green eyes over

high cheekbones, resembling the young Dietrich.

Von Schiller's own wife, Ingemar, had been an invalid for the last

twenty years, and Utte Kemper had stepped into the void she had left in

his life. Yet she was more than either secretary or wife to him.

When he had first met Utte, she had been holding a very senior position

in the technical section of the German national telecommunications

network, and moonlighting as a pornographic actress – not for the money

but for love of the job. Copies of the videos she had made at that time

were amongst von Schiller's most precious possessions, after his

collection of Egyptian antiquities. Like Helm, she had no qualms. There

was nothing she would not do to him, or allow him to do to her, to

fulfill his most bizarre fantasies. When he watched her videos and she

did some of these things to him, she was the only woman who could still

bring him to orgasm. Yet even this happened less frequently with every

month that passed, and each time the spasms of sexual release she could

evoke from his aging body were less intense.

Utte had her recording equipment set up before her on the table. It was

part of her multifarious duties to keep, accurate and complete records

of every meeting and conversation. Then von Schiller looked past these

two trusted employees to the two other men standing at the table.

Colonel Nogo he had met for the first time that morning, as he stepped

down from the Jet Ranger helicopter that had flown them down from Addis

Ababa to the base camp here on the summit of the escarpment of the Nile

gorge. He knew very little about him, except that Helm had selected him,

and was so far satisfied with his performance. Von Schiller himself was

not equally impressed. There had already been some bungling. Nogo had

allowed Quenton Harper and the Egyptian woman to slip through his

clutches. After a lifetime of operating in Africa, von Schiller placed

little trust or store in blacks and preferred to work with Europeans.

However, he realized that for the time being Nogo's services were

indispensable.

He was, after all, the military commander of the southern Gojam. No

doubt once he had served his purpose he could be taken care of Helm

would see to that. He would not have to bother himself with the details.

Von Schiller looked now at the last man at the table. Here was another

who was indispensable for the time being. Nahoot Guddabi was the one who

had brought the existence of the seventh scroll to his attention.

Apparently some English author had written a fictionalized version of

the scrolls, but von Schiller never read fiction of any sort,  either in

German or in any of the four foreign languages in which he was fluent.

Without Nahoot bringing the existence of the Taita scrolls to his

notice, he might have overlooked this opportunity of his lifetime.

The Egyptian had come to him as soon as the original translation of the

scrolls had been completed by Duraid Al Simma, and the existence of an

unrecorded Pharaoh and his tomb had been mooted. Since then they had

been in constant contact, and when the time.came that Al Simma and his

wife had started to make too much headway with their investigations, von

Schiller had employed Nahoot to get rid of them and to bring the seventh

scroll to him.

The scroll was now the shining star of his collection, safely housed

with his other ancient treasures in the steel and concrete vaults below

the Schloss in the mountains that was his private retreat, his Eagle's

Nest.

Despite this, the choice of Nahoot to under-take the more sensitive work

of ridding him of Al Simma and his wife had proved to be a mistake. He

should have.. sent a professional to take care of them, but Nahoot had

argued that he was capable of seeing it through, and he had been well

paid for the work that he had mismanaged so ineptly.

He "too would be disposable in time, but right now von Schiller still

needed him.

There was no question that Nahoot's understanding of Egyptology and

hieroglyphics was far in advance of von Schiller's own. After all,

Nahoot had spent most of his life studying them, while von Schiller was

an amateur and only a comparatively recent enthusiast. Nahoot was able

to read the scrolls and this new material that they had acquired as

though they were letters from a friend, whereas von Schiller was obliged

to puzzle over each symbol and resort frequently to his reference books.

Even then, he was not capable of picking up the finer nuances of meaning

in the text.

Without Nahoot's assistance he could not hope to solve the riddles which

confronted him in the search for Mamose's tomb.

This was the team who were now assembled beneath him, waiting for him to

start the proceedings. "Sit down, please, Fr5ulein Kemper," he said at

last. "You too, gentlemen. Let us get started."

Von Schiller remained standing on his block at the head of the table. He

enjoyed the feeling of superior height.

His short stature had been a source of humiliation ever since his

school-days when he had been nicknamed Tippa' by his peers.

"Fr-dulein Kemper will be recording everything which is said here this

afternoon. She will also issue each of you with a folder of documents

which she will collect from you again at the end of this meeting. I want

to make it very clear that none of this material will ever leave this

room.

It is of the most confidential nature, and belongs to me alone. I will