This United State

by Colin Forbes

  'Waste of time. I just crash the barrier.'

  Osborne lowered his bulk into an armchair. Newman had already resumed his seat in his own chair close to the American's. The American lifted his legs, planted his feet encased in very large shoes on the edge of Tweed's desk. Newman leaned forward, grasped both feet by the crossed ankles, dropped them on the floor.

  'We don't do that sort of thing over here,' he explained. 'We like good manners.'

  'Get you nowhere. World's movin' on. Move with it or get left behind.'

  'Britain has been around for quite a time. Your lot has been on the planet only two hundred years.'

  'You're Bob Newman, the foreign correspondent. Hoped we'd get on together. Any time you want to interview me, I'm available. Might give you something to write about. They've set up an outfit at the Embassy called the Executive Action Department. Don't know what it does - if anything. You might enquire about it - just for laughs. EAD, they call it. I'm the new Deputy Director of the CIA. They handed me the job on a plate when Cord Dillon went. Don't forget. EAD.'

  'You Americans love initials,' Newman commented. 'Saves time. We like to move fast. I'm at the Embassy.' 'Maybe, Mr Osborne, you could enlighten us as to why you have come here?' Tweed suggested.

  'Sure. Why not? And who's the thin streak of a guy holding up the wall?'

  'He just called in for a cup of coffee,' said Newman. 'That I could do with myself.'

  Monica rose slowly from her chair. Tweed had nodded, his agreement. Osborne swung round in his chair, stared at her.

  'Black, honey. Don't ruin it with milk or sugar.'

  Her lips pursed, Monica left the room. I hope she doesn't put poison in it, Marler thought. Although it might not be a bad idea.

  'Why am I here?' Osborne rumbled on in his deep, aggressive voice. 'We have this special relationship with you Brits. We think it ought to be strengthened. A lot more close cooperation. A lot more exchange of information about what's really goin' on in the world. The way I see it we're natural partners. We have to sit on the same bench. Be buddies.'

  'Why?' asked Tweed.

  'We have the same problems. A lot of dangerous characters have been flooding in to your country...'

  'We have noticed,' Newman informed him.

  'Mafia men from Eastern Europe. Saboteurs from fanatic Muslim outfits. Same in the States. Sneaking in over the Canadian and Mexican borders. Take the bomb at the World Trade Center in New York. We need tough controls before both our countries go down in chaos.'

  Osborne took a gulp of the coffee Monica had put down on the desk close to him. His face screwed up and he choked briefly.

  'This is like tar.'

  'It's the strong coffee you asked for,' Monica said and sat down behind her computer.

  'Fell a friggin' ox.'

  'Watch the language,' Tweed said. 'Ladies present.' 'And they probably use worse language than I do.' 'I doubt that's possible,' Newman interjected. 'Screw yourself.'

  'If you can't control your language I suggest you get up and go,' Newman snapped.

  `Mr Osborne—' Tweed began.

  'Ed.'

  'If there are issues we should discuss I suggest we set up a proper meeting in advance.'

  'At the Embassy,' Osborne growled. 'When?'

  'When an opportunity comes up I will get in touch. Thank you for calling in to see me.'

  'Guess it's time to leave you folks.' Osborne, wearing a loose windcheater, the zip half open, exposing a wild sweater of many colours, and corduroy slacks, stood up. He was calm, stared all round, looking longest at Marler. 'I'll know you when we meet again.'

  'I'll know you,' Marler responded offhandedly.

  'At least we've got to know each other,' Osborne said, looking at Tweed. 'We'll get to know each other much better, I'm sure.'

  'Thank you again for calling in,' Tweed replied.

  'I can let myself out.' Osborne paused as he opened the door, his gaze again sweeping the room. 'Have a nice day.'

  'My God, what a bloody boor,' Paula exclaimed.

  'American,' Marler drawled. 'All brawn, no brain.'

  'I'd say,' Tweed disagreed, 'that he's highly dangerous and it would be a great mistake to underestimate him.'

  'In that case,' Newman said after a pause, 'maybe he's the man in charge of all the thugs flooding into London. He could handle that job.'

  'You may be right. That strange organization they've set up. EAD. Executive Action Department. I don't too much like the sound of it.'

  'As long as the first word doesn't mean Execution,' Paula ruminated.

  'I'm really going to check that man out,' Monica announced venomously.

  'Do that,' Tweed urged her. 'Try to fill in some of those large gaps in his life. Now, I think all of you really should go home and get some rest. I'll stay here awhile. I have a lot to think about.'

  'Could I stay on for a few minutes?' Paula requested. 'I want to ask you about something.'

  'Of course you may...'

  As they left the office Marler followed Newman downstairs and walked alongside him to his Merc. They were both wearing sheepskins and the wind was bitter, the temperature way down. Along the main road beyond the Crescent people hurried, shoulders hunched, heads down. Girls walked with their arms folded to give extra protection.

  'You mentioned when you phoned me this morning

  before leaving your flat that you'd decided to take Basil Windermere up on his invitation to meet you at Bentleys this evening,' Marler said.

  'That's right. At eight o'clock. Downstairs bar. Why?' 'I'd rather like to be there. Not with you,' Marler added as Newman frowned.

  'Windermere will recognize you.'

  'No, he won't. You may not either. You don't mind?' 'Why this interest in Windermere?' Newman questioned.

  'For one thing I happen to know he's made a number of extendedtrips to the Continent recently. And prior to that he was seen in Paris frequently.'

  'Join the party, then,' Newman said reluctantly. 'But you'd better not be seen.'

  'I'll be the Invisible Man.'

  * * *

  'You wanted to ask me questions,' Tweed said to Paula. 'Fire away.'

  'This Bunker down on Romney Marsh - which, of course, I've seen. It must have taken months to build. What triggered off the idea? You've made three trips to Washington, which is unusual for you. One several months ago, two more recently.'

  'First, the Bunker was completed in thirty days.' 'I can't believe it.'

  'Marler kept his imported workers going hard at it. The main reason it was put together so quickly was the maze of cellars which already existed under that old farmhouse. I heard about it from a historian. I'm sure it was once used by smugglers ages ago. One distant tunnel comes up underneath an abandoned old bell tower not far from the sea.'

  'I didn't see that.'

  'Because I didn't show it to you. The door at the end of the tunnel is concealed. You'll see it the next time I take you down there. Satisfied?'

  'No. You're evading the second part of my question. I also asked what triggered off the idea. Your trips to Washington?'

  'You've forgotten.' Tweed smiled. 'I've also made trips to Paris recently.'

  'There he goes again,' Paula said to Monica. 'As cryptic as Marler's friend,' she commented, switching her gaze to Tweed.

  'What happened to him? When I called you after getting back to my flat last night you said the three of you were having a marvellous time - that your guest had a great sense of humour.'

  'He has. He said he was flying back this morning. Now, time for me to go.'

  'She's probably off to her health club,' Monica informed Tweed.

  'Health club?'

  'I haven't bothered to mention it,' said Paula as she put on her coat. 'For the past six months I've attended this health club.'

  'Aerobics and all that.' Monica snorted. 'She's on a health kick. Fit as the proverbial fiddle and strong as a horse.'

  'I approve,' said Tweed. Paula was just lea
ving when he called out to her. 'Did Marler's friend say where he was flying to?'

  'Paris.'

  Tweed remained behind his desk when Paula had gone. Monica was using her computer to record certain aspects of a profile she was working on. None of it was on the network. Tweed had warned her earlier to work in this way. He was writing groups of names on a large pad, then circling groups and drawing lines from one to another, trying to work out whether they linked up. The phone rang.

  'American Embassy on the line,' Monica called out. 'Not that pest, Osborne?'

  'No. Sharon Mandeville. Said she'd met you at a party once in Washington.'

  'Tweed speaking.'

  'This is Sharon Mandeville. I don't know whether you'll remember me. We had a long chat at a Washington cocktail party.'

  The voice' was soft, tentative, appealing. Tweed detected a note of hesitancy.

  'Remember you well, Ms Mandeville. What can I do for you?'

  'I need to talk to you privately. Would it be too much to ask you to come over to the Embassy to see me?'

  'Of course not. When do you suggest?'

  'It's probably inconvenient for you, but I was wondering whether you could come over this morning - at your convenience?'

  'I could come now.'

  'I'll be waiting for you. Just ask for me at reception. Till then...'

  'I'm off to the American Embassy to meet her,' he told Monica as he put on his overcoat.

  'Don't fall for her.'

  'Hardly likely. And it fits in nicely with my driving down to Parham this afternoon. I want to have a long talk with Sir Guy Strangeways. See if I can find out what he is up to.'

  5

  Tweed asked his cab driver to drop him just outside Grosvenor Square. March had come in like a lion and a biting wind was battering at him. Above the elegant square an armada of low dark clouds scudded across the sky, threatening a cloudburst.

  Tweed paused at a corner, gazing at the huge white modern building facing the central garden. It reared up, solid as a steel wall with windows. A monument to the immense world power it represented. Tweed grunted, mounted the deserted flight of wide steps, pushed his way through a new revolving door. A short walk took him to the reception desk. Behind it an attractive brunette watched him coming warily.

  'Ms Mandeville is expecting me. Tweed is the name.' 'You have identification, sir?'

  She spoke in a broad American accent. Her voice was nasal, harsh. Tweed took out his wallet, extracted a card which showed him as Chief Investigator, General & Cumbria Assurance. She studied it as though it might be forged, which it was.

  `I'll let you know when she can see you. Take a seat over there.'

  'I'll stay here. I have an appointment now.'

  The receptionist made a moue of displeasure. She expected people to do what she said. After speaking on the phone she gestured towards the lift. No attempt to escort him.

  'Take the elevator. Floor One. Room Twenty-one. To your left as you get out.'

  'Thank you.'

  He glanced at an obvious guard in plain clothes. A weapon bulged under his left armpit. Eyes like stones stared at Tweed, who gave him a little wave on his way to the lift. Cosy atmosphere these days at the American Embassy — almost as though they were expecting an attack.

  Tweed strolled over to the lift, pressed the button for Floor One. The door opened silently. He stepped inside. The door closed silently, the lift began to ascend. He was struck by the silence of the building. Like a stage setting prepared for his arrival.

  The door slid open, again making no sound. He stepped out into a wide corridor, his rubber-soled shoes as soundless as the lift door, then stopped. To his left, further along the corridor, he saw the back of Jefferson Morgenstern, Secretary of State, America's Foreign. Minister. Tweed recognized the small man because he had met him at a party in Washington. Morgenstern was carrying a thick black file.

  He was accompanied by two tall men, one on either side of the most powerful man in the American administration. Expecting that at any moment one of the three men would see him, Tweed remained perfectly still. They didn't see him. They appeared too intent on where they were going.

  Pausing before a closed door on the right, one of the aides took out a key, unlocked the door and Morgenstern hurried inside. Since they hadn't closed the door Tweed guessed they would be coming out again when they had finished whatever task they were engaged on. He began to walk along the corridor.

  Slowing down as he reached the open door, Tweed glanced into the room. A safe like a bank vault set into one wall was open. Morgenstern bent down, slipped the file inside. Tweed walked on. He had already observed the odd numbers were on his left side. He had also noticed the number of the room Morgenstern had entered. Number 16. In addition he had seen the metal plate on the half-open door engraved with one word:

  SECURITY.

  He quickened his pace. Arriving at Room 21 he raised his hand to knock. Before his knuckles could reach the surface the door opened in his face. The woman he had come to see ushered him inside, closed her door. Tweed was under cover before anyone emerged from Security.

  It was as though he had met Sharon Mandeville the day before. Her manner was restrained but easy. Tweed reflected that she looked more like a mature thirty-five than her real age, forty-two. She escorted him to two leather-covered swivel chairs by the side of her massive desk. Behind the desk was another chair but as soon as he was seated she occupied the chair next to him.

  'Thank you for coming to see me so quickly,' she said in her soft voice. No trace of an American accent. 'I'm sure you would like some coffee. It's a bitter day.'

  'That would be very acceptable.'

  'Black, if I remember rightly. No sugar. No milk.' 'You have a remarkable memory.'

  'And you're wearing the same suit you wore in Washington. I like a man to look smart.'

  'Again, your memory.'

  'A woman notices small things...'

  As she conversed she was pouring two cups of coffee from a silver pot perched on a silver tray on a side table. Tweed studied her. She had beautiful blonde hair, very thick, arranged in waves and falling so it just touched her shoulders. As in Washington, it was her large greenish eyes which held him. She had a strong chin without spoiling the striking appearance of her pale face. Her forehead was high. Her mouth was wide but the lips were not full.

  Five foot six tall, she was slim and was wearing a pale green dress which went well with her intense eyes. It was high at the neck. She crossed her elegant legs, sipped at her coffee, put the cup down and turned to face her visitor.

  'What are you doing over here, if I may ask?' said Tweed.

  'It's rather confidential. No, don't worry. I will tell you. The first time we met I decided you could be trusted.'

  She paused. Her hypnotic eyes held his. She was a very unusual woman, Tweed was thinking. It was not just a matter of beauty, her graceful movements. Any time she walked into a room full of people all the men would stop talking while they gazed at her. She had impact.

  'I'm not even sure what my job here is,' she went on. 'I don't know why, but I get on well with the President's wife. She's given me various assignments in the past. I do know that over here I'm supposed to keep an eye on a man called Ed Osborne, the new Deputy Director of the CIA. He's a rough diamond and my main task is to smooth the path for him. Don't let him upset the Brits, is what I was told by the President's wife. I hate that word Brit. Typically American. Osborne will probably try to get in touch with you,' she warned.

  'Why would he do that?' Tweed asked innocently. 'He told me you were a friend of his predecessor, Cord Dillon.'

  'That's true. What has happened to Dillon?'

  'I suppose he's retired. I asked Ed that question myself and all he said was, "He's gone fishin' " - which told me a lot.' She paused, took a cigarette from a silver box. Tweed produced a lighter, lit her cigarette.

  'Thank you,' she said.

  The typical American woman would ha
ve said, 'I can do that for myself,' Tweed thought.

  'I'm not offering you one because you don't smoke,' she went on.

  'You could produce a file on me,' Tweed joked.

  She frowned, then half-smiled. 'I told you I remember trivial things.' She used her other hand to push back a wave of hair.

  Tweed knew she was a natural blonde. In Washington she had produced two colour photos of herself from her evening bag. One of herself at twelve and the other when she was eighteen. In both photos her thick blonde hair had jumped out at him. She had apologized for showing them to him.

  'I don't carry these about with me,' she had explained. 'I want to give them to a man here who is good at framing photos. To remind me I'm getting old.'

  'Hardly.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Why did you ask me over here?' Tweed now asked. 'Is there something I can help you with?'

  'Yes, there might be.' Her eyes still gazed at him.

  'Dillon apparently told the President's wife you were a key figure over here, that you know a lot of people. Washington is trying to strengthen the bonds between the two countries. I was hoping you'd introduce me to people who matter from time to time.'

  Tweed's expression was neutral. He took his time finishing off his coffee, then refused more. He stared round the room. On a side desk was a pile of folders, some with a red tab attached. The furniture was expensive. The windows looked out on to a side street.

  'They should give you an office overlooking the square,' he suggested.

  'I prefer it back here — on my own. Osborne has an office the size of a tennis court looking out on the square. How is the insurance business? I suppose you are rich?'

  'Not really. I certainly couldn't compete with you. Four husbands must have been a roller-coaster ride.'

  'Something like that,' she said after a long pause.

  'When I first went — was taken — to the States, I realized my English accent was a passport to successful men. When you're young you're easily flattered. I suppose I did exploit my accent. Does that sound awful?'

  'No.'

  'Money isn't everything.'