by Colin Forbes
The huge bomb detonated at precisely 9.15 am. There was a brilliant flash, a deafening explosion. Counters were lifted into the air. Shattered glass flew in all directions, Bodies slumped to the floor. Shoppers streaming with blood staggered about, their expressions dazed,. Then the screaming started.
There was a powerful aroma of perfume on many people. The crowd surged towards the exits, stepping over bodies. Ambulance sirens in the distance came closer. It was a scene of havoc. Like a picture on TV of a foreign war.
12
'I think I should summarize what's happened so far. It might help us to get events into sequence at the moment we're in, a fog,' Tweed began.
In his office were Newman and Marler, with Monica and Paula behind their desks. Roy Buchanan had still not arrived and there had been no word from him. Monica had served everyone with strong coffee to increase their alertness.
'It began with the arrival of Cord Dillon, and Paula spiriting him out of a murder attempt. Cord, sacked from his job on the grounds of so-called embezzlement, is at the Bunker. Recently 1 hired Keith Kent, the money tracer, to check on American movements of money. He called me from Basel in Switzerland, suggested I went there. Then he tells me that huge sums in dollars have been sent from Washington to the Zurcher Kredit Bank – in Basel. Paula, give us your impressions of the characters we've encountered so far.'
'You're having lunch with Ed Osborne at the bar in Piccadilly today. At his suggestion. You went to see Sharon Mandeville. At her suggestion. Bob is dining with Sharon this evening. At her suggestion. Marler is taking out Denise Chatel, also this evening. It was at Marler's invitation, but she agreed immediately. All these people are key Americans. I get the idea they're trying to smoke us out.'
'You could be right,' Tweed agreed. 'Now give us portrait snaps of the characters involved.'
'Ed Osborne is tough, clever and dangerous. I'd say he's pretty high up in the opposition. Sharon I haven't met so far. Denise Chatel appears to be the nicest, but she's a mystery, so an unknown quantity who should be watched. Sir Guy Strangeways is also clever, but he's playing a peculiar game. Big question mark. Basil Windermere is a piece of social rubbish. Ditto for Rupert Strangeways, a worthless idler. Don't you agree?'
'Not entirely, but please go on,' Tweed urged her.
'Jake Ronstadt. I only saw him for a short time at Goodfellows but I feel he's very dangerous. He exudes dynamic energy. He was suave when he talked to us – I wonder how he talks to his staff. Hank Waltz tried to torture me to get information – he would have killed me later. I won't dwell on that episode. But it demonstrates the lengths to which they'll go. Then we have a horde of professional thugs entering the country via Paris. Why Paris? Because they hoped to get here secretly.'
'I spoke to Rene Lasalle of the DST this morning,' Tweed told her. 'He's very worried about the Americans – he's sending me by courier some photos discreetly taken of a lot of them. I'd like you to look at them when they arrive. What is really happening, then?'
'They're trying to increase their influence over Britain. At the least.' She paused. 'They could be planning to occupy Britain. You'll think I'm mad-'
She stopped speaking as the phone rang. Monica answered, told them Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan had arrived. Tweed told her to ask him to come up immediately.
When Buchanan entered they were all struck by how grim he looked. At Tweed's invitation he sat down, accepted Monica's offer of a cup of coffee.
'I need it.' He looked round the room. 'I trust everyone here, so I can talk freely. You've heard the news?'
'What news is that?' Tweed enquired. 'You look haggard.'
'A huge bomb went off this morning at a big department store in Oxford Street, when it was crowded with shoppers because of a sale. The bomb was planted under a perfume counter with a lot of boxes of stock. Casualties so far thirty dead and many injured. I've come from there – I closed off Oxford Street, which is why I'm late. It was horrific.'
'A rebellious IRA splinter group?' Marler asked.
'Absolutely not. The Bomb Squad arrived quickly. They found a second huge bomb which hadn't detonated. They locked the timer, dismantled it quickly. They told me it was such a sophisticated electronic device it couldn't be the IRA. Electronics suggests Silicon Valley in the States. Guess where the second bomb was planted.'
'Where?' asked Tweed.
'In the baby clothes and children's toys section. And there are dead children among the casualties.'
'Bastards,' snapped Newman.
'How did the bombers get in?' Tweed probed.
'No idea. The staff who opened the doors saw no signs of forced entry. In addition they had neutralized the alarm system, then re-set it so the staff wouldn't be alerted when they came in first thing.'
'Someone trying to cause panic?' Tweed mused.
'If it was, it worked. Oxford Street was deserted before I had it closed off. The news spread like wildfire. Thank you,' he said to Monica, who had brought him a second cup of coffee. 'It was an atrocity,' he concluded.
'Any idea who was responsible, then?' Tweed asked.
'None at all. It's early days.'
'Roy, you were coming to see me anyway. What was that about?'
'First, a body was washed up on a mud-bank just south of the East End. A small, thickset man with a bald head. A Hank Waltz.'
'How do you know that?'
'Had a soggy American diplomatic passport in his pocket.'
'You're informing the American Embassy?'
'No, I'm not,' Buchanan said vehemently. 'And, would you believe it – I've lost the passport. Let the Yanks ask me – if they do. Then there was a second body.'
'Also dragged out of the Thames?' Tweed suggested. 'No. Had an anonymous call. For some reason I decided to go myself. Probably to see if it was another American. Found the deceased on some steps off Regent Street. This one had a rifle bullet through his head.' 'Any identification?'
'Yes. A Swiss passport with the name Kurt Schwarz.' 'He was murdered, then?'
'No doubt about it. Just one rifle shot. Why did I think of the Phantom?'
'Maybe because the PM, Keller in Germany and the Minister in France were also shot through the head with one rifle bullet. Any witnesses?'
'I had the team with me call at every house, waking people up. One of them was Basil Windermere. We know he lives off playing up to rich women.'
'And what did Basil have to say?'
'Said he'd been woken up by a faint crack! Thought it was a car backfiring, so he went back to sleep. He had no idea of the time when he heard the noise.'
'Was he sleeping alone?' Marler interjected.
'Yes.'
'Was he in his pyjamas?' Marler persisted.
'Yes. Why this interest in Windermere?'
'Suppose I just have the natural instincts of a detective.'
'I see.' Buchanan drank more coffee. 'You're not usually so vocal.'
'One more question, Roy,' Tweed said to divert the policeman from the subject of Windermere. 'The Chrysler in Strangeways' garage at Parham. Did you manage to check the vehicle?'
'Yes. I sent a team down to Irongates. They had a search warrant but they were careful. The entrance gates were closed. There were no lights on in the house – even though it was almost dark as night. They scaled the side wall. A locksmith released the padlock on the garage doors. There was nothing inside. No sign of a Chrysler.'
'They'd got out in time.'
'Seems so.' Buchanan took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, handed it to Tweed. 'That is for your eyes only. Do you recognize any of the names?'
'Yes. Two Cabinet ministers. Several prominent MPs. And a number of well-known businessmen.'
'All of them have been bribed by the Americans. Given large sums in dollar bills inside executive cases. Special Branch officers have been watching the Embassy in Grosvenor Square. They have followed Americans coming out carrying executive cases. They meet the recipient of the bribe in out-of-the-way plac
es. Obscure bars and pubs. They have a drink with the target, then leave alone, having propped the executive case against a bar or table leg. After they've gone one of the men on that list leaves, after picking up the executive case. Three of them opened the case before they went off – produced several stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills and dropped them back inside the case. It's bribery of key British figures on a massive scale.'
'This is getting even more dangerous.'
'What I've told you all in this room is strictly confidential.'
'And will remain that way,' Tweed assured him.
Howard burst into the room at that moment. Seeing Buchanan he apologized. He spoke very quickly immediately afterwards.
'I think all of you ought to come to my office. There's a TV report on the bomb left in an Oxford Street department store. Have you heard?'
Paula led the way out of the room and upstairs to Howard's office. Newman and Marler followed her. Tweed turned to Buchanan, not sure whether he would spare the time.
'I think I'll come with you,' the policeman said. 'Sometimes whoever has committed a crime has an irresistible urge to revisit the scene of what he did…'
Inside Howard's room his secretary had arranged chairs and the TV was on. No one sat down. They stood in silence, waiting.
'How did the TV people get through?' Tweed whispered to Buchanan.
'I left instructions for them to be allowed in. The people who did this thing may rub their hands with glee, thinking it will terrify the population. I take a different view. I think it will cause universal outrage and fury. Here it comes…'
Unusually, there was no commentary, which made what followed more horrifying. The cameras panned round inside the store. The floor was covered with lethal shreds of glass. Paramedics were helping injured women and some men to leave. The counters and checkout points were shattered. No item of furniture remained undamaged. Bloodstained shoppers were still lying on the floor, attended by paramedics and doctors. One man had an arm missing. A prone woman's skirt was dripping with blood, her face slashed by flying glass. A number of bodies were lying very still, sprawled on the ground. The camera panned to the exit.
A woman, lying flat, her neck bandaged, blood seeping through it, was being carried out on a stretcher by two paramedics. She raised herself up, staring at the camera as though unaware of its presence.
'My husband. Where is my husband?'
Behind her, where she couldn't see, the paramedic carrying the rear end of the stretcher, shook his head. Paula gasped.
'Oh, my God,' she said half under her breath.
'It's like a battlefield,' Newman said to Tweed.
Paula stood up to leave. In the open doorway Monica stood staring as though she couldn't believe her eyes. She went down- back to Tweed's office, followed by Newman, Marler, Tweed and Buchanan. The policeman tapped Tweed on the shoulder before they were about to enter the room.
'I'll have to go now. There was no one shown who wasn't with the ambulance men or paramedics. My men did their job. Try and keep in touch with me.'
'You do the same…'
There was complete silence when he went into his office, shut the door and sat down behind his desk. Monica sat stunned, her hands in her lap. Paula gazed at – each of her colleagues, made no comment. Marler, leaning against a wall, was about to light a king-size, decided against it.
Tweed leaned forward across his desk. They all stared at him, knowing he was going to say something important. When he did speak his voice was calm, resolute.
'We use any devious ruthless method to defeat them.'
13
The Executive Action Department was again meeting in the large room at the American Embassy. Jake, at the head of the table, was again shuffling his cards. He made them wait before he spoke. Outside, beyond the windows, branches of the trees in the square shook under the onslaught of the late morning wind.
'Guess I ought to hand out half-congratulations to Vernon and Brad.'
'Why only half?' Vernon, the thin man with the boney face asked indignantly.
'Because the second bomb didn't go off. You must have fouled up the timer. If that bomb had detonated half the people in that store would have been killed. That would have been sensational.'
There were glum faces round the table. Jake Ronstadt was, as usual, in a bad mood. Brad, the squat man with shark-like teeth, risked opening his mouth.
'Which is the next objective? Maybe now we've started we oughta keep things movin' – scare the guts out of the Brits.'
'Maybe you ought to sit kinda quiet. I've sorta had enough of interruptions. In any case, it won't be Vernon and Brad who hit the next one. I handed out sheets of targets to you all. Raise your hands if you've now looked over those targets.'
Eight men raised their hands high in the air. They held them up until Jake made a gesture for them to lower them. He was shuffling his cards again. Vernon wondered if he ever played poker. He'd have liked to ask but knew that if he did he'd probably get Jake's fist in his face.
Leo, who had a head shaped like the moon, had once shot a baby in the back of the head. Afterwards he'd slipped away to down a couple of drinks in a bar. He was less afraid of Jake than anyone round the table. 'We haven't seen Ed Osborne at any of these meetings,' he remarked.
Ronstadt contemplated standing up, walking down the table and hauling the chair from under Leo. He knew Moonhead was independent-minded, that he was after his job. He decided to wait fora better opportunity to humiliate him.
'Ed is a very busy guy. Come to that, so am I. The idea to keep things movin' is crap. London will be swarming with cops hoping to get a clue, checking out their informants in the underworld. I'm sure Charlie will agree with me.'
He stood up in his brown leather jacket, his leather trousers. A man of limited height, it was his bulk, his large head, his personality, his expression which dominated the members of his team.
'Get the hell outta here,' he said, and left.
By lunchtime everyone except Monica and Paula had departed from Park Crescent. Paula had decided to skip lunch. After seeing the scenes on the TV newscast she didn't feel she wanted to eat anything. When the phone rang Monica spoke to the caller briefly, then said to Paula:
'It's Mrs Carson down at the Bunker. She's having trouble with Cord Dillon. Want to have a word?'
'Yes… Paula here, Mrs Carson. What's the problem?' 'Dillon is getting restless, feeling cooped up. He's even talked of coming up to London.'
'Can you hold him until I get there?' She had taken a swift decision. 'And have you see the news on TV? Heard it on the radio?'
'No. Dillon doesn't like either TV or the radio. Neither do I. Why do you ask?'
'I think Cord needs someone to talk to. Tell him I'm driving down there today, should reach you mid-afternoon. And both of you watch the next TV news broadcast. It's important you do.'
'I'll arrange that. And look forward to seeing you. It's quiet on the Romney Marsh.'
'Monica,' Paula said as she grabbed her fur-lined coat, picked up her motoring gloves, 'contact Pete Nield. Tell him I'll be back in time to accompany him to Santorini's this evening.'
'That's where Newman is having dinner with Sharon Mandeville.'
'I know. I've had a good look at Denise Chatel – seen enough of her to form a certain opinion. But I've had no chance to see Sharon. I'm not going to barge in on Bob, but I can observe the glamorous Sharon from a distance. Tell Tweed I've rushed off to the Bunker to soothe Cord Dillon. See you…'
Later, as she crossed the border into Kent, Paula took another quick decision. Parham was on her way. She could drop off at Irongates – in the hope of having a chat with Sir Guy Strangeways. She'd hardly exchanged more than a few words with the property magnate when she had visited the place with Tweed.
'Do come in, my dear. I'd love to see you.'
Paula stared at the speak-phone outside Irongates.
Strangeways sounded exuberant, in contrast to the previous visit, when
he had barked down the instrument. He was waiting for her when she parked below the terrace. She gave one last look back at the closing gates.
On her way down from London she had felt sure she was being followed. Try as hard as she could, she had' not been able to identify a vehicle on her tail. It could have been imagination, but she didn't think so.
'Come inside. Mrs Belloc has prepared tea. A little early, I know, so just eat what you feel like and leave the rest.'
As he escorted her across the large bleak hall, into the library where she had waited on her last visit, Paula studied her host. Outwardly affable, she detected signs of strain. His eyelids were puffy, as though from lack of sleep. The crackling military-style voice she had heard before had disappeared. Instead, he spoke softly. He wore a sports jacket with leather patches on the sleeves, a heavy pair of beige slacks, gleaming brown handmade shoes. She waited until Mrs Belloc had poured tea, stared at her, then left the room.
'What do you think of this bomb in Oxford Street?'
'Dreadful. Truly dreadful.' His voice trembled. 'As you can imagine, when I was a soldier I stood on battlefields amid carnage. It didn't affect me. Can't do the job if you permit it to get to you. But those scenes on TV.'
'Who do you think is responsible? A splinter group of the IRA?'
'There are so many…' He paused. 'So many terrorist outfits in the world today. Could be any of them.'
Paula had the impression he wasn't happy with the subject. He drank tea, helped himself to a cake. Paula ate ravenously.
'I have another problem on my mind,' he began. 'Rupert. He's a terrible disappointment. I know he runs after every pretty woman in sight. Don't mind that. He grew up late. It's his gambling.'
'With some people it's an addiction.'
'I'm not going to pay for his bloody addiction!' he stormed. 'Sorry. I raised my voice. Bad language. Not in the presence of ladies. I'm old-fashioned that way.'
'I appreciate that.'
'I've had a phone call from a casino in Campione. That's an enclave of Italy inside Switzerland.'