by Colin Forbes
'Bit of a far-fetched theory,' Tweed commented.
'Hold on, Chief,' Cardon called out. 'Paula has made a pretty solid case for your so-called far-fetched theory.'
'If you say so,' Tweed responded impatiently, concentrating on his driving. 'One thing I insist on, Paula. You're not going back to Bodmin Moor on your own.'
'Maybe Bob Newman will come with me – if he's reached Padstow.. .'
Paula saw why Tweed had referred to the Hotel Metropole's strategic position as soon as they arrived. Perched high up, it looked down on and across the estuary of the River Camel. Gleaming like a sheet of quicksilver by the light of the moon, it appeared to be about a quarter of a mile wide from Padstow to the opposite shore.
Parked outside, in the forecourt in front of the large Victorian building, was Newman's Mercedes 280E. Its owner appeared from inside as Tweed was registering for his party. Newman frowned at Paula, slipped her a sheet of folded paper as he passed her, which she palmed. He walked outside as though he'd never seen them before in his life.
She showed Tweed the note as they travelled up in the lift to their rooms. Tweed had a suite, No. 11, on the first floor, while Paula's double room was on the second.
'Come down and see me within five minutes,' Tweed told Paula after he'd read the note.
Butler and Nield, acting as guards, had rooms close to Paula's. Tweed had requested this at the desk.
'Miss Grey is recovering from a serious illness,' he had informed the receptionist. 'Pneumonia. She might need assistance walking when she leaves her room…'
Paula closed her room door. The lights were on, the curtains drawn. She moved swiftly, sensing the urgency in Tweed's order. Opening her case, she threw the lid back, lifted out her favourite navy blue suit, hung it in the wardrobe, hurried back to the lift.
Tweed had a much larger room with a sitting area. He stood in the middle, still wearing his trench coat in spite of the heated atmosphere. Handing her the note, he began pacing like a caged tiger. The note was terse.
Meet me in my car -parked halfway up Station Road. Have phoned H. Very big trouble. H. wants you to call him. Have found safe phone. Bob.
'You said you were ravenous just before we reached here,' Paula reminded him.
'Food will have to wait. I phoned the dining-room. They will serve us later.' His brusque tone softened. 'But you can go straight down to dinner – you've had a pretty rough day.'
'Nothing doing. I'm coming with you.'
'So is Butler…'
Outside the hotel an icy breeze blew from the north. As they climbed the hill Paula asked her question.
'Why do they call this Station Road?'
'Because at the bottom of the hill behind us is a building which is the old station. Now it's Customs amp; Excise. The trains don't run here any more. Haven't for years. The line was eliminated long ago. Here we are. You sit next to Bob. Maybe he'll be better company than I am tonight. While I remember, Bob, I'd like to borrow your field glasses.'
Newman drove to the top of the road, turned right down New Street. Lined with two-storey grey stone terrace houses, it made Paula feel they had arrived in old Cornwall. Newman paused, pointed to a wooden cabin set back from the road. No light in the windows.
'Believe it or not, that's the police station. Unmanned. So, if we hit trouble, don't expect any help from the police.'
'Comforting,' Paula commented.
Newman swung right again down St Edmund's Lane, an even narrower and bleaker street at night. It descended steeply and it too was hemmed in on either side with old grey stone terrace houses. No one about, not a soul, and the lighting was dim, Newman paused for a moment, pointed to a gap in the wall to their right with a shadowed pathway leading uphill.
'That's a short cut on foot back to the Metropole.'
'I wouldn't advise going up there after dark,' said Butler, seated next to Tweed.
It was the first thing he'd said since they had entered the car. Paula, feeling edgy, took the remark personally.
'I suppose that was for my benefit. Harry, I'll have you know I can take care of myself.'
'I wouldn't go that way at night myself,' Butler told her equably.
Newman drove to the bottom of the lane and Paula leaned forward, anxious to get some idea of Padstow's layout. Turning to the left along a level road, Newman gestured to his right.
'That's a dock beyond the car park with the estuary on the far side. I'm now driving along a one-way street. If I'd turned right at the bottom of St Edmund's Lane it's two-way traffic. Ahead is the harbour, a complex system. I can show you better in the morning. Tweed, I decided it might be better if I stayed elsewhere as an unknown reserve. I have a room overlooking the harbour in the Old Custom House, the building on your left. It's a very good hotel. And there is your phone box. I have to park a bit further on. See you in the morning?'
'Yes. We'll be walking past your hotel at ten o'clock on the dot. Good night. Take care…'
Newman had paused, while Tweed and Paula got out of the car. Butler followed them, crossed to the carpark where he had a clear view of the old-fashioned red phone box. The raw wind hit them as Tweed struggled to haul the door open and Paula dived inside with him. It was with some trepidation that Tweed dialled Howard's number at the Surrey mansion.
'Who is this?' Howard's voice enquired after Tweed had been passed through an operator.
Tweed. I gather you wanted to talk to-'
'Is that a safe phone?' Howard interrupted, his voice tense.
'It should be. It's a public call box. If you don't mind I won't say where I'm speaking from.'
'Oh, damn that, I don't care. As long as you're well away from London…'
'I am…'
'Tweed, the situation is desperate, unprecedented. You'll hardly believe what's happening.'
'Try me,' Tweed suggested quietly.
'As you know, our HQ has been totally destroyed by the bomb. But I can't get through to the PM. He seems to have cut himself off from me. Every time I try to reach him some fool of a private secretary feeds me a load of codswallop as to why I can't contact him. But I know the PM is in Downing Street. The secretary let that slip.'
'I see. Any theory as to why this is happening?'
'Well, the PM is having trouble with Washington. He needs America's support, as you know, over Europe and the Middle East. Washington is being very distant with London.'
'Precisely who in Washington?' Tweed enquired.
'I gather it's the Oval Office. President March himself.'
'Rather a rough diamond, I've heard.'
'Should never have been elected,' Howard stormed. 'Just because he's a powerful orator, talks the language of the people.' He sighed with disgust. 'The people – and some of them he mixes with are hardly out of the top drawer.'
'What you're saying is we've lost the PM's support? Even with this bomb outrage?'
'It would seem so. I can't believe it.' Howard sounded to be in despair. 'I really can't believe it,' he repeated, 'but it's happening.'
'I want you to call Commander Crombie…'
'I spoke to him a few minutes ago. At least he is talking to me. He said it was too early to be positive, but his experts have found relics of the device which detonated the bomb. It's definitely not IRA, Crombie says. A very sophisticated and advanced mechanism was used – something they've never encountered before. The press will continue to say it was the IRA, and Crombie won't contradict them.'
'He sounds to be moving fast.'
'Something else difficult to believe. Crombie has teams working round the clock on clearing the debris – three shifts every twenty-four hours. I think it's discovery of this new device which has electrified him.'
'Howard, phone Crombie on my behalf. Tell him it is very important to find amid that mountain of rubble my office safe. It contains a film and a tape recording. They could be the key to all that's happening. I'm guessing.'
'You usually guess correctly,' Howard admitted. 'I wi
ll make that call to Crombie – mentioning you. What do the film and the tape contain?'
'If I knew that I might know who is masterminding these attacks on us.'
'Could take weeks to find,' Howard warned. 'And then it may be crushed to nothing – or its contents will be.'
'That's what I like about you, Howard – your eternal optimism. Just call Crombie.'
'I've said I will. Have you any solid ideas?' Howard pleaded.
'One or two. Give me a little time…'
Tweed's expression was grave as he left the box-with Paula. Butler strolled across the road to meet them. The alert bodyguard was smiling.
'Cheer up! We'll break this thing sooner or later. Oh, while you were on the phone Newman came back for a moment on foot. Full of apologies. He forgot to mention that Monica took a call from Cord Dillon earlier in the afternoon before the fireworks display. Dillon is somewhere in London.'
Tweed stared. Cord Dillon was Deputy Director of the CIA. A very tough, able man – what was he doing in London at a time like this?
'Dillon wants to talk to you urgently.' He handed Tweed a folded piece of paper. 'Newman gave me that to hand on to you. The number of some London phone box. You can reach Dillon between 9.30 a.m. and 10 a.m. at that number tomorrow morning. Monica said it sounded as though he was keeping under cover. Wouldn't say where he was staying.'
'Let's get back to the Metropole…'
Tweed walked beside Paula, told her the gist of his talk with Howard. They turned up St Edmund's Lane. Butler was following several paces behind them, reeling as though he was drunk. His right hand gripped the Walther inside his windcheater as they plodded uphill and took the long way back, ignoring the short cut to the hotel. Paula was relieved: the path which turned off the lane was a tunnel of eerie darkness.
'What on earth is going on?' she asked. 'That business about not being able to reach the PM. I'm scared.'
'With good reason. Interesting that Washington business – and now Dillon turns up out of the blue. My thoughts are turning towards America.'
'Why America? Because of Dillon's arrival?'
'Not entirely. Something rather more sinister.'
'Sorry. Perhaps I'm being rather thick. Probably fatigue. And I do want to drive with Bob Newman back to Bodmin Moor tomorrow to talk again to Celia Yeo. What is it about the States which has suddenly grabbed your attention?'
'America,' Tweed repeated, half to himself, 'where there is so much money and power. '
'Power?' Paula queried.
'Work it out for yourself.'
7
Feeling dopey when she woke the following morning in her double bedroom, Paula bathed, dressed for the moor, fixed her face in two minutes and only then pulled back the curtains. She stared at the view in disbelief. Something very weird had happened overnight. The River Camel had disappeared!
She stared at the vast bed of sand, rippled in places, stretching from shore to shore. When she phoned Tweed he said he was just ready for breakfast, so why didn't she come down to the suite?
She was closing her door when another door opened and Pete Nield appeared. He fingered his moustache and grinned.
'Good morning. Just checking to make sure you're not wandering off on your own.'
'Makes me feel like a ruddy prisoner,' she mocked him. She liked Pete. 'I'm on my way to Tweed's suite. Come and join us.'
'What on earth has happened?' she asked as Tweed unlocked his door and ushered her inside. She went over to his extensive bay window which gave a better view. 'The river has vanished.'
'Leaving behind a vast sandbank,' he explained as he joined her. 'There's a very high tidal rise and fall here. The tide is out now.' He pointed to his left through a side window. 'That rocky cliff protruding at the edge of the town blots out a view of the open sea. Straight across from us is Porthilly Cove. No water there at all at the moment. There is a narrow channel which remains along the shore of that weird village over there.'
'Where is that?'
'Place called Rock. A small ferry shuttles back and forth between Padstow and Rock. At low tide – now – the ferry departs from a small cove at the base of the rocky cliff. When the tide rises it departs from the harbour.'
'What a strange place. This is my idea of Cornwall.'
She gazed to her left, beyond Rock towards the invisible Atlantic. The far shore was forbidding. Climbing up steeply was a wilderness of boulders, scrub and heathland. A sterile, inhospitable area. Yet further in past Rock there were green hill slopes undulating against the horizon as the sun shone out of a clear blue sky.
'You haven't heard that tape on the recorder I had hidden in my pocket when I talked to Cook,' Nield pointed out. 'It doesn't add much to what Buchanan later told us.'
'Let's hear it quickly, then get down to breakfast,' Tweed urged.
He stood with Paula staring out at the endless sandbank. Nield placed his small machine on a table, ran throug h the first part, then pressed the 'play' button.
'I spent time putting her at her ease,' Nield explained. 'Now, listen…
'Cook, can you tell me what you saw when the kitchen door was opened and closed again?' Nield's voice.
'It was an 'orrible shock, I can tell you…' Cook's voice quavered, then became firm. 'He was standin' there with this awful gun. A short wide barrel – bit like a piece of drainpipe. He aimed at the floor, something shot out and the place was full of a greyish sort of vapour.'
'The tear-gas,' Nield's voice broke in gently. 'But you probably had a good look at him?'
'Like a nightmare. That woollen hood over 'is 'ead with slits for the eyes. He moved gracefully, like a ballet dancer. But those eyes – without feeling, without any soul. A chill ran down my spine. Those eyes were blank – like a ghoul's eyes.'
'What happened next?' Nield pressed, still gently.
'We're all choking. Tears running down our faces. Then this beast walks straight up to me and 'its me on the 'ead with something. I just dropped to the floor and didn't know what was 'appenin' till I came round…'
'That's the relevant part,' Nield said. He switched off the recorder. 'There's more but nothing informative.'
'Interesting that reference to moving with the grace of a ballet dancer,' said Tweed. 'Time for breakfast.' He picked up a copy of the Daily Telegraph which had been slipped under his door. The late edition. They must fly them down.' He showed them the headline.
HUGE IRA BOMB DESTROYS LONDON BUILDING
That's not the significant item. I'll show you in the dining-room.' Butler joined them outside and they took the lift to the ground floor. Tweed held on to Paula's arm, keeping up the fiction that she was an invalid.
In the dining-room Tweed sat with Paula at a table with a panoramic view of the harbour over the grey slate rooftops of the small port. After ordering a substantial breakfast of bacon and eggs he folded the paper, handed it to Paula.
That's the intriguing bit,' he told her, keeping his voice down.
'GHOST' ROADBLOCKS IN WEST COUNTRY LAST NIGHT
Paula read the text below the headline. The gist was that a series of roadblocks had been established on all the main routes out of Cornwall. Motorists had been stopped and told it was a census to check the amount of traffic passing through. The strange twist was that no police force or council office had any knowledge of them.
'What is this weird business?' she asked Tweed.
'Not reassuring,' Tweed replied quietly. 'They – whoever they are – were looking for us. Again it confirms my fear about the extent of the vast network we're up against. To be able to organize something like that so rapidly.' He smiled. 'Enough to put me off my breakfast -but it won't.'
'It's like a noose closing round us,' Paula commented.
'Oh, we'll find a way of eluding them.' Tweed checked his watch. 'I must be at that phone box to call Cord Dillon just after nine thirty.' He glanced across at a distant table where Butler sat with Nield. 'Luckily you'll have some reliable company while I'm away.' 'Bu
t I'm coming with you to the phone box,' she insisted.
'Certainly, Paula, I fancy a drive to Bodmin Moor myself,' Newman told her. 'I'd like to get the atmosphere of where this ghastly massacre took place. Odd there's nothing about it in the paper. Meat and drink for the tabloids.'
They were standing outside the phone box while Tweed held the door half open in case someone else tried to use it. Tweed swung round.
'That's something else I find sinister – the absence of any report about the massacre at Tresillian Manor. It looks as though someone has silenced Roy Buchanan – and he's a man not easily silenced.' He looked back the way they had come as Cardon loped towards them, smiling.
'Morning, everyone. What a beautiful day. Sorry to be late but I slept in. I usually do if nothing's happening.'
'Too much is happening,' Tweed snapped.
'Bob is taking me for a drive to Bodmin Moor,' Paula reminded Cardon.
'Can I come too?' Cardon asked. 'Butler and Nield are ample guard for Tweed.' He grinned at Newman. 'Carry your bag, sir?'
'As I told you, we're going to interview one of the servant girls who works at Tresillian Manor,' Paula said. 'I think she might not say a word if too many people arrived. But thank you, anyway, Philip.'
'I could stay with the car if you're keeping it out of sight,' Cardon persisted.
'We'll be doing just that,' Paula agreed.
Take Philip with you,' Tweed ordered. 'I don't like this idea of yours, but as you're being obstinate I'll only let you go if you have two men with you. Now, I must make that phone call…'
***
At the London end the receiver was lifted swiftly when Tweed had dialled the number. He instantly recognized the distinctive American voice that answered.