The Cauldron

by Colin Forbes

  He then picked up the envelope he had dropped on Paula's bed. Taking out the three prints he held them in his hand.

  "These are pics of the woman who came out of the sea at the bottom of the path Marler and I walked down. They're good shots. She was dead when I took them.'

  'You left her there?' asked Paula.

  'No alternative. Tweed doesn't want us tangled up with the police. I called Truro police station anonymously so she wouldn't lie there all night.'

  He spread the prints out on the bed. Paula and Marler stood up, went to the end of the bed. As she stared down at them Paula almost let out a small scream. Controlling herself, she gazed at the photos as though hypnotized. Newman sensed her shock.

  'What's wrong?'

  "This is the same woman I hauled out at Octopus Cove - but she was dead. Dead! So how can she have come ashore here? Six thousand miles away from California. I know it's the same woman. Oh, God, what is going on?'

  1

  Inside his office at Mullion Towers a small neat man in his late forties sat behind his desk. His expression was hypnotic, his eyes pale and penetrating, and he radiated an air of power. The world would have expected this man to occupy a large palatial room furnished with expensive carpets and antiques. Instead, the room had no carpet on the wooden floor, his desk and swivel chair were inexpensive furniture, the pictures on the walls were prints of Monet paintings and in one corner stood two massive metal filing cabinets. A carver chair stood on the other side of his desk and in another corner was a massive safe with two combination locks. Its base was sunk into concrete and it was equipped with a series of sophisticated alarms. Anyone even touching the safe would have set off a flashing light in the Guard House situated on the ground floor below the office.

  Vincent Bernard Moloch was studying a map of California with strange irregular lines running from the south up through the state, past Silicon Valley, the home of the electronics industry in America, and on to San Francisco. As someone started to open the door he folded the map quickly, clasped his hands on the desk.

  'You wanted to see me?' Joel Brand asked truculently as he entered the room.

  'We need to talk,' Moloch said in a quiet mild tone. 'Do please take a seat.'

  He observed his visitor through gold-rimmed spectacles, missing nothing. Brand's shaggy dark hair was ruffled, he wore an open-necked T-shirt, its half-sleeves exposing thick hairy arms, blue denims and boots with metal studs in the toecaps. He sat back in the carver and waited.

  'How did that woman come to be aboard the Venetia?' Moloch asked quietly.

  'Must have stowed away while the ship was in Monterey harbour. She appeared with a bag of clothes when we were leaving the Panama Canal, heading out into the Caribbean bound for here.'

  'So what happened next?'

  'Nothing much while we were at sea. What did you expect was going to happen?'

  Brand's manner was resentful, as though he disliked being interrogated. Moloch's tone remained mild, his intelligent face showing no reaction as he spoke again.

  'Joel, when I ask a question I do not expect to have another question as a reply. Give me details.'

  'She was given a cabin. I wasn't sure how to handle her. Then she appears in the dining room, a real sexy chick and dressed up to the nines. She was very pleasant, joked with me and the others a lot. I couldn't make out what was going on.'

  'You searched her suitcase?'

  'Yes, if you must know ...'

  'I must know. Please continue.'

  'Found she'd hung up most of her stuff in the wardrobe. In the case I found her handbag with her passport. I took that. Oh, there was also a swimsuit.'

  'Didn't that make you wonder?'

  'Why should it? Most days she'd take a dip in the swimming pool.'

  'She was clever. I'm not sure it was so clever to remove her passport. She'd know you'd searched.'

  "That gave her identity.' Brand took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one. 'I suppose I can smoke in the holy of holies?'

  'You know I don't smoke. Would you be so good as to kill that?'

  Brand savagely stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray Moloch had produced from his drawer. He made a great performance of it, screwing the cigarette round and round. Moloch leant back in his chair, arms folded.

  'Joel, what happened when the Venetia had anchored outside Falmouth harbour?'

  'I've told you...'

  'Please tell me again. It's important.'

  'It was evening. I was strolling round the deck to make sure everything was shipshape and Bristol fashion. Then I saw her - wearing her swimsuit and poised to dive over the side. I ran forward to stop her but got there too late except I thumped her.'

  "Thumped her, Joel?'

  'Yes, bloody well thumped her on the back with this.' He clenched his huge fist. 'But she was already diving off the deck.'

  'You injured her?'

  'Didn't look like it. She was swimming like a fish towards the shore. I had to run to my cabin to get my rifle. When I got back on deck she was miles away and a mist blurred her. I fired one shot. Don't think I hit. Then the mist closed in round the ship.'

  'You didn't send out powerboats or dinghies after her?'

  'How the hell could I?' Brand blustered. 'That mist was like a fog. We wouldn't have known where to start looking.'

  'You fired a shot?'

  'I just told you.'

  'I think that was unwise. It could have been heard if a small yacht was about. So she must have reached the shore and is now somewhere in Britain. This is very serious. We have one of the most formidable men in the world on our track. Tweed c'

  There was a stunned silence while Brand absorbed what Moloch had said. Eventually the big man reacted.

  'You've told me about this Tweed. How the hell does he come into the picture? You must be wrong.'

  'I'm never wrong.' Moloch smiled without humour. 'I've made it my business to learn about that secretive outfit. People he knows in the States talked to me too much. While you were sailing to Monterey, Tweed's right arm, a woman called Paula Grey, was staying at Spanish Bay. I'm quite certain she wasn't there on holiday. She had been sent by Tweed to nose around about what I was up to.'

  'How can you be sure?' Brand demanded obstinately.

  'Because I check anything which has a whiff of suspicion. While you were crossing the Atlantic I had some of my people from my headquarters near Big Sur trawl around the harbour at Monterey. A first-class woman detective enquired all over the harbour. Eventually she came up with gold.'

  'Gold? What gold?'

  'She played up to a drunken man called Floorstone who had been standing in as harbour master. He told her about meeting an attractive dark-haired English girl. She was very interested in the Venetia when you left Monterey harbour - wanted to know if I was aboard. The detective got a description of her and it fits with descriptions I have of Paula Grey. Also I have another source of information about Grey's stay at Spanish Bay. There's no doubt that Tweed is on our track.'

  'So maybe we should liquidate this Paula Grey. And Tweed.'

  Moloch froze. He leaned forward, his expression grim, his ice-blue eyes glittering.

  'Are you out of your skull? First, these people are world professionals ...'

  'That guy - whoever he is - you call The Accountant could do the job...'

  Moloch said nothing. He stared at Brand, went on staring at Brand, his body motionless. The big man stared back at the ice-cold eyes and he was frightened. He cleared his throat.

  'OK. Maybe I was out of order.'

  'You were out of your mind.' Moloch's voice was as cold as his eyes, he sat like a grim waxwork. After a long pause he spoke again, slowly, with great deliberation and precision.

  'You are out of your mind. Tweed is SIS. Paula Grey is SIS. We evade them. If I ever catch you within a mile of either of them I'll terminate your employment. Permanently.' he added.

  'Understood,' Brand said tersely. 'May I go now?'

 
'I think that would be a good idea. But you stay on the premises for the moment. Call Penhale aboard the Venetia. Tell him he's in command of the ship for the moment.'

  'Penhale is useless ...'

  'Penhale is one of the best skippers afloat. I would much appreciate your carrying out my request.'

  'If you say so. Oh, here are some balance sheets your pet accountant, Geach, prepared for you. Don't trust that guy one little bit.'

  'You don't have to trust him. I do,' replied Moloch reaching for the sheaf of papers Brand had placed on his desk. 'One more thing - if my stepmother, Mrs Benyon, calls from California I'm not here.'

  At Park Crescent Tweed looked up as Howard, the Director, walked into his office with a lordly air. He saw Monica pull a wry face. Howard was immaculately dressed in his latest Chester Barrie suit from Harrods. He also wore a new pink shirt and a Chanel tie. Ignoring Monica, he sat down in a leather armchair near Tweed's desk. Crossing his long legs - Howard was six feet tall -he carefully adjusted the crease in his trousers.

  'How goes the battle?' he enquired.

  'Which battle?' Tweed flashed back.

  'Well, actually, I was thinking of this investigation into the eminent VB. That's what his close associates call Vincent Bernard Moloch.'

  'We know. Monica discovered that during her researches on him.'

  'Good for Monica,' Howard replied without a glance in her direction. "The Prime Minister is panting for news.'

  'Let him pant until I'm good and ready - which I am not at this moment. Monica is in the middle of building up a profile on VB.'

  Taking the devil of a long time ...'

  'No, it isn't. Monica was up till three this morning, calling contacts in the States.'

  'We need a little action on this one ...'

  'We're getting plenty of that.' Tweed held up a hand. 'No, don't ask for details. You need a complete report.'

  Howard ran a finger over his pink, plump, cleanshaven face. Checking the shave, Tweed noted. Was he starting to go out with girl friends again? He doubted it - Howard's wife, Cynthia, had forced him to close down his London flat, to come home to his house in Ascot every night.

  'Suppose I must be content with the little you've given me.' remarked Howard. 'But no one is indispensable.'

  'I hope you include yourself in that observation.' Tweed said tartly.

  'Just a joke, old chap.' Howard concluded, standing up to leave. 'Carry on the good work, Monica.' he went on as he opened the door. 'Late hours are good for you.'

  Monica raised both eyebrows and said nothing until he was gone. Then she stood up and exploded.

  'Some joke. You could get his job tomorrow. I know you get on well with the PM, that he admires you. May I open another window? Can't stand his aftershave.'

  'Of course. I don't want his job. And he's useful with a glass in his hand, attending Russian, et cetera diplomatic receptions. Now tell me.'

  'VB is the Mystery Man. I've had a frightful job building up his profile. He doesn't like publicity. Here we go. First, his right-hand man is a brute called Joel Brand - here is a photo of him. Supposed to have been in the Navy. The Admiralty report they have never heard of him. Next, Brand isn't his real name. He is an Armenian - real name Varouj Kerkorian. Likes to play the rough type. But he has brains - so many Armenians have. He attended the Harvard School of Business and got an MBA. Master of Business Administration, however little that stands for these days. Returned to Britain and became a smuggler of contraband across the North Sea ...'

  'Hold it there. Was he ever convicted?'

  'No, too slippery. But Customs and Excise are convinced he ran a big ring. He goes from girl friend to girl friend once he's got what he's after. Rather like changing his clothes. He once nearly killed a man in the Hamburg Reeperbahn.'

  'Sounds more and more unsavoury. A womanizer and a thug.'

  'A good description of Mr Brand. Again he got off scot-free. The German police couldn't even charge him with attempted murder - witnesses were intimidated and refused to testify. Supposed to be thirty-eight years old, but being Armenian that's impossible to check.'

  'Why would someone like Moloch employ such a man? I gather outwardly VB is sophisticated and refined.'

  'From what I can gather from people who have known him Mr Brand is a kind of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. I've described the Hyde. On other occasions he can be charming and good company - especially with women. But with men, too, if he wants to. He's attended receptions here and in the States on Moloch's behalf. VB keeps in the background. I'm still getting more data coming in on Brand.'

  'What about the all-powerful Moloch? What's his nationality?'

  'All-powerful is the key to Moloch. He knows some of the richest men in the world - as you know they form a kind of club. Moloch is the richest. His original nationality is a mystery. I think he arrived in this country as a youth supposedly from what was Czechoslovakia, now the Czech Republic. He came here as a student, qualified as an accountant, then pushed off to America. There he built up an electronics company in California. Other outfits combined, eliminated him as a competitor, wiped him out.'

  'He must love America.' Tweed commented.

  "The word is he hates it after what happened to him. But he keeps his real feelings to himself. He then set about building up AMBECO into the biggest conglomerate in the world. Borrowed money from a bank, immediately paid back the loan when he was successful to keep his independence. He works like a Trojan, needs very little sleep.'

  'Personality?'

  'I'm told he can be a real charmer - far more so than Brand. I can't find a photograph of him anywhere but I'm persisting. He objects to having his picture taken. He has plants all over the States, here in the North, in Germany and France and Holland. He has one in Saudi Arabia.'

  'The Arab connection.'

  'Exactly. He's fluent in Arabic, German, French, Italian, Spanish, and English, of course. My informant on that score told me he was self-taught. He has a first-rate brain...'

  'Married?'

  'Never. At least so far I haven't traced a wife. VB has a succession of girl friends - all of them so-called upper-class types. There have been seven of them so far. They have all disappeared.'

  'Disappeared? What on earth do you mean?'

  'What I said. They vanish without trace. They are supposed to have gone off travelling with money VB supplied them with but they've never been seen since. I spoke to Cord Dillon, your American opposite number at the CIA in Langley. The wealthy father of one of the girls, Julia Sanchez, called Cord from Philadelphia. Cord, as a favour, checked out her movements. The records show a return ticket to London, and a girl who looked like Julia did board the flight, then she vanished. A flight from San Francisco.'

  'Were these girl friends VB's confidantes, I wonder?'

  'I gather they may have been. Cord is equally worried about the amount of power Moloch has accumulated. He has certain key senators in his pocket. Money roars.'

  'It certainly does.' Tweed looked thoughtful. 'Any chance of obtaining a photo of this Julia Sanchez?'

  'Yes. The father in Philadelphia supplied Cord with several. At my request Cord has sent one to you by Federal Express. Should arrive tomorrow.'

  'Does this Armenian Varouj Kerkorian - or Joel Brand as he now calls himself - jealously guard his position as Moloch's deputy?'

  Monica looked surprised at this unexpected question. She gazed at Tweed, smiled wrily.

  'You do have a sixth sense. One of the things I left out was that Brand can't stand anyone else getting close to VB.'

  'Where is VB's main base?'

  'I asked Cord that question. VB has a huge house near Big Sur south of Carmel. It's called Black Ridge, overlooks the Pacific, is heavily guarded. Savage dogs, searchlights, an electric wire on top of a wall round the place. You name any form of advanced security and he's got it.'

  'What about his fabulous ship, Venetia V?'

  'Well, as I told you the other day, it sailed from Monterey
some time ago. My contact at Lloyd's said it was supposed to be bound for Baja California in Mexico, then it changed its destination to Falmouth...'

  'Yes, I remember.'

  'Which I suppose is why you sent that large team down to Cornwall...'

  'Yes. I omitted telling them about the ship to see how they reacted spontaneously. And, of course, Paula had phoned some of that information to me from San Francisco airport before she boarded her flight to return here. Now, about the contact at Lloyd's.'

  'He said it was the most expensive and sophisticated private vessel in the world - especially as regards communications.'

  'Must have cost a packet - but Moloch's resources appear to be unlimited. That's it so far?'

  'Not quite. Living in a big house near Mission Ranch, just on the southern fringes of Carmel, is Moloch's grim-looking stepmother, Mrs Benyon.'

  'Why grim-looking? How do you know?'

  'Because I obtained a recent picture of her from a photo library.' Monica stood up, produced a large print from her desk drawer, laid it in front of Tweed. 'That's her.'

  Tweed gazed at the picture. It showed Mrs Benyon sitting in a chair like a throne. She was grotesquely fat, had two plump jowls, hawklike eyes which stared straight at Tweed. She reminded him of a Buddha and he didn't like the look of her. Her mouth was pouched venomously and her thick grey hair hung to her wide shoulders. Even in a photo she exuded an air of command, a woman who expected everyone to obey her slightest whim. He handed the photograph back to Monica.

  'How old is the dear lady?'

  "That I haven't found out. But she has a son who works for Moloch. He's called Ethan Benyon, and is a seismologist.'

  'What is VB doing with seismology?'

  'No idea. It's another factor that worries Cord Dillon. He wouldn't say why so I didn't press him. I'm still digging, but what do you think of it all so far?'

  'I don't like it. Especially that item about VB's seven girl friends vanishing without trace. Sounds sinister. I may have to go down to Cornwall very soon. With Harry Butler's partner, Pete Nield.'