by Colin Forbes
'You must be joking,' Buller snapped. 'What use is he? He's absorbed in the idea that a Colombian drug cartel is the menace.'
'This is grimly convincing,' Tweed said reflectively.
'My next follow-up,' Buller went on, 'is to go up to that suspicious village, Carpford. I'll interview everyone up there even if I have to drag them out of bed. There may be very little time left.'
'Go up when?'
'Tonight.'
Buller had drunk all the second cup of coffee. He stood up, put on his raincoat, gazed at Tweed. 'No time like the present.'
'You could be walking into something,' Tweed warned. 'So take Marler with you.'
'I know you're tops,' Buller said, looking at Marler. 'But on something like this I operate best on my own. No offence.'
'None taken,' Marler replied.
When Buller had left Tweed began pacing the office swiftly. His expression was grave. So was the tone of his voice when he spoke.
'I don't like this. Don't like it one bit.'
'You mean the awful news he brought us?' Monica suggested.
'That, of course. But also the idea of Buller driving up to Carpford by himself in the dark. Mind you, he can look after himself.'
'You hope,' Marler commented.
Within minutes Marler's mobile was ringing. He answered, then spoke to Tweed.
'It's Roy Buchanan. He's on his way here by car. Wants a word . . .'
'Yes Roy,' Tweed said after grasping the mobile. 'Before you get here I have news - if this wretched mobile is safe.'
'Yours or mine?' Buchanan snapped.
'I have to assume this one - belongs to Marler - is secure. It's a new model he pinched from somewhere.'
'Probably same as the new one I'm using. Latest news from Victor Warner's lot is he's convinced the Mafia is bringing in men to establish gambling casinos - which will be distribution centres for hard drugs. In cooperation with the Colombia mob.'
'He should be sacked, the idiot. Are you near me?'
'Could be. In ten minutes.'
'Get over here then. There's a major new development I won't reveal over the phone.'
He handed the mobile back to Marler, began pacing again. Monica had the impression he couldn't sit still. From the look on his face his brain was churning full power.
'The major new development being Buller,' Marler remarked.
'Yes. But when I spent time at my flat yesterday I couldn't sleep. I was conducting a major exercise. Imagining myself as the man controlling al-Qa'eda. What would I go for to terrify London? One thing I decided was essential. Maximum number of casualties.'
Buchanan arrived about an hour later, which was much longer than Tweed had expected. He was also clad in a green oilskin. Tweed stared at him.
'Going fishing?'
'You could say that. Actually it keeps me warm, and outside it's an arctic night. I'm furious with Warner. He's wasting so much manpower.'
'And how is he doing that? Not that I'm surprised.'
'He's still fixated on that drawing of St Paul's. He has heaven knows how many policemen at the entrance, checking everyone who wants to go into the place. On top of that he has a posse of detectives inside in plain clothes, pretending to be worshippers.'
'He's covering his backside - on the remote possibility the target is St Paul's.'
'That's only a part of it,' Buchanan fumed. 'He has more men at all entrances to Canary Wharf. You can imagine the reaction of the hundreds who work there. They're stopped and made to wait while they're searched and anything they happen to be carrying is examined. He even has marksmen at the top of the building complex. Anything to tell me?'
'Yes . . .' Tweed recalled everything Jasper Duller had told him. Buchanan frowned as he listened. He said nothing until Tweed had concluded his report.
'Well, if he thinks it's useless to inform Warner we can forget about our so-called Minister for Home Security. I don't like the idea of him driving up there on his own at night.'
'He refused to let Marler go with him.'
'Don't blame him,' Marler interjected. 'If I was in his position I'd have wanted to go on my own.'
'You'll have to excuse me now,' Buchanan said, heading for the door. 'I've got a job to do.' He turned round before he left. 'Al-Qa'eda. That sends shivers up my spine . . .'
Monica chewed the end of her pencil when they were alone. 'I noticed Buchanan was unusually secretive. Didn't give us a clue as to what job he was talking about.'
'I noticed that,' Tweed agreed. 'It's late, if anyone wants to go home. I'm staying.'
The phone rang. It was Beaurain. He sounded abrupt when he spoke to Tweed.
'I've arrived back from Italy with Paula. Now we're going to be here at Heathrow for God knows how long. Heavy security checks.'
'I'll wait for you however long it takes.'
He told Monica and Marler the gist of Beaurain's message. They said they'd wait too. The grim news came in just before Beaurain arrived with Paula.
'Roy here. Near Carpford. Buller has disappeared.' 'What do you mean? What about his car?' 'I checked with Special Branch HQ. A blue Ford. They gave me the plate number. Found parked by the side of a small inn on the main road before you turn off to Carpford. The key was in the ignition. No sign of a struggle or blood inside the Ford. Buller has vanished without trace.'
'Isn't it time we dragged Carp Lake?'
'Which is exactly what we're doing now. Big team. Seven divers, whole lake lit up by flashlights - searchlights, I mean. One of the locals is kicking up.'
'Which one?'
'Drew Franklin. Says we'll kill the carp. I ask you. Lord knows what we're going to find before we're through. Three bodies?'
19
'Buchanan expects to find three bodies.'
Tweed was saying this when the door opened and Beaurain walked in with Paula. She had caught what Tweed had just said to Monica and Marler.
'What three bodies?' she wanted to know. 'Whose bodies?'
They both looked travel-stained. Tweed thought Paula looked fresher than the Belgian. As she sat behind her desk she stared at Tweed, her voice demanding.
'Whose bodies?' she repeated.
'I'm afraid Mrs Gobble has also vanished.'
Monica offered to get coffee and they both thanked her and agreed they needed it. Tweed sat back in his chair and continued talking. He spoke rapidly but it still took time to relate the arrival of Jasper Buller, what he had told about his trip to Italy, his determination to drive up to Carpford by himself. Then he recalled for them Buchanan's brief visit, what he had said, his anxiety about Buller driving up to Carpford on his own. He paused.
'A few minutes ago Buchanan phoned me from the Carpford area . . .' He concluded by reporting the gist of the superintendent's much later phone call, that Buller had disappeared, and they were dragging Carp Lake.
'This is getting very grim,' Paula commented.
'And Buller reported that al-Qa'eda has moved its main base from Milan to somewhere over here,' Beaurain commented. 'Which links up with our experience.'
'Tell me,' Tweed said calmly.
He doodled as he listened, frequently glancing up at Beaurain. Nothing in his expression betrayed his reaction. When the Belgian had ended his story Tweed looked at Paula.
'Sounds as though you did pretty well during the battle of the amphitheatre.'
'I'd be dead if she hadn't been there,' Beaurain said.
'Oh, I guess we make a good team,' Paula responded casually.
'Describe this Petacci, who isn't really Petacci and who is English,' Tweed told Paula. He leaned forward, asked her for the man's likely age, height, colour of eyes, of hair.
She closed her eyes for a moment, visualizing him. Then she gave as detailed a description as she could.
'About fortyish, probably five feet eight, blue eyes, brown hair. No moustache.'
'It's Philip.' Tweed leant back in his chair. 'Left Special Branch several years ago. Good linguist so he went off tra
wling round the continent, made a living using contacts he'd picked up earlier to get information he could sell. But only to the West. Very patriotic.'
'His second name?' Paula asked. 'Philip who?'
'I'm not identifying him beyond what I've already said.'
'Reliable?' queried Beaurain.
'As reliable as you are.'
'Then his information about al-Qa'eda is to be trusted?'
'Absolutely. Combined with what Buller told me I think we can be sure their new base is somewhere over here - and that means they plan to make London our September 11. Not a comforting thought.'
'Maybe,' Beaurain suggested, 'we ought to explore Hastings and the area round it - where they come ashore.'
'Waste of time. Too late. They've landed at least twenty men. Similar number to the team which hit the World Trade Center in New York. So where are they hiding?'
'Up at Carpford?' Paula wondered.
'Unlikely. They could be driven there easily at night from Hastings, I agree. But where is the accommodation at Carpford to hide twenty men - maybe more? From what I know of the place it doesn't exist. It might just be the home of the mastermind, whoever he is.'
'What makes you so sure it is a "he"?' Marler drawled. 'Why not a woman? I've had a weird experience following Eva Brand.'
The idea stunned them. They sat silent, staring at Marler. He kept them in suspense as he took a cigarette from his gold cigarette case, didn't hurry lighting it, took a puff. He looked round, studying their expressions.
'Marler!' Tweed crashed his fist on his desk. 'Do get on with it. I have this horrible feeling the clock is ticking down to a catastrophe.'
'Yesterday evening she left her flat, took a cab to the Ivy, had dinner with the Right Honourable Peregrine Palfry . . .'
'I saw him meeting her when I was leaving,' Paula interjected. 'She told him about her experience.'
'Mind if I continue, my dear? Otherwise Tweed will slap you down. They spent two hours over dinner, seemed to know each other well. Then Eva, looking very serious, leaves in a cab she must have ordered. By now I'm back sitting in my car. I follow her. Back to her flat in Fulham. Once inside she turns on the light in the living-room, no curtains drawn. She unrolls a small prayer rug, kneels on it facing east, bows her head very slowly a number of times. Gets up, rolls the rug, tucks it under a sofa, showers — the bathroom window steamed up - then presumably goes to bed.'
'Are you sure of this?' Tweed asked, his tone disbelieving.
'You think I'd imagine a scene like that?'
'She's a ruddy Muslim fanatic,' Paula burst out.
'Hence,' Marler said gently, 'my question. What makes Tweed so sure the brain behind all this is a man?'
They were stunned again. Marler smoked his cigarette, looked at each in turn. Most people would be pleased with the idea of dropping a bombshell, reducing their audience to silence. Marler simply looked as though he'd been talking about the weather.
'Want to hear what she did next day?' Marler eventually enquired.
'Yes, we would,' Tweed said quietly.
'Gets up late - to avoid rush hour, I imagine. Has breakfast. Just croissants . . .'
'How on earth could you see that?' Paula demanded.
'Because, my dear, I'm using my monocular glass. She has good teeth. May I proceed? About ten she emerges, dressed in a windcheater, gets behind the wheel of her Saab after she's packed what she's carrying in the back . . .'
'What was she carrying?' rapped Tweed.
'I was coming to that. One very large Harrods carrier and a much smaller one which she puts in the car carefully. Briefly now, I follow her to Carpford. She parks the Saab out of sight behind Martin Hogarth's bungalow . . .'
'Not the boozy brother, Billy?' Paula queried.
'Who is reporting this sequence of events?' Marler gave her a look. 'Eva then reappears, carrying both carriers. The elegant Martin is waiting for her, opens the door, she goes inside. Spends a couple of hours there, then drives back to her Fulham flat. I wait nearby all day and half the evening. She doesn't come out again. So, here I am.'
'Mysterious,' commented Beaurain. 'I'd like to meet the lady.'
'You most certainly would.' Marler chuckled. 'I reckon she would dazzle you.'
'A good looker?'
'That's an understatement.'
'What Marler has told us brings Martin Hogarth into the picture,' Tweed broke in impatiently. 'We never thought about him . . .'
As though on cue, Newman walked in, followed by Harry and Pete. Newman's report on Hogarth was useless. He had tried to call on his target but the door was never answered. Even though Newman could hear movement inside the bungalow. He'd waited for hours but Martin had never appeared.
Harry's report was more positive. As always, he kept his narrative brief.
'Palfry stays in the Ministry until mid-evening, then takes a cab to the Ivy. I see Pete here watching the place.'
'I didn't see you,' Nield grumbled.
'You weren't supposed to. If you had seen me I'd be no good at my job, mate. By then Tweed had phoned me to tell me to watch the Ivy to guard Paula.' He looked at Nield. 'You certainly saw me then.'
'Bob,' Tweed said quickly, 'you were watching Victor Warner. What did you see?'
'Nothing. Never caught one glimpse of our brilliant Minister. All the time I was enduring the boredom of Whitehall Warner never appeared. I'm pretty sure he wasn't in the building. And that was a long absence.'
'Time I called on the lawyer, Pecksniff, who handles the finances for this invisible New Age company which developed Carpford.' Tweed was putting on his raincoat as he continued, 'You can come with me, Paula. I doubt we'll get anything out of him. A dubious lawyer.'
'I'd better come too,' Harry said. 'If he clams up I'll pay him one of my calls.'
Ali was waiting inside a phone-box in a remote village. He grabbed the phone on the second ring. 'Yes?'
'Who is that?' the strange voice talking through a distorter demanded.
'Ali.'
'Abdullah here. Is the equipment in place now?'
'Four milk vans carrying the bombs . . .'
'Idiot! I used the word equipment. You do the same. Well?'
'Four items of equipment are in place - inside the warehouse. They have to be transported to their ultimate destination. The fifth vehicle's engine wouldn't start. We're working on it. Another hour and . . .'
'You do realize you must not put it on the road until after dark. Get something right.'
'We are being very careful. All the team has arrived . . .'
Ali slammed down the phone and swore. Abdullah had broken the connection. As he walked out into the drizzle he again wondered: was the voice that of a man or a woman? Impossible to tell.
Pecksniff & Co., Solicitors, were situated in Bermondsey down a narrow side street. Not the best part of Bermondsey, the old three-storey buildings had seen no renovation for years. Loose bricks, fallen from walls, littered the pavement. The windows had not seen a cleaner for ages. The miserable street was littered with rubbish. A dirty brass plate attached to the wall located the place. The Peck had been ripped away so the sign now read sniff & Co, Solicit.
'Not the best part of town,' Harry observed. 'Not even for the East End. Not safe either. Get mugged here for a box of matches.'
'We'll leave you to guard the car,' Tweed decided.
The moment Tweed and Paula left the car Harry locked the doors. Reaching down under his seat, he grasped a canister of Mace gas, perched it on his lap.
Tweed pressed the bell beside the door with stained-glass windows in the upper half. 'Stained' described it well - impossible to guess the original colours. No one came. He shoved his thumb into the bell and kept it there. When the door opened a strange apparition appeared.
Clad in a shabby black jacket which reached his knees, he wore an equally old-fashioned collar with the tips protruding. He was living up to his Dickensian name -even had an ancient gold watch chain draped across
his waistcoat. Stooped, his hair was the colour of dirty mustard, his pinched face lined and his little eyes were cunning.
'We have an appointment,' Tweed said.
'I don't think so. I made no appointments.'
'I did.' Tweed held his SIS folder close to the face. 'Now let us in. This street smells.'