Cell

by Colin Forbes

'Paula and Jules have left in his car. I'll wait a few minutes before I drive after them up to Carpford. I'm going to be the mysterious figure lurking at the edge of Black Wood. Back-up for Paula and Jules. Even if you object I'm still going.'

  'Mutiny!' Tweed threw up his hands. 'First Paula, now you. Get up there as fast as you can. Communicate with me on your mobile. When you can.'

  Monica appeared. She handed Newman the Uzi inside the case. She pursed her lips.

  'Don't go and shoot yourself.'

  'What?'

  Then he saw the smile on her face. He kissed her on the cheek. She then handed him a smaller satchel than the one provided for Beaurain and Paula.

  'Coffee in a flask. Plus a bottle of mineral water. Still. The way you like it. You get thirsty, I know.'

  'Bless you. I'm on my way . . .'

  The office seemed strangely quiet with only Monica and Tweed left. It was the contrast with the frenetic activity which had taken place. Tweed asked Monica for her book with the list of phone numbers. He first called the Ministry of Security. The dull voice of a guard told him the Minister was not there.

  Tweed called the penthouse number where Victor Warner lived in London. He was taken aback when a soft voice answered.

  'Hello?'

  'You sound like Eva. Tweed here.'

  'Maybe it's because I am Eva,' the sultry voice replied. 'Hold on, don't go . . .' He heard her call out to Mrs Carson that this was a personal call and could she have some privacy. There was plenty to do in the kitchen. A door slammed. 'Old Nosy,' Eva whispered. 'Now what can I do for you? Always a dangerous question for a woman to ask a man.'

  'Sometimes. Is his Lordship there?'

  'If you mean Victor Wannabe, no he isn't. He drove up to Garda — his hideaway in Carpford. I can give you the number, but don't tell him how you got it. Ex-directory.'

  'Thank you, but I won't bother.'

  'I'm feeling lonely, restless. Could we meet somewhere? I'd suggest Marco's Love Nest in Lower Cheyne Street. It's off Walton Street.'

  'I know it.'

  'You do? I'm surprised at you. In an hour's time?'

  'See you then . . .'

  In a subtle way Eva had sounded seductive. There were many sides to Eva Brand. He phoned the Ministry of Security again, asked for Peregrine Palfry.

  'He's not here. Didn't you phone a few minutes ago?' the same dull guard's voice asked.

  'No. Good-night. . .'

  His new call was to Martin Hogarth. He handled this carefully. A superior voice snapped.

  'Yes. Who is it?'

  'Martin?'

  'Yes . . .'

  Tweed hung up. His last call was to Drew Franklin at the Daily Nation. He was transferred from one person to another. Then a girl's voice answered.

  'Drew?' she said. 'He's shoved off into his country place. Who is calling?'

  'Charlie Wilson. Not urgent. Thank you . . .'

  He broke the connection. Monica was gazing at him, intrigued.

  He drank some cold coffee which had been in the mug for a long time. She pulled a face.

  'Don't know how you can swallow that. You've been phoning all the suspects, haven't you? To find out where they are.'

  'That's right. The only one I've left out is Margesson, whom Paula called the Priest. We haven't his number but it's probably ex-directory. Doesn't matter.'

  'They do say that it's the one you've missed you should have called.'

  Despite Monica's protests about lack of protection, Tweed drove himself to the bar off Walton Street. He was glad to be on his own. He could think better without company.

  Marco's Love Nest was discreetly advertised. No flashing neon lights. The name simply engraved on a brass plate with a dim light above it. When he walked in he had to pause to get used to the dimness. A long thin room with the bar on his left. The only illumination was a series of wall sconces glowing with a shadowy light. Behind the bar was a thin man clad in a white apron decorated with the name Marco. He approached the bar.

  'I was supposed to meet a lady here.'

  'She is waiting for you at a table at the back. Arrived ten minutes ago.'

  'How do you know she's waiting for me?'

  Marco now had a secretive smile. Not a smirk but knowing. He put down the glass he was cleaning, leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

  'She described you, sir. Medium height. Could be in his mid-forties. Wearing horn-rim glasses.'

  'What is she drinking? Ready for another, you think?'

  'Not yet. She just sips her drink. What will you have?'

  'A glass of Chardonnay.'

  'Two of a kind. Even like the same drink.'

  'Marco, just give me the drink, then tell me the cost, including the lady's.'

  'Didn't mean to be offensive. Sir.'

  'Had you been, you'd have known about it . . .'

  Having paid, Tweed made his way to the back of the bar. By now his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness and he could see her clearly. Sitting at a table in a secluded alcove, one hand slowly swivelling her glass by the stem as she watched him coming. He sat down, facing her.

  'Cheers!' He raised his glass and she clinked hers with his. Her outfit surprised him. She was wearing a close-fitting white sleeveless dress, exposing her shapely arms and shoulders.

  'Does he know you're here?' Tweed asked suddenly, abruptly.

  'Victor? Certainly not. I keep my private life very private.'

  'When was he first appointed Minister of Security?'

  'Oh, about two years ago . . .' Eva replied.

  'Why was he chosen?' Tweed asked.

  'He was an MP and had been director of Medfords private security outfit. Obvious choice. The only one with the experience.'

  'How did you come to work for him?' Tweed went on in a blank tone of voice.

  'Thought you'd have realized that from what I told you when I slipped over secretly to your office. When he was with Medfords I was on the staff. It's a loose arrangement.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'It means,' said Eva, 'I'm not officially on his staff. So I'm not trapped in that idiotic Civil Service system. I'm paid out of his private income. Victor is a rich man.'

  'How did that come about?'

  'It came about, Mr Tweed, because it was the only way I would agree to work for him.'

  'You have official office hours?' Tweed asked.

  'I damned well don't. I come and go as I please. I thought this was going to be a fun evening.' She was still smiling as she had done since he'd sat down. 'Instead I find myself being interrogated. I did a lot of that myself at Medfords.'

  Tweed sipped his wine. She waited, her large eyes glowing into his. He had the odd feeling she was penetrating inside his brain. An exceptionally intelligent lady with bewitching looks.

  'Where were you born?' he asked suddenly.

  'In a small village in Hampshire. Don't ask me the village's name because I won't tell you. My childhood is strictly my own affair.'

  'You told me your mother was killed in a road accident. So what about your father?'

  'You've hit a road-block. I don't want to talk about him. I will not talk about him.' Still smiling.

  'You disliked him?'

  'Didn't you hear what I just said?'

  Eva lifted her almost full glass, swallowed the contents in two large gulps. She raised the empty glass to the barman, who came hurrying over.

  'Same again,' she said.

  'You left Medfords before Warner did?'

  'As a matter of fact, I did. He contacted me two years later when he became a Minister, offered me the job.'

  'And how did you spend those two years?'

  'More interrogation.' She was still smiling. 'I was what they used to call a swinger, maybe still do. Cocktail bars and the best night clubs.'

  'Miss Brand

  'Eva, please.'

  'Eva, I don't believe you. The swinger fairy-tale. Not your style.'

  'Then that's your problem.' She w
aited until the barman, who had brought her a fresh glass of wine, went away. She drank half the glass at one go, then stretched out a hand and took hold of Tweed's resting on the table. 'We are friends, are we not?'

  'I would hope so. I've just been doing my job.'

  'Good. I asked you here to warn you. When the mandate from Downing Street arrived, appointing you Supremo in the present crisis, at first Victor was livid. Then he came to like the idea,' Eva explained.

  'Why?'

  'Because if al-Qa'eda launch a successful and devastating attack on London you get the blame, not Victor. He has always operated in this way - had a scapegoat tucked away in a cupboard, so to speak. After all, you are in charge of defeating al-Qa'eda - a point he has emphasized in the Cabinet.'

  'So, secretly he's worried about an attack coming? Even though he pooh-poohs the idea in public?'

  'Now you've caught on. Warnings about some terrible catastrophe being imminent are beginning to seep into the press. Our nice gossip writer, Drew Franklin, has seen to that. Sometimes I think Drew is not all he seems. He's suave, polite with women, natters them so he can get what he wants. Reminds me of a smokescreen.'

  'You could be right,' Tweed agreed.

  'He came after me. But I got the impression his main motive was not the bedroom. It was to pump me about Victor's security measures. I told him I couldn't talk about security- and I wasn't interested in having dinner with him. When he asked, "Why?" I said because I didn't trust him. You ought to pay attention to Drew Franklin.'

  'I will. And I appreciate what you have told me. Scapegoat? Interesting.'

  'He developed that technique at Medfords. If something didn't work out he had someone else ready to dump the blame on to. He is, in fact, your typical politician. Manipulation is the name of the game. He's an expert.'

  'Then maybe,' Tweed suggested, 'you should watch your back.'

  She squeezed Tweed's hand, which she was still holding. Leaning forward, she kissed him. Tweed smiled, squeezed her hand, then withdrew his.

  'You know,' she said, 'I've come to prefer more mature men who have a lot of experience. I can't stand the young macho type who has only one thing in mind with a woman. Plus they're such a bloody bore.'

  'I have enjoyed talking to you,' Tweed said amiably. 'But if someone we know comes in here tongues will start wagging and that might hurt your job with the Minister. Shouldn't we call it a night?'

  'After I've had another drink.' She waved her empty glass. Marco hustled over. 'Same again,' she told him. 'What about you?' she asked Tweed.

  'If you insist.'

  'I do insist.'

  'Ever been to the Middle East?' Tweed asked suddenly. 'Since one of your languages is Arabic.'

  'Don't really fancy the place.' Her large eyes still gazing into his. 'I prefer Switzerland. Everything there works.'

  'True.'

  Tweed remained silent until Marco had brought the fresh drinks and left them alone. He sipped his wine as Eva swallowed half her glass. He could see no sign that she was getting tipsy. A hard head.

  'Do you think you're going to defeat al-Qa'eda?' she asked.

  'As the Duke of Wellington once said, a battle may be won or lost until it's over. Not an exact quotation, but it conveys his meaning. I have enjoyed your company, but do you mind if we go in a moment?'

  'The man has a battle to be fought.' She drank the rest of her wine. 'I've got my Audi parked round the corner so you don't have to offer me a lift . . .'

  'I have been seduced mentally,' Tweed told Monica as he sat behind his desk.

  'Only mentally?' Monica was grinning. 'Shame!'

  Tweed then told her about their conversation. With his power of recall he told her everything. Monica checked her bun of hair at the back of her head before she commented.

  'So three questions arise. She cleverly evaded your asking her whether she'd ever been to the Middle East. She firmly evaded telling you anything about this mysterious father. Finally, the missing two years in her life worry me.'

  'I agree. She has a very dominant - without being domineering - personality. Still on your list of suspects?'

  'It's a long one. Victor Warner, Peregrine Palfry, Martin Hogarth, Margesson, Drew Franklin and Eva Brand.'

  Tweed frowned. 'Come to think of it, we don't know all that much about Franklin.'

  'So I'll work fast, put him under my microscope again using the contacts I've left out.'

  'Good. You know I don't think you should have included Eva in your suspects list. The Arabs would never take orders from a woman, even one with her exceptional brainpower. '

  'Unless they don't know their controller is a woman.'

  28

  Newman had decided he wouldn't drive up to the village. He wanted his arrival and presence to be secret. He parked his car in the triangular setback off the main climb. The Uzi machine-gun was taken out of its case, which he locked in the boot. He slung the weapon, now fully loaded with a magazine of forty rounds, over his left shoulder. A spare mag went into the pocket of his warm black overcoat. In his left hand he held his Smith & Wesson as he began yomping down the narrow sunken road Paula had called a rabbit warren.

  Soon he was enveloped by the dense trees of Black Wood, growing above the steep banks. At intervals he paused to listen. He heard only the sinister silence of the wood. The moon was up but didn't penetrate down into the gulch. He was glad he had brought a pair of night-glasses, which turned everything he looked at green, but enabled him to see clearly. Sarge, who had trained him in the SAS when he was writing an article on the secretive outfit, had recommended them.

  Two-thirds of the way down the gulley he paused again and listened. Only the sound of silence. He scrambled up the left bank and plunged into the wood. There was a mixture of big firs, the occasional pine and the leafless deciduous trees which reminded him of skeletons. Why think of that word at a time like this?

  His sense of direction was good. He saw the glimmer of moonlight ahead, knew he was close to the edge of Black Wood. He proceeded more slowly. Then he was looking out across a field at the houses. Before leaving his car he had again studied the map Paula had provided. He had arrived just where he wanted to be.

  A huge tall pine loomed above him. He began to climb, using convenient branches as rungs in a ladder. He was high up, near the top, when he found a natural settling place. Sturdy branches splayed out, concealed by the foliage. He perched the Uzi in a safe place, took out the water bottle from his satchel over his right shoulder, drank three modest swallows, capped the bottle. Now he felt full of energy. Sitting down, he pulled aside some of the pine's foliage.

  There it was. About a hundred yards across a flat field. The bungalow to his right - Martin Hogarth's - appeared to have no lights. He extracted his monocular glass from the satchel, pressed it against his eye. Martin's bungalow jumped at him, its rear side. All the windows had shutters closed, but he saw gleams of light between the blades. Martin was still up.

  He swivelled the glass to the next bungalow beyond the wide gap between the two buildings. Shutters again closed over all windows, but gleams of light filtering through them. Beaurain and Paula had taken up residence.

  'They'll know we're up here somewhere,' Paula warned as she poured coffee. 'I know we drove slowly before we parked the car in Mrs Gobble's shed - where I parked mine when I ended up trapped in that horrible cellar.'

  'That's all right.' The tall Beaurain was smiling as he gripped her shoulder briefly. 'We want to stir them up, worry them. That's when they'll make a mistake.'

  She found his smile attractive. His air of confidence was also comforting. He'd taken off his windcheater and wore a dark polo-necked sweater. For comfort and dark in case he had to go outside. Made it more difficult to see him, as long as he kept out of the moonlight.

  Paula watched him as she drank her coffee. A very athletic man, he couldn't keep still, kept striding round the large living-room, checking the shutters, checking his Uzi which he'd laid, loaded now,
on a table near the front door.

  'Don't get me wrong,' he said, turning round, 'but you can handle your Uzi?'

  'Reasonably well.' She smiled as she glanced at her own weapon perched on the dining-table near the door into the kitchen. 'Barney, the instructor who gave me a refresher course at the mansion down in Surrey, kept me at it until I blew the bull's-eye area of the target to smithereens. Why are they so keen on Uzis down there? They have an armoury of other automatic weapons.'