by Colin Forbes
'Lots more goin' on up at Carpford than round 'ere.'
'What do you mean?'
No reply. He glanced at Billy. His passenger had fallen asleep, his head drooped on his chest. Pete checked the rear-view mirror. No traffic at all. No one was following them this time. But what had Billy seen up at Carpford?
31
Beaurain., with Paula by his side, was driving down the narrow, steep curving lane, descending from the Downs to the main road. Paula had gratefully accepted his offer to drive - she was feeling shaky, a reaction to the violent events at Carpford. They had dropped Newman where he had left his car. Beaurain had let Newman, anxious to get back to Park Crescent, go ahead of him.
It was daylight, of a sort. Murky grey clouds drifted above them and the wind was cold. Beaurain was driving well within the speed limit, cautious as to what might lie round the next corner - in this section there was only room for one car.
A violent honking started behind them, continued non-stop. Paula looked back. She recognized the aggressive driver in his Alfa-Romeo. Martin Hogarth, wearing a baseball cap. The honking of the horn went on, sending the message: Get out of my way.
'This is ridiculous,' Paula protested. 'It's Martin, Billy's brother. How can he possibly hope to pass here?'
'He wants me to speed up,' Beaurain said with a smile. 'How old is he?'
'At least forty and he's wearing one of those stupid baseball caps.'
They turned yet another corner and the road widened. As the honking was maintained, Beaurain steered into the middle of the road, making it impossible for their harasser to pass. Beaurain waved a hand out of his window, indicating he was slowing down, which he did, then stopped.
'Won't take a minute,' he said, still smiling.
Martin slammed on his brakes, left his engine running as he dived out to confront the Belgian. Beaurain stood with his arms folded, smiling. Martin came up close to him, his tone sneering.
'Think you own the bloody road? Time you read the Highway Code. Of course, you're a foreigner.'
Paula had left her car. She stood beside it, watching.
'Actually,' Beaurain said mildly, 'I have read the Highway Code from cover to cover.'
'Didn't do you much good, did it? You're a slob. You need a lesson.'
Martin bunched his right fist, aimed it at the other man's jaw. Beaurain moved his head, the punch went past him, then he did something, the movement so swift Paula couldn't follow what happened. Beaurain now had Martin's right arm gripped in a peculiar angle, pushed him back over the bonnet over his Alfa.
'Watch it!' Martin yelled. 'You'll break my arm.'
'Just keep quiet and listen,' Beaurain said calmly. 'What is your job? That is, if you've got one.'
'I'm ... a stockbroker ... if you must know.'
'I pity the people you advise. Doubtless they all lose money. Now I'm going to release you. Don't move until I tell you.'
Martin remained bent backwards over the car. He glanced to his right, saw Paula, averted his gaze quickly. Beaurain had walked round to the open driver's door. Leaning inside, he switched off the engine, took out the ignition key, then threw it into the grass verge, which had not been cut for ages.
'You can get up now,' he called out as he walked back and got behind the wheel as Paula sat again in the passenger seat. He began driving downhill.
'It will take him ages to find that key,' Paula said with a touch of malice.
'Not too long. I could have thrown it into the field, but I don't like overdoing things. London, here we come.'
'Tweed will have been up all night,' she predicted. 'Maybe he has found something important.'
When they walked into the office at Park Crescent it was crowded with members of the team. Newman occupied one armchair facing Buchanan, who sat in the other one. Marler was leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. Pete Nield was perched against the edge of Paula's desk, and was speaking. He stopped when Paula walked in with Beaurain. The only one not present was Harry Butler. Nield moved away from the desk as Paula went to sit behind it. Monica, Beaurain observed, was seated behind her word-processor. Paula stared at Newman and her tone was sharp when she spoke.
'Bob, has that Airsight friend of yours flown over Carpford to take pictures? If I could study them I'm sure I can work out which house has the cellar I was imprisoned in.'
'Soon now,' Newman assured her. 'He's taking longer over his holiday than expected. He's the best.'
'He shouldn't take holidays if he's the best,' she grumbled.
There was a knock on the door and Monica jumped up to open it. A middle-aged grey-haired lady, wearing a spotless white apron, pushed a trolley in. Monica gestured.
'Breakfast for anyone who's interested. Fried eggs, bacon, toast, marmalade, coffee. Hands up.'
Every hand went up instantly. Nellie, as Monica called the woman, was going to serve Tweed first but he waved her away, pointed at Beaurain, Paula, then Newman and Nield.
'Their need is greater than mine. Serve me last. You have plenty of trays. Not much of a breakfast-room in here.'
Paula fetched folded chairs propped against the wall, opened them. The door opened again and Eva Brand strode in. She sniffed.
'Any leftovers? I haven't eaten for ages.'
The door opened again and Howard, the Director, strolled in. He wore a smart grey-striped suit, perfectly creased trousers, a pink shirt and a Hermes tie. His plump pink face broke into a smile.
'Smells good. You'll be relieved to hear I've just had breakfast at my club.'
'Well, there's nothing left for you anyway,' Paula said.
He rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezed it gently. 'I've heard about the Battle of Carpford from Bob. I've been told how well you did. Felling a giant.'
'A colossus,' she said.
'Won't interrupt your meal. Any more developments, Tweed? If so, tell me later . . .'
'He's tactful.' Paula said, scooping up egg yolk.
'More than you were,' Newman chided her with a grin.
'He doesn't like people who bow down to him,' she retorted.
'Can I report now?' Nield asked. 'About the Pink Hat and the two gentlemen who called on Billy?'
'Those so-called gentlemen are in custody,' Buchanan remarked. 'You don't know how good a job you did. They're both professional hit men we'd been after for months. Sergeant Warden, who called here a while ago for the evidence bags containing the weapons and bullets, is interrogating them. Separately, of course. Warden can be very tough. Not actually using physical force, of course.'
'Actually?' queried Paula.
'No need to go into the details. Obviously they'd arrived to kill Billy Hogarth. Pete, as he has done before, saved the day, saved Billy.'
'Who,' Pete explained, 'is safely cloistered in a different hotel with Harry parked outside, watching the place.'
'That incident was significant,' said Tweed, wiping his lips with a napkin.
'You mean your breakfast?' Paula asked mischievously.
Tweed was relieved to note her humorous mood. Newman had given him a brutally detailed account of what had happened at Carpford. And it wasn't so long ago since she had been a prisoner in a bleak underground room, uncertain whether she was going to live or die. None of this showed in her appearance or manner.
'The incident I called significant was the attempt on Billy Hogarth's life, his remark that lots had been going on in the village. The mastermind is taking no chances, trying to wipe out anyone with information. The attack on Billy Hogarth's bungalow is even more significant, for the same reason. It suggests the timing of the attack is very close.'
'Communications in al-Qa'eda,' Beaurain said.
'Obviously by word of mouth. The farce of motor-cyclist couriers carrying empty envelopes. Calling on everyone up there. The messages are passed by word of mouth. Who is the real recipient is concealed by the courier calling at every dwelling. I'm convinced the same word-of-mouth technique was used in America. Hence neither the FB
I nor the CIA were alerted. More and more I'm convinced that the same mastermind who planned September 11 is planning the imminent attack on London.' He checked his watch. 'Time for us to attend the meeting called by the Minister at his apartment for 10.30 a.m.'
'Why,' protested Paula, 'do we have to go traipsing over there? I'm surprised you didn't insist the meeting should be held here.'
'Tactics,' Tweed told her, 'no point in creating resentment. Warner will be more open with us on his own patch. Heaven knows what he's planning now.'
Newman drove them. Tweed had also selected Beaurain, Eva and Paula to go with him. Mrs Carson opened the apartment door and made a typically tactless welcome.
'You're just on time. He's waiting for you with the others.'
The others? Paula glanced at Tweed as the elevator ascended. He was standing very erect in his most authoritative manner. When the elevator door opened on the penthouse floor Palfry was there to meet them. His expression was important and official.
'This way, gentlemen. Our people are waiting.'
He opened a door into a room they had not seen before. It was probably the dining-room, Paula thought. Very spacious, with a long table that might have been in the boardroom of a large company.
At the far end the Minister sat at the head. Clustered round him on both sides were six men, most of whom Tweed had never seen before. Except for a large man he knew was Tolliver, the recently appointed Chief of Special Branch in place of Jasper Buller. At their end of the table Eva Brand sat down to one side of the top chair. She turned round, gave them a warm smile. No mention of her recent visit to Park Crescent.
'Tweed, you sit at the head of your end of the table . . .'
Tweed had not moved. He scanned the unknown men grouped round the Minister. He put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat.
'Before I sit down, who are these strangers? I know Tolliver, so it's all right for him to stay.'
'To stay?' Warner spoke in the booming voice used when he was at the despatch box in the House of Commons. 'They are senior civil servants attached to my ministry . . .'
'We can't have them in on this meeting,' Tweed replied bluntly. 'They can have only a distant view of what is involved.'
'I must insist . . .' Warner began.
'If you do insist we'll transfer this meeting to Park Crescent. I'm not sitting down until they have left. And I am short of time.'
Tweed turned to Palfry, standing close to him.
'I heard you lock the door. Please unlock it so we can leave now. You can attend, of course . . .'
There was a muted buzz of discussion at the far end of the table. Then the civil servants picked up their files -you always had to have a file if you were Civil Service. They marched out of the room through the door Palfry had unlocked.
Their noses in the air, they made a point of not looking at Tweed as they left. Palfry re-locked the door. Tweed sat down, indicated to his companions they should do the same at his end of the table.
Warner was glaring at Tweed. He had removed his pince-nez, polishing them with a square of wash leather. A moment before, Tweed had removed his horn-rims, cleaned them quickly on a clean handkerchief, had them back on his nose before the Minister made a performance of replacing his pince-nez.
'I suppose,' he sneered, 'this action of yours emanates from the PM's mandate.'
'We are here, aren't we? Under your own roof. I could have asked for this meeting to be held at Park Crescent.'
Eva, now seated on Tweed's left, leaned over and whispered in her soft voice.
'Coffee is available whenever you wish. Drinkable. I made it myself,' she fibbed.
'Thank you.' He patted her hand. 'Maybe later.'
'Another point,' Warner boomed. 'You objected to strangers attending.' He aimed a long bony finger like a gun at Beaurain. 'What is he doing here? Not a member of your team.'
'Let me introduce you. This is Jules Beaurain. Recently Commissaire of Police in Brussels. Prior to that he was the controller of their anti-terrorist squad. He probably knows more about terrorists than anyone else in this room.'
'Then I'll start.' Warner paused for effect. 'Manchester.'
'What about it?'
'Very experienced operatives of Special Branch have cast their net wide among top flight informants. The word is London is not the target. Manchester is. I have stopped the army moving units south from the Midlands.'
'Manchester!' Newman whispered. 'Stuff that for a lark.'
Eva grinned. Paula kept her mouth expressionless, then winked at Eva.
'You really believe that?' Tweed asked innocently.
'I have to act on information received,' Warner said at his most pompous.
'Then why is it that my network of informants, once described as the most reliable by the present PM, hasn't heard a whisper about this Manchester distraction?'
'Ah!' Very hawk-like, Warner stared at the ceiling. 'You are invoking your position as Supremo.'
,'I have never used that word. It is a fact, though, that I have been asked to coordinate the activities of all the security services.'
'The Supremo,' Warner repeated nastily.
'He's all over the place,' Tweed whispered to Eva.
'Situation normal,' she whispered back. She raised her voice. 'Maybe this is time for coffee to keep us alert.' Beckoning to Palfry at the far end of the table, she whispered again. 'It might cool him down if we have a break.'
Palfry came trotting up to her with a wide smile. 'Can I help?'
'You could organize coffee toute de suite, if you would.'
'My pleasure . . .'
Tweed leaned to his right as Paula plucked at his sleeve. She kept her voice very low. 'I think Palfry is sweet on Eva.'
'Won't get him anywhere.' Eva, who had more exceptional hearing than Paula had realized, spoke her riposte aloud.
'Sorry.' Paula clasped her hands in prayer to apologize.
'Why?' Eva asked with a smile. 'Proves you are an astute observer. And I could do a lot better than that if I wanted to.'
At the far end of the table a charade was taking place. To cover his confusion Warner was opening files, pretending to consult with Tolliver. The door opened and Palfry walked in holding a large tray with chinaware and a cafetiere. He distributed the cups and saucers while Mrs Carson carried another tray to the other end of the table. Palfry placed his last item close to Eva.
'The cafetiere,' he said.
'I do know what it is,' she replied without looking at him.
They drank coffee and then talked some more. After a while Warner called out in a far more civilized voice.
'So, we are agreed?'
'Agreed that we continue taking the precautions already put in train,' Tweed said firmly. 'Are Special Branch officers in their camel-hair coats patrolling prominently? Outside Buckingham Palace, St Paul's, Canary Wharf -and in force along the Thames Embankment?'
'Your general suggestions have been followed,' Warner replied. 'I think we have now covered everything.'
'We have.' Tweed jumped up. 'Thank you for your hospitality and now we will leave.'
Palfry hurried down the room to unlock the door. As Paula walked out with Eva, Beaurain and Newman followed, Warner strode down the room, plucked at Tweed's sleeve.
'A word with you in private, please, Mr Tweed.'
'You go down to the car,' Tweed called out to his team. 'I will follow in a minute.'
Warner, his expression grave, closed the door. His manner towards Tweed was now polite, even respectful.
'There is a most worrying problem you should know about. In my organization there is a traitor. A top secret file has been stolen. Contains names of al-Qa'eda suspects now held at Dover.'
'Any idea who it might be?'
'None at all. It's most disturbing. Better go now.'
Tweed opened the door and nearly bumped into Eva, who was just outside. She appeared to be studying a file. She looked up and smiled.
'I'll escort you to th
e elevator.'
'No need, thank you. I know the way by now.'
He shook hands with Warner then walked slowly to the elevator. Before pressing the button he glanced back down the corridor, sensing someone was there. Twenty yards away Eva stood, watching him. She tucked the file under her arm and waved. Tweed waved back, pressed the button, the doors opened.