by Colin Forbes
35
Buchanan walked briskly into Tweed's office and sat in the armchair facing him. Paula could sense he had a lot to report, but before he could open his mouth Tweed spoke with emphasis.
'I've just closed down City Airport. I sent the Controller a copy of the PM's directive by hand yesterday. Now I need you to despatch a squad of armed men to guard it. Urgently.'
He waited while Buchanan used his mobile to pass the order to the Yard. Closing his mobile, he looked at Tweed.
'In thirty minutes the squad will have arrived. In patrol cars, sirens screaming, lights flashing.'
'Thank you. Now for a confrontation. I'm calling the Minister to inform him of what I've done. He'll be pleased, don't you think?'
'No, I don't
Tweed first had to go through the usual channels when he called the Ministry in Whitehall. Palfry took the call, started to dither, to say the Minister was in Cabinet.
'Then get him out, for God's sake. Now! Go on, do it.'
Tweed hadn't long to wait. The haughty voice of Victor Warner shouted down the phone.
'Tweed, I was in a Cabinet meeting
'Gabble, gabble, gabble - then no decision taken. I know what goes on there. Now, listen, please. I'm calling to tell you I've just closed down City Airport. . .'
'You've done what? Why? I can see absolutely no reason. . .'
'I can. We have to guard against al-Qa'eda landing a large body of men there. In aircraft seized from private flying schools. Heaven knows there are enough of them scattered outside London.'
'I'm outraged. You should have consulted me . . .'
Tin informing you now. Within minutes of the airport being shut down. Didn't you read the PM's mandate?'
'Tweed! I'm going straight back into Cabinet to report what you've just said. Including your gabble, gabble remark.'
'Please do. The PM has a sense of humour. Something I suspect you forget. Goodbye . . .
'Sorry about that, Roy,' Tweed said to Buchanan. 'I sense you have news. My turn to listen.'
'I've been tearing round like a cat chasing its tail. But to some purpose. First, I flew with some of my specialists to an airfield near Oldhurst Farm. Mrs Sharp, the lady who travelled all the way down here to see me - then I sent her on to you - has all her wits about her. We found the lane leading to the abandoned farm. It does have two monster barns. Guess what we found inside. Two missing milk tankers parked side by side in one barn, two more tankers inside the second barn. Attached to the place where you get inside each of them was a cable with a handle - to haul up what was concealed inside!'
'Any trace of al-Qa'eda?'
'Do let me tell this in my own way,' Buchanan insisted. 'Inside the smaller barn Mrs Sharp mentioned - not so small - we found a pile of used sleeping-bags.' He paused. 'Thirty of them.'
'Thirty?'
'You look taken aback. Thirty sleeping-bags - thirty men at least. They had cleaned up but we found this.'
Newman had been sitting in a hard-backed chair by Paula's desk. He had not spoken a word but he sat leaning forward, watching Buchanan intently. His mouth compressed when he'd heard this but he made no comment.
Tweed examined the torn piece of cloth inside the evidence envelope handed to him. Then he beckoned to Newman, who walked over, took the envelope. He pursed his lips, handed the envelope back to Tweed.
'I'd say that could have come off one of those black turbans worn by al-Qa'eda. Thirty is a powerful strike force.'
'That's my conclusion,' Buchanan agreed as Newman returned to his chair. 'We also found bits of food which I've sent for analysis. Bless Mrs Sharp. But there's more, down that track where we saw the white van and Mrs Wharton with Pooh.'
'How did you get there also in the time?'
'Flew back to City Airport.'Buchanan grinned. 'We must have landed just before you closed it down. Then waiting unmarked police cars took us to Mrs Wharton's bleak track. The white van is no longer there. Unfortunately a heavy mist was coming in off the river. We walked all the way down the track until we reached the Thames. There's a wide ramp leading to a long landing stage. Across the river, a bit further up it, we could just make out the new power station. Alongside it is a big wharf, Dick's wharf they call it.'
'See any trace of the enemy?'
'No, it was difficult. The mist was getting denser. I used night glasses but the result was a blur. I did see three huge barges moored on either side of the wharf.'
'You mean six barges altogether?'
'That's what I vaguely made out.'
'Any sign of activity at all?'
'None. Lights were on inside the power station, but you'd expect that.'
'I suggest we act at once,' Tweed said, standing up. 'You assemble a large force of heavily armed police, commandeer boats for us to cross . . .'
'Hold on. There were two big launches also moored to the wharf. And you don't know London as well as I do,' he said grimly.
'What's the matter? You don't look happy about my suggestion.'
'But,' said Buchanan, looking at Newman, 'you might like to see this.' He produced from his pocket a map which he unfolded and spread out across Tweed's desk. It showed the district they had visited when they encountered Mrs Wharton and her poodle. Beaurain stood looking over Buchanan's shoulder as the superintendent used a pencil to trace the track's route to the river.
'With me?' he asked.
'So far, yes,' Tweed replied.
'This building on the other side is the Dick power station. Now look at the large building very close to the station. It is St Jude's Hospital. Over four hundred patients, overflow from the collapsing NHS. When Dixon, the owner of the power station development, called Dick by the river men, obtained permission to build he had to sign an agreement that any smoke from the station would pass into the most sophisticated filter system. Nothing escapes. You see the problem?'
'I do,' said Beaurain. 'If al-Qa'eda have taken control of the power station we can be sure they have a vast amount of high explosives. If they see us coming they'll detonate those explosives. Can you imagine what they would do to that hospital? Over four hundred patients.'
'We can't risk it,' said Tweed grimly. 'We're checkmated.'
When Victor Warner returned to the Cabinet room he reported exactly what Tweed had said. To his great annoyance the PM was amused. He closed the folder on the table in front of him.
'Gentlemen, I think we ought to end this meeting now. No more gabble . . .'
Warner returned to his Ministry, fuming, a folder under his arm. He encountered Palfry just before entering his office.
'I'll complete this work at home. You do have my car ready for me, I presume . . .'
Arriving inside his penthouse, he walked straight into his large study. Eva was working at her own desk, decoding a signal as Warner plonked his file down on his own desk. Warner dragged a chair over and sat beside her. Clad in a black trouser suit, she sensed he was in a bad mood. She didn't feel at all prepared to put up with it. So his approach took her by surprise.
'When this crisis is all over I think we need a holiday.'
'Good idea. I'll be going off to France.'
'No you won't.' His strange mouth was twisted in a smile as though contemplating something pleasurable. 'Instead you'll be coming with me to Bermuda. How do you fancy that?'
He placed a hand on her forearm, squeezed it. She removed the predatory hand without looking at him.
'The Elbow Beach Hotel,' he coaxed. 'It's the height of luxury. Has an enormous swimming-pool. Two weeks.'
She gathered up her papers and the code-book. Standing up, she looked down at him, no expression on her face. She really is a beauty, he was thinking.
'I've booked for France,' she told him. 'They can take me whenever I phone them.'
'We can hire bicycles from the hotel,' he continued. 'Get away from cars for a change. Explore the scenic wonders.'
'I don't like cycling,' she replied.
'It's pretty flat. Not
hard work. You glide along.'
'Sounds idyllic,' she said in an indifferent tone.
'You'll need new clothes. Just give me the bills and I'll cover the expense.'
'I'll have to think about it.'
'It's an expression of appreciation for how well you look after me. You are a decoding genius. In Arabic too. Has the missing code message turned up?'
'I think they've sent a second copy as requested. It's on your desk. Since it's marked highly confidential I've left it for you to decode.'
'Damn Embassy in Cairo is not very efficient. I'm going to complain to the Ambassador. Now, what we were talking about?'
'I'll have to think about it,' she repeated and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Warner moved his chair back to his desk to deal with the message. He was smiling to himself. Women were all alike. They played hard to get. She would come round to his viewpoint.
36
No. 50 Upper Cheyne Lane was secreted inside a short cul-de-sac of small houses. As they drove in Paula quickly realized they were all conversions.
'They used to be garages,' she told Beaurain. 'Now they're nice little houses which probably cost a fortune. I think she must be at the end - even numbers on our right, odd ones on our left.'
Beaurain drove very slowly, bumping over the cobbled lane. He pulled up at the end where No. 50 was on the right. Two storeys high, the frontage was slim and painted white. The front door was blue. It was a neat, well-cared-for house.
Paula jumped out, followed by Beaurain, and pressed the brass doorbell, which gleamed. Inside they heard a dog start barking its head off. Paula smiled. Pooh was on guard. She pulled the collar of her windcheater up. It was almost dusk and the temperature was falling rapidly.
Mrs Wharton opened the door and Beaurain bent down to stroke Pooh who, recognizing them, stood up on his rear portion, with his front legs dangling. He was panting, hopefully with pleasure.
'Sorry to bother you,' Paula began, 'but Jules has something vital he needs to know urgently.'
'How nice to see you again. Do come in . . .'
Closing the door, she led them down a short narrow hall into a very small room, tastefully furnished. Space was clearly at a premium. She invited them to sit down on tapestry-covered chairs, offered them tea, which they both refused.
'Time is now against us,' Beaurain explained. 'I wonder if you could describe again that machine carried from the white van to the motorized trolley?' He took out a sketchpad Paula had handed to him in the car.
Mrs Wharton carried over another chair to sit alongside her guest. Paula produced from her satchel a fold-up ruler which she unfolded. Intuitively she had guessed what Jules was after. He smiled wrily at her.
'Reading my mind? As I suspect you do with Tweed.'
'Sometimes.'
'Measurements are important,' Beaurain explained, turning his attention back to Mrs Wharton.
'I'm not much good at them, I'm afraid.'
'I think we'll get there,' he assured her. 'It took six men to carry this machine. How wide would you say the support base was - the base the machine was perched on?'
'Show me by stretching your hands apart,' Paula suggested.
'Yes. I think I could do that.'
She stretched her hands wide apart. Paula leant forward, used the ruler to measure the distance. She whistled. 'At least two feet wide.' Beaurain began drawing, starting with the base support.
'Now,' Beaurain continued, 'how tall would you say the machine was - from the base to the tip of the shell or vertical torpedo, as you described it, that it was supporting?' Mrs Wharton held one hand close to the floor, stretched the other hand as high as she could into the air. Again Paula measured. 'About two and a half feet at least.' Beaurain drew the outline of a monster shell, tapering to detonation tip, writing in the measurement once more. He showed her his drawing. 'Anything like that?'
'The body of the shell was fatter.5 She held out her hands apart. 'About so much.'
Paula measured the distance. 'Lordy, the main diameter of the shell was over a foot wide.'
Beaurain re-drew the main body of the shell, increasing its size, then showed it to their hostess. She stared for a short time.
'You know,' she said, 'I think you've got it perfectly. Evil-looking thing.'
'We are dealing with evil men,' Beaurain told her as he wrote in the measurement in his neat hand. He then swivelled the sketchpad so she could see it clearly.
'Yes, that's the thing,' she said with a hint of vehemence.
'Mrs Wharton,' Paula said, 'we can't thank you enough for all the help you've given us. This is top classified data . . .'
'Don't worry.' Mrs Wharton smiled, 'I can keep my mouth shut. And I will. I do think you've got what you need. I do have a good visual memory. Won't you stay for tea?'
'Love to,' said Beaurain, standing up with Paula. 'But we have to get back quickly. Thank you again.'
As she led them back to the door Beaurain remembered to bend down and stroke Pooh, trotting happily along beside him. As she opened the door grey mist seeped in. It was going to be a foggy night.
'What do you think?' Paula asked, as Beaurain three-point turned their car ready to drive out of the cul-de-sac.
'I don't like it, don't like it at all. I just wonder how many of those things, as Mrs Wharton called them, al-Qa'eda have.'
Inside the power station Ali stood close to Proctor, the guard. He held an automatic close to his forehead, touched him with the tip of the weapon.
'You told me your chief, Mr Dixon, calls you once in the evening to make sure everything is all right here. Now when he does call I want you to remember your wife. Her life is in your hands. If you sound nervous, or in any way make Dixon suspicious, you'll only see your wife when they ask you to go to the morgue to identify her.'
'I can do it,' Proctor said hoarsely. 'But not if you're holding that bloody gun at my forehead.'
'That was not quite your natural voice, Mr Proctor. Try again,' he ordered, holding the gun behind his back.
'I can do it.' The hoarseness was now absent.
'Much better. Imagine you are talking to your wife when the time comes.'
Within minutes the phone rang. Proctor didn't move. Angrily Ali gestured for him to pick it up. Proctor shook his head, stared at Ali.
'He wouldn't expect me to be sitting next to the phone. Why don't you shut your filthy mouth and let me handle this?'
After a minute had passed, during which Ali had trouble not waving the gun at-him, Proctor picked up the phone.
'Mr Dixon?'
'Yes, it's me, Vince. Is everything all right down there?'
Ali was leaning close to Proctor, so he could monitor what was said.
'Everything is tickety-boo, sir. The three engineers are down with the plant, just keeping an eye on things, although it is automatic.'
'Good. Get plenty of sleep when you come off duty tomorrow. Good night.'
'Good night, sir . . .'
'What was that friggin' business about the engineers?' Ali demanded in a fury. 'A secret warning?'
'Don't be stupid!' Proctor shouted. 'I always mention them. They're just a stand-by. Not really needed since the system is automatic. But I always mention them. He'd have thought it odd if I hadn't friggin' mentioned them. Satisfied?'
'Don't yell at me. Your meal is being prepared by Mehmet so you can eat soon.' Ali smiled. 'You're being fed in case Dixon makes an unprecedented extra call later.'
Ali didn't feel it necessary to inform Proctor the three engineers had earlier had their throats cut, the bodies then weighted with chains and thrown into the river.
At Park Crescent Tweed had drawn up a list of suspects living in Carpford. He read out the list to Newman.
'Victor Warner
Drew Franklin
Peregrine Palfry
Billy Hogarth
Martin Hogarth.'
'You've left out Margesson,' Newman commented.
> 'If you say so.' He added Margesson's name.
'And Eva Brand,' Newman told him.
'She doesn't live up at Carpford,' Tweed objected.
'No, but I'll bet she visits Warner at his house up there with work.'
'All right, if you insist.'