Cell

by Colin Forbes

  'We may be able to take a few more of them,' said Harry, now standing beside Tweed, his sub-machine gun tucked under his right arm.

  'It's coming now,' Paula shouted.

  On the opposite shore Buchanan stood outside the lead police car. Many vehicles were parked behind him. The dreadful silence had returned, the silence Paula found so eerie. She was standing on the Embankment, holding her camera. She knew the pictures she would take would be horrific but she felt she needed a record. She took two quickly.

  The sixth barge, which had, according to plan, left Dick's wharf so late, was hardly moving as its bows thrust under Albert Bridge, reminding Paula of the snout of some monstrous shark.

  In the deckhouse Ali was controlling the barge's momentum with great care. He had fled in his speedboat back to the last barge when he realized his operation had ended in disaster. And Abdullah had promised it would make the Trade Center operation in New York look like child's play.

  He reversed the engines briefly, to halt the barge with the main hatch under the centre of the bridge. Then he ran out, along the deck, dropped down the ladder into the main hatch. He threw away the ladder.

  He was going to press the two buttons for detonation himself. Ali would die with his remaining men. He stared round at the men with him on the base of the hull. They were kneeling on their prayer-mats, facing east.

  Ali took a deep breath. Then pressed the first button, then the second. The huge shell-like bomb streaked upwards, aimed at the the centre of the bridge. He clasped his hands in prayer, his last movement.

  Gazing through the viewfinder of her camera, Paula saw a huge object hurtling upwards. A brief vision. Then the world exploded. Deafening thunder rolled down the river. A swift blinding flash.

  The entire centre of the bridge shattered, great sections of it hurtling into the sky, taking for ever to descend and disappear under the water. Waves rolled towards both shores. Fragments of white-painted railing hurtled up even higher to greater altitudes. Chunks of masonry the size of huge boulders flew across the Embankment, crashed into the houses in the Cheyne Walk area. The initial ear-splitting crash when the bomb hit had died down. Now they could hear the masonry fragments hitting buildings like a bombardment. On both sides of the river. A lot of black smoke obscured the wreckage which had once been a bridge. The breeze blowing downriver cleared the smoke, revealing the ghastly spectacle of the remnants of the bridge which had spanned the Thames for so many years.

  Paula could take no more photos. She stood staring, camera held in hand by her side. The barge had gone as if it had never existed. Confined under the bridge, it had taken the full force of the devastating explosion. Later its entire savaged hull was found on the river bed.

  Only one section of the bridge still seemed intact. On the left bank side a third of the span perched over nothing. Tweed pressed his binoculars to his eyes. Just in time to see the span wobble, give way, plunge down into the river. Albert Bridge was no more than a memory.

  'Well,' Newman said, 'now we can see what we saved the other major five bridges. London would have been bisected for years.'

  Paula turned away. She no longer wished to look. As she did so she heard on her headset Buchanan's firm voice.

  'I think everyone might like to know Proctor, the hostage guard at Dick's wharf, was rescued. Alive and well, he's on his way home to meet his wife.' 'Thank God,' Paula whispered.

  52

  During the long, slow, circuitous drive back to Park Crescent Newman sat next to Harry, behind Paula. He explained he'd handed over the wheel of his jeep to Beaurain. After this remark no one spoke for a long time. Tweed broke the silence when they were close to Park Crescent.

  'Tomorrow we all have to keep our appointment with Warner at Carpford. It is only polite to do so.'

  'So we can all come with you?' checked Paula.

  'Yes, everyone. I don't think he's expecting anyone except me, but he'll have to put up with that. We were all part of what happened.'

  'Forecast is for a clear sunny day tomorrow,' Newman said cheerfully, then shut up.

  He didn't think Paula would appreciate the remark. From the way she was sitting, motionless, he guessed her mind was on what they had seen during the last moments of Albert Bridge. He thought of something else.

  'Interesting that this time no dinghies were lowered. None of al-Qa'eda survived.'

  'No they didn't.' Paula's tone of voice was a mix of cynicism and contempt. 'They thought they were on their way to heaven — where seventy-two beautiful young girls would be waiting, available. They've got a hope.'

  'Just before everything blew up,' Newman began, 'through my binoculars I saw a slim, intelligent-looking man run from the deckhouse to the main hatch. Struck me he could well have been the mastermind behind the whole operation.'

  'Maybe,' said Tweed. 'While I remember, travelling with us to Warner's meeting tomorrow we shall be taking Billy Hogarth and Margesson with us. So you know, Bob, how many four-wheel-drives we'll need.'

  'Billy Hogarth and Margesson?' queried Paula. 'Why?'

  'Because they live in Carpford.'

  'Oh, I see,' she said. But in fact she didn't.

  'Well, at least,' Newman said, 'there won't be any more of those disappearances. I wonder what did happen to those people. Such a strange mixture.'

  'One other thing,' Tweed said as they reached Baker Street, a stone's throw from Park Crescent. 'I've invited Buchanan to join our party tomorrow. He played a great part in what was achieved. So add him to your list, Bob.'

  'Quite a party then.'

  Approaching Park Crescent, Tweed eased the jeep on to the pavement. It was the only way to get there. The road was solid with traffic bumper to bumper, and nothing moving. A uniformed policeman rushed up to him, furiously indignant.

  'You can't do that. The pavement is for pedestrians. I'm going to have to . . .'

  He stopped in mid-sentence. He had just noticed the yellow flag waving on Tweed's bonnet. He swallowed, saluted.

  'Sorry, sir. We've been told to watch out for you. Hold on just a tick . . .'

  He turned round, began ushering pedestrians to move back. He was not popular but he was firm. He gradually cleared the pavement back to the entrance to the Crescent. Tweed thanked him. The policeman saluted again.

  'Who's that?' a cockney voice called out. 'I don't think . . .'.

  'He's probably the most important man in Great Britain at the moment,' the policeman shouted.

  'Come through on the grapevine,' Newman suggested.

  'From Buchanan,' Tweed corrected.

  'Anyone else except Warner expected to be at Carpford?' Paula enquired.

  'Yes,' he told her. 'The apparently clownish Palfry. Also Eva Brand.'

  'I predict I'm going to be bored stiff,' she replied.

  'Odd you should say that. Your predictions are normally so accurate.'

  53

  It was a brilliantly sunny morning when they reached Carpford. An icy nip in the air. No fog. Not a trace of mist. Carp Lake was a blue still sheet, like glass. Paula sat beside Tweed, driving the four-wheel-drive. In the back Newman sat beside Billy Hogarth, as though guarding him.

  In the vehicle close behind them Nield was driving with Harry next to him. In the back sat Buchanan with Margesson next to him. Again like a guard.

  The rear vehicle was driven by Marler. Travelling alone. A characteristic arrangement. Paula experienced a pang as Tweed drove round the curve with a rock outcrop. This was where Linda Warner had mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again.

  Tweed alighted as they reached Garda. He walked up to the heavy studded door, was about to press the bell when the door was opened. Eva Brand, clad in black trousers and a long loose black jacket, smiled, gave a small bow.

  'Please come in. He is waiting for you. I see you have company. Maybe everyone would like to join you. Hello, Paula. You are looking very serious.'

  'I suppose it's after what happened yesterday.'

  'Yes
terday. Of course . . .'

  She waited by the door as everyone followed Tweed and Paula, like a crocodile. She smiled at Beaurain, closed the door when they were all inside. Paula was struck by the luxury of the interior - the furnishing, the gilt-framed portraits on the wall. She recognized Wellington.

  Arriving at the door to Warner's spacious study, Eva gave him a warning. 'Your guests have arrived.'

  'Guests?'

  The Minister was seated behind a large Georgian desk in an imposing throne-like chair covered with tapestry. He sat close to the panelled wall behind him. Clad in a formal dark business suit, he stared as everyone entered. Peering over his pince-nez, he gazed at two of his visitors.

  'I fail to see why Mr Hogarth and Mr Margesson have come with you.'

  'They are your neighbours,' Tweed said easily. 'I have brought them back from London.' He looked across at Palfry, standing a distance away from the desk, also formally clad. 'You did not tell me your assistant would be here. So we have both taken liberties. Can we proceed with the - was it inquest you called this?'

  'It was.'

  Buchanan had taken up a position, standing, near the leaded light windows. From here he could see everyone. Beaurain stood alongside him. Eva had positioned herself in a far corner, hands in the pockets of her jacket. She had guided Hogarth and Margesson close to her. Everyone was standing. They had not been asked to sit down. Paula was perched against the back of a couch which faced the windows, so she also could see most of the occupants.

  The large study was cheerful with the sun shining outside. So Paula wondered why she sensed a sinister atmosphere. Her right hand was close to her shoulder-bag, within inches of her Browning.

  'You lost Albert Bridge,' Warner said acidly.

  'True,' agreed Tweed. 'But we saved five other bridges, key bridges. With support from the SAS.'

  'Why wasn't I informed of their presence?'

  'Presumably their commander thought it unnecessary. The SAS work in great secrecy.'

  'The Cabinet won't like that, won't like it at all.'

  'So why did I receive a note of congratulations and thanks sent by courier this morning from the PM himself?'

  'That would be purely a political communication,' sneered Palfry.

  'I don't recall asking your opinion,' Tweed said quietly, staring hard at the speaker.

  Palfry looked uncertain how to reply. He turned to look at Warner for help. At that moment the door opened and a servant appeared. She was looking nervous.

  'Sir, we have another visitor. Mr Drew Franklin.'

  She had hardly finished speaking before Franklin practically pushed her aside. He told her she could go now, that this was a private meeting. As she left he walked further in, looked round, went over to stand near Eva.

  'I knew you'd not want to discuss this without me,' he told Warner in his most arrogant voice.

  'Of course not.' Warner was obviously taken aback by this new arrival. He recovered quickly. 'You know, Drew, you are always welcome.'

  'Very diplomatic of you, Victor. You can think fast on your feet, I'll give you that. You can even do it sitting down. What is the purpose of this meeting?' Drew demanded.

  'From my point of view it is to identify the mastermind who planned this damnable al-Qa'eda attack,' Tweed plunged in. He glanced at Palfry and Eva. 'Master criminal might be a better description. That person is in this room now.'

  'What the devil do you mean?' rasped Warner, looking at Palfry and Eva, where he had noticed Tweed staring.

  'At an early stage,' Tweed explained, 'I developed the suspicion that Carpford was the original base for a number of al-Qa'eda killers. So strategic. They would be landed from small ships at a remote beach where transport would be waiting for them. Then along the A268 passing close to Northiam and across a series of country roads which eventually brought them here to Carpford. These movements always at night. But where could they install each group in comfort and secrecy - prior to their moving-on to Oldhurst Farm near Milton Keynes? Why - in Mr Palfry's very large house which has many bedrooms on the upper floor. Where in one room we found twenty sleeping-bags piled up . . .'

  'This is outrageous!' Palfry burst out. 'I do not see why I should listen to any more of this nonsense . . .'

  'Those sleeping-bags will be examined by forensic experts,' Tweed continued remorselessly, 'and I have little doubt they will find fibres, hairs which never came from a European.'

  'I'm leaving . . .' Palfry began, his faced twisted in fury.

  'I don't think so.' said Buchanan.

  He grasped Palfry, who had started to walk, twisted his arms behind him, produced a pair of handcuffs. In the silence Paula clearly heard the click of the handcuffs locking.

  'You don't have to say a word . . .' Buchanan began, continuing to read him his rights and informing him he could make one phone call for a lawyer.

  'I don't want a friggin' lawyer,' Palfry screamed.

  'I think a period of calm would help this situation no end,' Warner suggested, staring at Palfry. 'From what I gather, Superintendent, you have no actual proof yet for this extraordinary accusation. I was a lawyer before I entered politics.'

  'We have probable cause to treat Mr Palfry as a suspect in a crime almost without precedent,' Buchanan retorted.

  'Don't you need a warrant?' Warner enquired.

  'It does help,' Buchanan agreed. He produced a document from his pocket. 'So I obtained one. It gives me permission to search Peregrine Palfry's house. I can understand your reluctance, Minister, to accept your assistant would be involved with al-Qa'eda, but he certainly provided accommodation for at least twenty of them, maybe more over a period. He acted as halfway house from the coast to Oldhurst Farm.'

  'And where, may I ask,' Warner demanded caustically, 'is this place?'

  'I told you,' Buchanan continued, 'it is near Milton Keynes. It is where five stolen milk wagons were used to transport the shell-like bombs destined to destroy six major bridges over the Thames. At the farm the bombs were transferred inside small white vans which would take them to the banks of the Thames.'

  'Sounds a most ingenious plan,' Warner commented, staring over his pince-nez with: cold eyes at Palfry.

  'But then,' Tweed broke in, standing with his hands in his overcoat pockets, 'there is the mysterious flight which Drew took to Cairo quite a while ago. And on that flight he had a companion - Miss Brand. They flew on to Tel Aviv before returning via Cairo. Who, I wonder, were they going to meet?'

  As he spoke, Tweed swung round. His grim gaze swept over Franklin and Eva. Drew, compact and neatly dressed as always, stared back at him with a hostile expression. By his side Eva stood very erect, her beautiful face showing nothing of her reaction.

  'Now this is getting interesting,' remarked Warner.

  'Very interesting indeed,' Tweed agreed. He now held the attention of everyone in-the room. He turned round again. 'Mr Margesson, I think it is time we gave you the opportunity to tell us what you know.'

  Margesson, looking very different wearing a business suit, stepped forward. When he spoke his voice was no longer that of a lofty preacher. He looked alternately at Tweed and Warner as he began.

  'Victor Warner paid frequent visits to my house at night. We have had many long conversations. When I use the word "conversations" I mean he talked, I listened. He has a most forceful manner. I realize now, after my night in London away from here, that living alone I was susceptible to what he said. So much so I came to believe him.'

  'So what did he say?' Tweed asked, encouraging him.

  'He felt Western society had collapsed, that it no longer had any moral structure. That the so-called liberation of women was to blame. Morals had been thrown out of the window, the divorce rate was soaring, everyone behaved as they felt urges. Married men went with other women, women were worse, going with other men when the mood took them. Married women. He thought the only salvation lay in the East. Muslim women kept their place, would walk three paces behind their husba
nds, covered themselves with clothing and veils, so avoiding the attentions of men. Discipline was a word he often used. He wished to impose the Muslim system on the West.'

  'Fundamentalist Muslimism?' Tweed suggested.

  'Oh, he used that first word frequently,' Margesson replied. 'I found myself absorbing his views, his language, believing in it. Now I know I was used.'

  'Used how?' Tweed enquired.

  'He needed someone he could bounce his ideas off. I feel he is a lonely man, under permanent pressure.'

  'You do realize this man is as mad as a hatter,' Warner said quietly. 'He should be in an asylum,' he went on as he polished his pince-nez, then perched them back on the bridge of his hooked nose.