Cell tac-20

by Colin Forbes

  '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.'

  'Yesterday. 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?'
<
br />   '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 husbands, 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.

  'It's a thought,' Tweed agreed. 'The trouble is we have another witness with damning evidence. Billy Hogarth.' He turned to Hogarth. 'Would you describe to us what you saw on the night Paula Grey was attacked and imprisoned?'

  'I saw it clearly.'

  Billy was a less confident speaker than Margesson. He hesitated. Tweed made no effort to prod him to continue.

  'A friend who visited Israel gave me a pair of night glasses,' Billy went on. 'Being on my own I often used them to scan the village. I was doing so on the night you are talking about. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing.'

  'After you have witnessed what?' Tweed prompted.

  'I saw Miss Grey call at Drew Franklin's house after dark. Drew came to the door. I had the impression their conversation was short.'

  'Gerald,' Tweed said suddenly. 'Enjoy the Bahamas?'

  'Beautiful…' Warner stopped suddenly, his expression panicky.

  'Meet Gerald Hanover, financier and master planner for al-Qa'eda. Please go on,' Tweed urged Billy Hogarth.

  'She was leaving Drew's house,' Billy explained. 'I think she had decided to return to her car parked in Mrs Gobble's shed.'

  Billy paused, as though recalling something which had scared him. Taking a deep breath he continued.

  'As she started to walk off, the front door of this house opened. A huge man wearing a black turban appeared, crept up behind her, hit her on the back of her head. He carried her unconscious body back inside this house.'

  'He's potty,' Warner burst out. 'Pecksniff chose some strange people to occupy rented houses. And you've lost your mind, Tweed. Gerald Hanover indeed. Who the hell is he?'

  'You are. Master planner and financier of al-Qa'eda. We have witnesses in the Bahamas who identified you from photos airmailed there,' he fibbed. 'Better still, we have the evidence of Billy Hogarth about Paula's kidnapping. Billy, you are sure it was this house Paula was carried into?'

  'Quite sure,' Billy replied emphatically. 'Garda is set apart from Drew's house. So the brute walked a short distance to get here, carrying Miss Grey's limp body to this house. Saw it clearly.'

  'He's simple-minded,' Warner raved. 'A fairy-tale.'

  'There is one way to prove it,' Buchanan said in a stern voice. 'You may have heard two cars pull up outside. Police cars with trained searchers and forensic experts. Miss Grey gave us a detailed description of the cellar where she was held before, showing great courage, she escaped. We will soon find that cellar if it is under our feet.'

  'No, you won't!' Warner had jumped up behind his desk. 'You cannot search this property which is owned by a Minister of the Crown.'

  'But we can,' Buchanan informed him. 'I have warrants in my pocket to search every property in this village. Including this one.'

  He walked forward, dropped a long folded document on Warner's desk. Then he retreated to his original position at the back of the room. Warner opened the document, read it very swiftly. He looked up with a self-important smile.

  'This is signed by a judge everyone knows is senile.'

  'It is still a valid search warrant.'

  'What the devil do you expect to find?' snapped Warner.

  'Possibly the horrible cellar where Miss Grey was held. We are also interested in discovering the bodies of five people who have disappeared. Including that of your wife.'

  'Then I have something here which will make you change your mind.'

  He unlocked a drawer, ferreted among a collection of files. He then stood up. In his right hand he held a. 455 Colt automatic. He aimed it at Paula's chest. Newman withdrew his hand, empty, from inside his jacket where his Smith amp; Wesson was holstered.

  'You will all leave this house immediately,' Warner ordered. 'All except Miss Paula Grey.'

  'No, we won't,' an icy voice spoke.

  Eva Brand was walking forward towards the desk, a Beretta automatic gripped in her right hand, steady as a rock, Paula observed. Eva paused within ten feet of the Minister.

  The tone of her voice, her expression, were almost frightening.

  'Attempt to shoot Paula,' she continued, 'and I'll put a bullet into that evil head of yours.'

  54

  A stand-off., Newman thought. Two guns, each aimed point-blank at a different target. Dangerous. Eva's 6.35mm Beretta. It was a light weapon, but fired at close range it would crush Warner's skull, kill him.

  'Eva,' Warner said with the hint of a tremble. 'Why?'

  As he spoke he was careful to keep his Colt aimed at Paula, a clever move to freeze everyone else in the room. With her left hand Eva reached inside her jacket, took out a newspaper cutting, dropped it on his desk. Tweed recognized it as the strange, much delayed obituary notice Newman had extracted from the Daily Nation.

  'What is this?' Warner asked, his voice weaker.

  He made no attempt to look down. He was too concerned with keeping Paula under his gun.

  'An obituary of a man who died two years ago in Yemen,' Eva told him. 'Captain Charles Hobart. Remember him? Don't say you don't. I'll pull the trigger.'

  'Vaguely.' He hastened to amplify. 'It
's coming back to me. A… casualty. A… Special Forces… officer.'

  'Yemen,' Eva repeated in the same disturbing monotone. 'A mission to kill an al-Qa'eda unit in the desert. One man volunteered to wipe it out. He could have done. Except he was betrayed. You were there when it happened. You'd just been appointed Minister of Security. You out-ranked the unit's commander. You secretly sent a message warning al-Qa'eda he was coming. Alone. So they killed him. An ambush. Killed my father…'

  'Hobart… you are… Eva Brand.'

  'No, I am Eva Hobart. Before leaving Medfords to get a job close to you I changed my name by deed poll. The Director of Medfords, a friend, agreed to keep quiet. I know you were the mastermind controlling the attack on London. I can prove it.'

  'Im… poss… ible.'

  Again Eva used her left hand to reach inside her jacket. She produced a folded sheet of paper, dropped it on his desk. Once more Warner dare not look down. Had to keep his eye on Paula, his Colt still aimed at her chest.

  'That,' Eva told him, 'is the first coded message which I told you I had never received. So another was sent to you. It's in Arabic, but not from the Embassy – instead from an address in Cairo. I decoded it, then told you it had never arrived. Want to know what it says? Top Secret.'

  'You had no right…'

  'Shut your treacherous trap. It reads, "Happy to hear attack on London is imminent. That it will be greater than September 11."'

  'There must… be a… mistake.'

  'No mistake. It was addressed to you. "For your eyes only."'

  'You decoded it… wrongly.'

  'Victor, I was very fond of my father. He meant everything to me. When I flew with Drew to Cairo I talked to Sergeant Langford, retired now, but a key NCO with the unit in Yemen. He overheard you talking in Arabic in a tent on a phone – Langford is fluent in Arabic. He heard you say that one man only, a Captain Hobart, was coming to eliminate them the next day. Langford decided he couldn't report it because who would believe him? He's now flying to London to report to Drew, under oath, what he heard. Drew will publish. You are going down.'