This United state tac-16

  This United state

  ( Tweed and Co - 16 )

  Colin Forbes

  This United state

  Colin Forbes

  Prologue

  Paula Grey's nightmare began at exactly 10 pm. on a cold February night in Albemarle Street, the heart of Mayfair, London.

  She walked out of Brown's Hotel, left hand clutching the collar of her coat, shoulder bag slung over her right arm. A taxi pulled in to the kerb, the door was flung open, a man dived out. Cord Dillon, Deputy Director of the CIA. The last person in the world she'd expected to see. He stopped abruptly, close to her.

  'Paula, get away from me. You'll get killed.'

  'Cord, what the devil-'

  'That white Cadillac coming up the street. Full of men trying to shoot me-'

  'Come this way. My town. Don't argue!'

  She grabbed the right arm of the large American, guided him swiftly up the street, away from the approaching car. The rear window on their side lowered as she hustled Dillon. She had a glimpse of a bald man holding a handgun.

  A taxi cut in front of the Cadillac, delaying it. They were already beyond the facade of Brown's Hotel. She hauled Dillon into the partial shelter of a setback, in front of a large plate-glass window. Crack! She had heard no sound of a shot fired. Glancing behind them she saw the bullet hole in the window. A huge triangular section of plate glass toppled. Inwards, away from them.

  'Keep moving,' she ordered. 'A truck has swerved in front of the Cadillac.'

  'You'd better leave me-'

  'Shut up! Keep moving,' she repeated. 'I didn't hear a shot.'

  'They use silencers on their weapons.'

  Arriving at a T-junction, she urged him across the road, turned right along Grafton Street. This was crazy – trying to murder someone in Mayfair. At that time of night Albemarle Street was usually a haven of peace. Just a few parked cars. No one on foot – not in this cold. All the buildings without lights – except for the hotel. Out of sight of Albemarle Street she heard a vehicle coming up behind them. A taxi with its lights on. She flagged it down.

  'Victoria Station,' she told the driver.

  'Hop in, then.'

  They were already inside, the door closed. The taxi drove off. Paula glanced through the rear window. The Cadillac had turned the corner. The driver had seen them board the taxi. Paula extracted a ten-pound note from her wallet. Leaning forward, she passed it through a gap in the glass partition separating them from the driver.

  'This is your tip. There's a white Cadillac behind us. Please lose it well before we reach Victoria. My husband's behind the wheel.'

  'Righty-ho, lady. Will do.'

  The cockney cabbie tucked the banknote inside a pocket, closed the partition, pressed his foot down. Paula lost track of the devious route the cabbie took, racing down side streets, turning at speed round corners. When she looked back there was no sign of the Cadillac. She heaved a sigh of relief.

  'Why Victoria Station?' Dillon asked.

  'Don't want to lead them to Park Crescent.'

  'They know about Tweed's HQ…'

  'Leave it to me.'

  'Have you got a gun?' he whispered.

  'Yes.'

  Her right hand was inside the special compartment of her shoulder bag, holding the butt of her Browning. 32. She glanced at Dillon. His craggy, clean-shaven face was so familiar She noticed a touch of grey in his hair, his haggard drawn look.

  'Better let me have the gun,' he suggested.

  'No. Leave it to me. You're short of sleep, aren't you?'

  'I came straight off a flight from Montreal at Heathrow. Didn't sleep a wink during the whole flight. Never stopped checking the other passengers.'

  'Why from Montreal?'

  'I guessed they'd be watching flights from Washington to London. So I flew to Montreal first.'

  'Who is after you?'

  'A small army. Let's keep that for Tweed…'

  Arriving at Victoria Station, she paid the driver, led Dillon inside the cavernous terminus. Very few people about. An old man in shabby clothes sat on a seat, drinking from a bottle of beer. She scanned the concourse, then led the American back the way they had come.

  'What are we doing now?' he asked.

  'I wanted that cab we took to go away. I saw a passenger get inside while we were walking in. There's another taxi. We'll take that to Park Crescent.'

  Dillon wore a camel-hair coat, carried a large executive case. In his late forties, he had a pugnacious jaw, a strong nose and a determined mouth. In many ways he was a typical American – tall, wide-shouldered, the build of a quarterback. He lapsed into silence during the drive. Paula sensed he was near the end of his tether and kept quiet. She checked the re-a1-window several times. No Cadillac.

  She was paying the driver generously as he turned into Park Crescent. They left the cab and she pushed open the heavy door with a plate alongside it on the wall. General amp; Cumbria Assurance. George, the guard, was standing behind his desk as they entered the hall.

  'Tweed's in, I hope?' she queried.

  'Yes. He has Bob Newman with him.'

  'Ask Monica to tell Tweed we're on our way up. This is Cord Dillon.'

  'I remember Mr Dillon.'

  'And I remember you, sharpie,' the American growled.

  'The strain's telling on you,' Paula rebuked him as they mounted the staircase.

  When she opened the door on the first floor Tweed was seated in his swivel chair behind his desk, hands clasped behind the back of his neck. Of medium height, clean-shaven, of a certain age, he wore horn-rimmed glasses. The Deputy Director of the SIS was a man you could pass in the street without noticing, something which had proved invaluable in his work. He stood up to shake hands, his penetrating eyes studying his visitor as he ushered him to a chair facing the desk.

  'You look washed out, Cord.'

  'You could say that. Tell you about it when I get my heard screwed on again.'

  'You've met Monica:'

  Dillon twisted round to look at the small middle-aged woman who kept her grey hair tied up in a bun. Tweed's close assistant for many years, she sat behind her desk which supported several telephones, a fax, a word processor.

  'Guess I should remember you, Monica, by now. Can't understand why you- go on working for this monster.'

  'Coffee?' Monica suggested, standing up. 'How do you like it these days?'

  'Black as sin.' Dillon grunted. 'And there's plenty of that comin' into town here from the States.'

  'What kind of sin is that?' queried Bob Newman.

  The world-famous foreign correspondent, in his forties, had fair hair, a wry smile on his strong face. Also clean-shaven, five feet ten tall, he was well built and women found him engaging – an advantage he exploited only spasmodically. Fully vetted, he had worked with Tweed in a number of dangerous situations.

  'Hi, Bob. Been a long time.' Dillon paused. 'The sin is a wolf pack of professional thugs infiltrating this country by devious routes. Top guns.'

  'Give me a devious route.'

  'The one they like is fly to Paris from Washington. Then come in here by Eurostar by rail.'

  'Why that route?'

  'I guess they figure there's less of a check arriving by train. They dress as Brits – the contemporary businessman's uniform. A suit as black as night, a flash tie. They really worked this one out. Suits in different sizes bought here, flown to the States. They carry American diplomatic passports.'

  'Here's your coffee,' said Monica, who had returned with a tray.

  'Thanks. This I really need.'

  'While you're drinking it maybe I could tell Tweed and Bob how we came to meet this evening,' Paula suggested.

  She did, after Dillon h
ad nodded his agreement. Paula had a gift for describing complex events tersely. Tweed watched her as she sat behind her desk, hands clasped in her lap. She was matter-of-fact.

  'It was a million-to-one chance that I came out of Brown's when I did,' she concluded. 'I'd met my informant, then waited ten minutes to give the informant time to get clear without risk of our being seen together.'

  'I think, Cord, we'd better get you out of London,' suggested Tweed. 'Right away. Bob, could you drive Cord down to the Bunker in Kent? You left your luggage downstairs, I presume, Cord?'

  'Left it on the carousel at Heathrow. Decided I'd better get a cab out to Brown's fast. I remembered you use the hotel a lot. I was going to phone you from there. Didn't want to risk leading the people after me here. To hell with my case back at the airport.'

  'Any personal identification on the ease – or inside it?' Tweed persisted.

  'No. The label only gives the flight number and destination. Not a thing inside.'

  'Then we'd better get moving down to Kent,' Newman said, standing up. 'We'll go in my Merc.'

  'Not so fast. Wait.' Tweed took a pair of powerful night glasses out of a drawer, went towards the large window masked by drawn curtains. 'Monica, switch out the lights, please.'

  With the room in darkness he opened a gap in the curtains, focused the glasses. His action had created an air of tension. No one moved but Paula was close enough to peer over his shoulder. The large office overlooking Regent's Park in the distance was full of an ominous silence.

  'Did you get the registration number of that Cadillac?' Tweed asked.

  'Of course.'

  She recited it from memory. Tweed called over Newman, handed him the glasses. Then he quietly walked back and sat behind his desk before he spoke.

  'The same Cadillac is parked on the main road at the right-hand entrance to Park Crescent. Four men inside. Obviously watching this building.

  'I'll go out and move them. They're illegally parked,' Newman announced after checking through the glasses.

  'You can't,' Tweed informed him. 'Paula, have you checked the car too?'

  'Yes, it's the same one.'

  She handed the glasses back to Tweed, having first carefully closed the curtains. Monica put on the lights again. Everyone stared at each other and Dillon then spoke.

  'We're trapped.'

  'I'm going out to move the bastards,' Newman insisted.

  'You can't,' Tweed repeated. 'That Cadillac has diplomatic plates.'

  'And the rats inside will all have diplomatic passports,' Dillon told them. 'Before I left Washington I heard the staff at the Grosvenor Square Embassy had been increased by two hundred. All with diplomatic passports.'

  'You still want Cord taken to the Bunker?' Newman demanded.

  'Yes. As soon as possible.'

  'Then we'll leave now. We'll alter your appearance.' Standing up, Newman studied the American. 'We're about the same build – you can wear my trench coat. That camel-hair is a giveaway.'

  'And Marler's beret is in the cupboard,' chimed in Paula as she fetched it. 'The fit may be a bit tight but it will do the trick.'

  'And,' Tweed suggested, 'walk more slowly, Cord. Not your usual stride. Take shorter steps. Body language identifies anyone.

  'I'll put your executive case inside a canvas holder,' Monica decided.'And I'll carry it,' said Newman.

  'Harry,' instructed Tweed over his phone. 'A small immediate problem. We're smuggling someone out of the building into Newman's car. A white Cadillac with gunmen is parked on the main road. I don't think they'll risk opening fire on our visitor – although they did just that in Albemarle Street.'

  'I'll wait outside with a smoke bomb.'

  'Only use it if you have to. They're on their way down.'

  'They'll shoot me if they can,' Dillon said over his shoulder at the doorway. 'And I have things to tell you…'

  'Tell Bob on your way to the Bunker. He'll relay what you say to me. If necessary, I can call you down there on a safe phone. Go!'

  The beret was a tight fit but it concealed the American's hair. The trench coat Newman had given him fitted better. The camel-hair coat was left on a chair. The horn-rimmed glasses, provided by Paula, perched comfortably on his broken nose. George, the guard, waited by the door after taking a brief call from Tweed.

  'Where's Harry Butler?' Newman asked, the executive case tucked under his arm inside its canvas covering.

  'Went outside,' George reported. 'Said he was going for a quick stroll..

  Butler, a burly man, armed with a Walther 9mm automatic pistol inside his hip holster, had his right hand holding the smoke bomb concealed under his windcheater. He was halfway to where the Cadillac was parked when Newman emerged, unlocked his Merc, ushered Dillon into the front passenger seat. Unfortunately, the exhausted American forgot to disguise his normal way of walking.

  As Newman started the engine Butler was in two minds about hurling the smoke bomb at the Cadillac.

  Remembering Tweed's explicit order he resisted the temptation until trouble started. Newman drove at speed out of the Crescent, turned along the main road in the opposite direction to where the enemy was parked. As he did so the driver of the Cadillac, who had kept the engine running, purred after him.

  'They're coming,' said Dillon, twisted round in his seat.

  'Let them,' Newman replied. 'Plenty of time to lose them on the way south…'

  'This sounds to be getting more dangerous,' Paula said to Tweed when the two men had left.

  'It's certainly getting interesting,' Tweed responded, seated casually in his chair, hands again clasped behind his head.

  'Interesting? Two hundred men sent to the American Embassy. A brazen attempt to murder the Deputy Director of the CIA in the middle of London in an American car carrying diplomatic plates. Another horde of thugs flying to Paris, then coming in here via Eurostar. And you call it interesting?'

  'I need more data to work out what is happening. Cord Dillon may provide that when he talks to Newman.'

  'Why did you take all that trouble creating the Bunker down in Kent? It's almost like a stand-by headquarters.'

  'That's exactly what it is. In case we have to move out of here quickly.'

  'This is getting scary. You only got back from Washington three days ago. But you didn't seem surprised when Dillon turned up.'

  'I heard a rumour from a source that Cord was on his way out – that he was being replaced by a man called Ed Osborne. A very tough ruthless gentleman.'

  'I meant to ask you,' Paula went on, 'where is Marler?'

  'He's in Paris, meeting some of his informants. He'll be back any day now.'

  'And you'll go all cryptic on me if I ask you what Marler is trying to find out.'

  'Incidentally,' Tweed mused, 'I found Washington in a state of feverish activity. No one knew why – or they wouldn't tell me. Like a volcano about to explode.'

  'You didn't answer my question about Marler.'

  'Marler?' Tweed suppressed a yawn. 'He's attempting to discover who assassinated our Prime Minister in Manchester last week.'

  1

  'This traffic is as bad as I've seen in LA,' Dillon commented. 'And the Cadillac has picked us up again – it's three cars behind us.'

  Newman was driving his Merc among an armada of speeding cars in the dark moonless night. He chose his moment carefully for the manoeuvre when a huge truck masked the Cadillac, then turned in to the left-hand lane. They climbed a hill via a slip road and the traffic had disappeared.

  'We were on the M20 motorway driving south,' Newman explained. 'So much traffic at this late hour was due to the accident which held us up further back. Now the poor devils back on the motorway are ramming their feet down to get home hours late.' He checked his rear-view mirror again. 'We've lost the Cadillac '

  'So where are we headed for?'

  'Canterbury, eventually. Which is where we don't want to go. So at the next roundabout we'll turn back and rejoin the M20. I want to turn off it
at Junction Eight. Are you too tired to talk?'

  'Guess not. Strange things are happening in Washington. A heavy delegation is heading for Britain – some have arrived.'

  'Give me some names.'

  'Sharon Mandeville, for one. Taking up some position at the Grosvenor Square Embassy.'

  'She's made the papers a lot. A girl friend of the President?'

  'Never. She's too smart to risk upsetting the President's wife. She carries a lot of clout. Then Jefferson Morgenstern himself is coming over,' Dillon said.

  'The Secretary of State. Very big gun. Went to the States from Europe as a young man. They say he would have been the President one day if he'd been born an American. Clever as Kissinger and similar background. Here's the roundabout – we can turn back, rejoin the motorway…'

  Scores of headlights glared like marauding tigers. Side by side, almost touching, a torrent of cars roared south at dangerous speeds. Risks were taken. Everyone seemed to sacrifice safety in their urge to get home, knowing they were very late.

  'Never seen anything like this,' Dillon commented, glancing back. 'Like an enemy attack.'

  'Were you looking for the enemy?'

  'No. I guess you lost him for good.'

  'Don't be too sure…'

  They reached Junction Eight, left the motorway for a country lane. The sudden quiet and solitude in the night was startling. Dillon sagged with relief. Newman turned off the lane down another empty hedge-lined country road, switched his beams full on as they approached a series of bends.

  'Anyone else important coming in from Washington?' Newman asked.

  'Yes. Ed Osborne, the roughneck who has got my job. A tough guy. Dangerous. You never know what he's thinking.'

  'Any ideas why they tried to gun you down in Albermarle Street?'

  'I knew too much. I'd ferreted around checking on people. A huge operation is planned but I couldn't get the hang of it.'

  Newman sensed that his companion was making an effort to think. The American was close to a state of total exhaustion. They had driven some distance along the lonely country lane without meeting another car when the headlights illuminated a road sign. PARHAM.