By Stealth tac-9 Page 3

  Emerging at the back, Tweed realized Prevent had a sizeable estate. His night vision was coming back and a vast lawn spread away to distant trees. He paused, reaching a hand behind him to stop Paula. She had been right. In the middle of the lawn, coming closer to the house, a man was walking slowly.

  `He's talking to himself,' Paula whispered.

  `And I think I recognize the walk. Looks like Andover himself.'

  At that moment the shadowy figure moved into the light splaying out from the kitchen window. Tweed had a clear view as the figure stood still and was appalled and shocked. In the icy cold, where drifts of fog hung motionless in the air, Andover wore only a pair of slacks and a shirt.

  But it was his appearance which shook Tweed. Haggard, his face drawn, he had lost weight and his shoulders sagged. The phrase 'a lost soul' leapt into Tweed's mind. This bore no relationship to the crisply spoken, erect, decisive Andover he had known in London. This man was a physical wreck.

  `Who is that?' He jumped as Tweed stepped into the light followed by Paula, her Browning held behind her trench coat. 'Oh, it's you, Tweed… What the hell are you doing here?… I distinctly told you to wait at Passford House until I called you… And to come alone…'

  He spoke in a disjointed way, his voice hoarse. Only the last sentence was delivered in a familiar crisp tone.

  `It's very cold out here,' Paula said to him quietly. 'I will fetch you a coat. I noticed a cloaks cupboard – I imagine that's what it is – in the hall.'

  `Very kind of you, my dear.' His manner changed again, was polite, grateful. 'It is a cloaks cupboard.'

  She turned and walked swiftly away, slipping the gun inside her shoulder-bag. Alone with their host, Tweed made his suggestion, testing Andover's reaction.

  `We could go inside to talk..

  `No! No!' Andover grabbed Tweed by the lapels of his British warm. 'And you've been inside, haven't you? Did the two of you talk while you were poking around?'

  He was very agitated, trembling as he tugged at Tweed's coat as though trying to shake a reply out of him. Tweed stood stock still, made no attempt to remove the shuddering hands.

  `I'll answer you only when you get a grip on yourself.'

  Paula appeared round the corner, holding a woollen scarf and a heavy coat. Andover released Tweed as though ashamed that Paula had seen his performance. Standing back, he accepted the scarf, wrapped it round his neck, slipped his arms into the sleeves of the coat Paula was holding for him.

  `That really was most considerate of you,' he said in a normal voice. 'It is a bit nippy tonight.'

  `Quite Siberian – or maybe you're used to the elements,' Paula continued in a conversational tone. 'And I'm Paula Grey, Mr Tweed's assistant.'

  `She's more than that,' Tweed added, watching Andover closely. 'She's my deputy and acts in my stead when I'm away. A recent promotion. We're using more and more women in our organization. She knows as much as I do.'

  `Women,' said Andover, 'are more meticulous. They have a greater loyalty and great powers of concentration.'

  The only reason we were inside your house – poking around as you put it – was the front door was wide open. Is that wise?'

  `I've left the front door open,' Paula intervened quickly as she detected fresh signs of agitation. 'It's an easy mistake.'

  `I suppose so,' Andover said in a normal tone. He fumbled under his coat and inside his trouser pocket. 'The key is here. Foolish of me. Must have my mind on my thoughts.'

  `And,' Tweed went on, 'we never spoke a word to each other while we were inside. I simply called out your name twice and then tried to find you.'

  I do understand.' Andover sighed visibly with relief.

  `Is your daughter Irene right-handed?' Tweed enquired suddenly.

  Andover's reaction was manic. He grabbed Tweed with both hands round the throat. 'What the devil made you ask that question?' he roared. Tweed again stood his ground. He grasped Andover's wrists, squeezing hard. He had far greater strength than most people supposed. Prising the throttling hands loose, he held on to them and put his face close to Andover's. 'That is quite enough of the rough stuff.' He let go as he felt the hands go limp.

  Andover was shaking like a leaf in the wind when Paula again intervened in her conversational tone.

  `Driving here, Tweed and I were discussing whether more people were left-handed as opposed to right. Just idle chat to pass the time.'

  `Oh, I see.' Andover ran a hand through his flaxen hair. `Tweed, I'm dreadfully sorry. Quite unforgivable on my part. Don't know what got into me. Had a bout of neuralgia. Leaves you frightfully edgy.'

  `I know it can be very painful,' Paula agreed in her soft voice.

  `One of those things.' Andover was addressing Paula now as though he'd forgotten Tweed's existence. 'Irene is left-handed. Five months ago I gave her an emerald ring.' A flash of pain crossed his strong-boned clean-shaven face. 'It was her eighteenth birthday.'

  `I'd like to meet her sometime,' Paula continued carefully. 'But at that age they don't spend much time at home.'

  `Quite right, my dear… She's gone off on an extended holiday… with her French boy friend, Louis… Good chap, her Louis… You'd have liked him..

  And you're lying, Tweed thought, as he trailed off. He had the impression Andover was retreating into a world of his own and asked the question quickly.

  `You asked me to come down here. May I ask why – now I'm here?'

  `Of course.' Andover, normal once more, frowned. Paula studied him. About five feet ten tall, slim in build, he had a high forehead, a clever face, and almost a touch of arrogance in his manner. No, not arrogance – rather a fixity of purpose. She had the feeling that for a brief time she was seeing the Andover Tweed had known in London.

  `Of course,' he repeated. 'I have a file in the house I want you to study. It's very serious. We may be facing a new enemy – far worse than Hitler or Stalin so far as Western Europe is concerned. And just when Europe thought it was safe to go to sleep. If you don't mind waiting outside at the front I'll go in and get it for you. Not the sort of thing you entrust to the post… Disaster, Tweed. Catastrophe might be a better word…'

  He started to walk along the side of the house briskly, shoulders erect, when he swung on his heel, came back.

  `Tweed, I really am sorry. The way I treated you. I've been pretty rotten company. Why not call in next door, have a drink with my neighbour, Brigadier Maurice Burgoyne, another old China hand. He's civilized, which is more than I've been…'

  Before Tweed could respond Andover had disappeared and they followed him slowly. At the front of the house they waited in silence by the car, both of them shaken by their macabre experience.

  Andover trotted out five minutes later by Paula's watch. He carried a large brown manilla envelope under his arm. As he handed it to Tweed Paula saw it had an address scrawled on it and a first-class stamp. Andover caught her glance.

  `Camouflage,' he explained to her as he handed the envelope to Tweed. 'A fictitious name and address and stamped for the post. No one will guess what it contains. You can tell the Brig. you called here.' He put his hand to his forehead. 'I've got it. Tell him I have an attack of neuralgia and sent you round for some decent company.'

  During the five-minute wait Tweed had wrestled with the problem of whether to break the news about Harvey Boyd's death. It seemed quite the worst time but the police would be in touch with him anyway – and probably soon.

  `Thank you,' he said, tucking the envelope inside the sports jacket underneath his trench coat. 'There is one more thing I ought to tell you before we go. And it's very bad news.'

  Andover opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut without saying anything. Paula could have sworn his lips had formed the name Irene. Andover stiffened himself, nodded to Tweed.

  `Well? Spit it out.'

  `It concerns Harvey Boyd, who, I gather, is a distant relative of yours?'

  Paula felt sure this time that a mixture of emotions h
ad flashed across Andover's face. Relief. Then regret that he had felt that sensation. He nodded again, waited.

  `Harvey Boyd is dead,' Tweed told him. He explained what had happened in as few words as possible. Watching their host, Paula saw an odd pensive expression. `… so soon,' Tweed concluded, 'the police will arrive to inform you.'

  `Not here! I won't have a lot of flat-footed policemen trampling over all the place, invading my privacy.'

  Andover's tone was brusque, almost rude. Staring at his visitors, he frowned.

  `Tell you what,' he went on rapidly. 'The Rover is in that garage…' He indicated two closed wooden doors let into the side of the house. 'I'll drive over to Colonel Stanstead. He's the Chief Constable and we know each other.'

  `You could do that,' Tweed agreed.

  `I'll call him on the way, tell him I'm coming. Yes, that's the answer.' He paused. 'Harvey was a good chap. Just came out of the SAS a few months ago. People say the younger generation has gone soft. Don't know what they're talking about.'

  `We'd better go,' Tweed decided. 'Very sorry to be the bearer of such sad tidings.'

  `Sooner hear it from you than anyone else.' He reached out, took Tweed by the arm, guided him towards the house out of earshot of Paula. 'So they've got Harvey too.

  `Who are "they"?' Tweed asked quickly.

  `Time for you to get round to the Brigadier's. If he's not in try Willie Fanshawe. He lives just beyond the Brig.'s place, Leopard's Leap. Willie's house is The Last Haven. Another old China hand.' He paused again, glanced to where Paula was getting into the car. He's trying to make up his mind about something, Tweed thought. Andover whispered the words.

  `No ransom at all has been demanded…'

  He turned away before Tweed could speak, walked swiftly back to the house. His head drooped, his shoulders were quivering. Tweed heard the slam of the front door closing and then he climbed in behind the wheel. Paula was waiting in the front passenger seat.

  Did you see that?' she asked. The poor devil was crying on his way back to the house. A strong man like that. He must be going through hell. Shouldn't we inform the police?'

  `Not yet. It's obvious Irene is the victim of some hideous kidnap plot. Andover's last words to me were "No ransom at all has been demanded." I find that sinister. Plus the macabre business of her amputated arm being sent to him.'

  He started the engine, anxious to get clear before Andover emerged to drive to see Colonel Stanstead. At the exit, he paused. To his right Newman appeared on the far side, waved to show his location, where he had hidden his Merc. Tweed drove right, turned off the road down what was little more than a wide path. Newman's car was parked out of sight from the road behind a copse of evergreens. He climbed into the back of the Escort as Tweed switched off the engine.

  `This file isn't safe,' Tweed commented.

  He extracted it from under his sports jacket. Paula said she'd keep it in her executive case. Tweed handed it to her and she slipped the envelope inside, locked the slim case.

  `Don't let that out of your hands,' Tweed warned. `As if I would,' she chided him.

  `And, Bob,' Tweed continued, 'we expect Andover to drive away soon to visit Stanstead, the Chief Constable. Keep your ear open for the sound of his car, then follow him. Stanstead has a house somewhere outside Brockenhurst.'

  `You want me to make sure that's where he goes?' Newman checked.

  `Partly. I don't like this set-up one little bit. Your other task is to make sure he doesn't know he's being followed, but mainly to see if anyone else follows him.'

  He went on to give Newman a brief digest of their visit to Prevent, including Paula's macabre discovery inside the freezer, his own discovery of the bugs, and their encounter with Andover.

  `A severed right arm,' Newman repeated slowly. `And you think it was Irene's?'

  `No doubt about it,' Tweed said tersely. 'Andover mentioned the emerald ring he'd given her only months ago. What worries me is his comment that no ransom at all has been demanded. The kidnappers have something quite fiendish in mind.'

  `So shouldn't the police be informed?' Newman pressed, echoing Paula's earlier suggestion. 'Regardless of the fact that for some crazy reason he doesn't want to let them know.'

  `Definitely not. I gave him my unqualified word. We've no idea what is going on. I may know more when I've read that file he handed me. Is that the sound of a car coming?'

  Newman was already climbing out of the car. He ran towards the road, looked round the end of the copse of trees, ran back. On his way to the Merc. he stopped briefly where Tweed had lowered his window.

  `Rover just coming out of the drive. Andover is on his way. So am I…'

  Tweed waited until Newman had driven off, tapping his fingers on the wheel, the only sign of how disturbed he was. Paula kept quiet for a few minutes, guessing Tweed was taking a decision, before she spoke.

  `What now?'

  `I think we should follow up Andover's suggestion and call in on Brigadier Maurice Burgoyne, another old China hand, as he put it.'

  3

  Tweed was turning the Escort into the drive of Leopard's Leap when he stopped. Further along the wide grass verge outside the property a large pile of bricks stood next to a concrete mixer.

  `The Brigadier must be having some work done,' Paula observed.

  Tweed drove on between the open wrought-iron gates and along another curving drive. But this surface was newly tarred. Like sentinels, ornamental shrubs lined the borders with here and there neatly trimmed topiary.

  I smell money,' Paula remarked. 'But will the Brig. welcome strangers at this hour?'

  `I'm not a stranger. I've met him several times over dinners in London. Just as I have met the neighbour further along this wilderness, Willie Fanshawe. They all belonged to a very exclusive institute and I was invited as a guest several times. Here we are..

  They drove round another bend and suddenly in front of them loomed a magnificent Jacobean mansion. Unlike the gloom of Prevent, it was illuminated powerfully with a battery of ground searchlights aimed at the frontage. A burglar alarm attached to the wall showed up prominently.

  'Burgoyne's security is an improvement on Andover's,' Tweed commented.

  `And I smell even more money.'

  The mansion was constructed of mellow stone and its tall characteristic chimneys reared up into the night. At one corner rose a turret with a witch's hat topping it. Despite the glow of lights Paula shivered. Something about the aura of the house worried her.

  `Let's hope he's in,' Tweed said as he parked the car at the foot of a flight of stone steps leading up to the imposing entrance. 'There are lights inside.'

  They walked up the steps to a large porch projecting well forward from the main edifice. As Tweed rang the bell Paula looked back. At the edge of the drive was a trim lawn with well-tended flowerbeds. A strong light came on over the outside of the porch, a blinding glare. The door opened after a moment and the glaring light was switched off. A tall slim figure stood silhouetted in the glow from lights beyond.

  `Tweed! Of all people. What a welcome surprise. And you've brought me an attractive lady. It's a long time since I've seen such beautiful raven-black hair.'

  The man's voice was soft but Paula sensed an inner will of great strength and character. Normally she found flattery insincere but now she felt rather pleased with the description of herself.

  `This is my deputy, Paula Grey,' Tweed introduced 'So, Paula, now you meet Brigadier Maurice Burgoyne.' `Come in out of the cold,' Burgoyne responded. 'And the fog. Expect you could both do with a good drink. Walk straight ahead while I lock the door…'

  Tweed walked with Paula across a large hall laid with a solid-oak block floor. It was well lit with wall-sconce lights and the room beyond was tastefully furnished as a spacious living room.

  A blonde-haired woman in her thirties stood up from a couch and came forward as Burgoyne followed them into the room. He waved a slim hand.

  `This is Lee Holmes, my compan
ion,' Burgoyne announced. He introduced Paula and then Tweed. 'We are drinking champagne,' he went on. He took Paula's arm. `Fancy a glass to drive out the Arctic?'

  `Arctic is the word,' the blonde woman agreed as she held Paula's hand. 'You feel frozen. Come and sit by the fire.'

  Burgoyne helped her off with her coat, took Tweed's, disappeared into the hall, came back, and lifted a bottle from an ice-bucket. 'Visitors are so welcome in this back of the beyond. Especially at this time of the year…'

  He was pouring champagne into a flute glass for Paula as he chatted, which gave her an opportunity to study him. Burgoyne had a long face like a fox, the nose strong, the chin forceful. His voice was commanding and his movements had a controlled feline grace. His thick hair was dark, well brushed, and beneath the nose was a long thin moustache.

  Burgoyne wore gleaming polished riding boots with grey jodhpurs tucked inside the tops. His white polo-necked sweater was spotless. But it was the eyes which attracted her attention. Dark and alert under thick brows, they watched her closely as he served the drink. There was something almost hypnotic about his gaze.

  `Thank you,' she said. 'I could just do with this.' She raised her glass. 'Cheers! Everyone.'

  `Not for me,' Tweed said quickly. 'I'm driving.'

  Paula had noticed a signal pass between Burgoyne and Lee Holmes when they had waited to see where to sit. A brief gesture towards Tweed, an almost imperceptible nod.

  His 'companion' had reacted immediately. Smiling at Tweed, she patted the seat on the couch, and he sat beside her while Paula sank into an armchair, which enveloped her. As she began talking to Tweed, Paula looked her up and down discreetly.

  Lee Holmes made her feel dowdy in the clothes she was wearing. A natural blonde, her mane draped over bare and perfectly shaped shoulders. She wore a purple formfitting dress which displayed to full advantage her excellent figure. You're a beauty, damn you, Paula thought. It was rare for her to feel such a catty reaction.

  `Please call me Lee, Mr Tweed,' she was saying as she sat closer to him. She crossed her long legs, a manoeuvre which opened the long slit in her dress, exposing her left leg almost to her thigh. Clad in flesh-tinted tights, her shapely legs appeared to be bare. She took hold of Tweed's right hand.