This United state tac-16 Read online

  'He may not trust me,' Paula pointed out.

  'He will. His ability to weigh up people is remarkable. He has an uncanny knowledge of human nature. But only if you feel up to it.'

  'I can't wait to meet the Ear,' she replied.

  3

  When Newman had left the building with Tweed and Buchanan, Marler set the stage for the arrival of the Ear. He raided the drinks cupboard of Howard, the Director. Holding three glasses and a bottle of white wine he took them downstairs and laid them on the bare wooden table in the waiting room. He then upset George.

  'I'll guard the front door. You go upstairs and make yourself at home in one of the offices. Not Tweed's.'

  'I'm supposed to be the guard,' the red-faced ex-army sergeant protested.

  'I know. We have someone coming who won't want to be recognized.'

  'Have it your own way.'

  'I'm going to…'

  With Paula seated at one of the three chairs round the table, Marler waited behind George's desk, listening for the sound of a taxi pulling up. Instead, after half an hour someone rang the bell. Peering through the spy-hole in the heavy front door Marler stared in surprise, then opened it. He ushered the Ear into the waiting room, closed the door.

  'This is Paula. I hope you don't mind her being with us.'

  Paula looked at their visitor. She hadn't expected such a small man. No more than five feet tall, he had shuffled in and now he gazed at her through thick pebble glasses, perched on the bridge of a hooked nose. He took off the glasses, glanced at Marler before reverting his gaze to Paula.

  'Disguise,' he explained. 'Nice name, Paula,' he went on, still staring at her in a way she did not find offensive.

  Without the glasses he became a different person. His nose seemed even more hooked, his thin mouth was firm, his jaw pointed. Penetrating blue eyes surveyed her. His cheekbones were prominent and his thick dark eyebrows curled upwards. He reminded her of a Dickensian character.

  'I shall be very happy for the lady to be present,' he decided. 'I like your clothes,' he told Paula. 'Smart but not a mantrap.'

  'He does speak his mind, Marler said quickly.

  'I think he has a wonderful sense of humour.' Paula laughed. 'His description of me is perfect.'

  'And very practical shoes. For moving silently or running.'

  He doesn't miss a thing, thought Paula, who had her legs crossed, exposing the rubber sole of one shoe. The explanation he had given was precisely the reason she wore them. Marler pulled out a chair for their visitor to sit down. He extended a hand to Paula. His grip was firm.

  'I am Kurt Schwarz.'

  'I don't think Kurt will mind my telling you his base is in Switzerland. In Basel.'

  Marler sat down in a chair facing them. The Ear put down on the floor an old trilby hat he had been carrying. He wore a shabby windcheater with patches on the sleeves and a pair of denims which had seen better days.

  Below the sharp nose his Adam's apple was also prominent, heightening the Dickensian impression. He picked up the bottle of wine, glanced at it, put the bottle down.

  'Not bad, could be better,' he told Marler.

  'You don't have to drink it.'

  'That would be impolite. And I wish to toast the health of this charming lady.'

  'Flattery will get you somewhere. How did you find those old clothes? You look like a tramp.'

  'I saw a junk shop still open on the way from the airport. I told the cab driver to drop me there. They had a selection of second-hand clothes. There was a public lavatory nearby. I went into it after leaving the shop and changed in a cubicle.'

  'Kurt,' commented Paula, 'your English is very good.' 'I once spent two years in Hammersmith. Is it still there?'

  'Unfortunately, yes.'

  'Well, Hammersmith is like Hampstead compared to half of Paris. Tourists don't see the slums I know so well.' He watched Marler struggling with a gadget to extract the cork from the wine bottle. 'I could get that cork out now with my teeth. Maybe yours are false.'

  'That's enough of that.'

  Marler poured the wine. The Ear raised his glass. 'To Paula, a long and happy life.'

  'Thank you,' she said as they clinked glasses.

  'What did you do with the clothes you came across in?' Marler asked.

  'Put them inside the canvas hold-all by the side of my chair.' He reached down, pulled out a black beret, fitted it on to his thick grey hair. He still reminded Paula of a Dickensian character. Even his voice fitted – it was hoarse but warm. 'Now, shall we be serious?'

  'That's why you're here,' Marler replied.

  'The Americans have transmitted electronically one hundred million dollars to an account at the Zurcher Kredit Bank on Bankverein.'

  'That's in Basel?'

  'Yes.'

  'You're sure of your information?'

  'Of course. I shouldn't let you know but I have a teller in that bank who is a contact. For a fee.'

  'That's staggering,' said Paula.

  'They also have some kind of base in the area. Not in the city.' He turned to Paula. 'You probably know the city is unique. Three countries meet there. Switzerland, Germany and France. You can slip across the border easily. They have a unit somewhere, but not in the city,' he repeated. 'So my next mission is to locate their base.' He sipped more wine. 'I will inform you when I discover it. This wine is not bad.'

  'Which means he'd like more,' said Marler, refilling his glass. 'And you'd better be careful. There are some pretty nasty types floating about.'

  'There always are.'

  'You were very late phoning me from Heathrow,' Marler remarked casually. 'The last flight from Paris had arrived ages before.'

  'I was tailed. I had to lose him before I came here. I headed for the multi-storey car park. As you know, it has many levels. Eventually I hid behind a car and he lost me. But I was cautious – I waited a long time before I left the place. Then I called you.'

  'How did the tail spot you?'

  'He happened to be on my flight I made a bad mistake. I had been talking to the stewardess in French. Then she dropped a tray and I said, "Don't worry. I'll help you to pick them up." In English. I think the tail heard me. That's what always gets you in the end. Random chance.'

  'Any more dope on the Phantom?'

  'I was coming to that. The rumours that he's English are now stronger. But they are still rumours. No name. And he's very cautious.'

  'I'll say he is,' agreed Marler. 'He assassinated the Prime Minister over here. The security people only think they found his firing point on the rooftop of a warehouse. If they did, he left behind no spent cartridge, nothing.'

  'The same as when he killed the German, Heinz Keller – and the French Minister. Bear in mind he could be a Frenchman, a German – or an Uzbek.'

  'How are we going to get you away from here? It's late.'

  'That is easy,' Kurt explained. 'There are many areas not far from here with cheap hotels. You get a room for the night – providing you pay in advance.'

  'You've been here – I mean in London – recently, haven't you?' Paula suggested intuitively.

  'Clever lady.' Kurt smiled, his lips twisting in a crooked way, but the smile was very human. 'Yes, I have. On several occasions.'

  'You didn't tell me that in Paris,' Marler said sharply.

  'Why should I? When I am not certain what I have found out? I only pass on information when what I say is positive. I take your fees. To do otherwise would be dishonest. I will tell you that something very strange and dangerous is happening here. England is facing the greatest enemy since it fought Hitler.'

  'What we'll do, Paula said decisively, 'is the three of us will drive to my flat in the Fulham Road. It won't take me long to prepare a meal, and I'm hungry. I think you are, Kurt.'

  'And I'm starving,' Marler lied. 'Afterwards I can drive Kurt to my place for the night. I have a spare bedroom. It's not far from Paula's flat.'

  'Don't argue,' Paula said severely as Kurt opened his
mouth.

  'I surrender.' Kurt threw up both hands. 'I am grateful…'

  He travelled alongside Paula in her Ford while Marler followed in his station wagon. On the way Paula found Kurt's phrase repeating itself time and again in her mind. .. something very strange and dangerous is happening here. England is facing the greatest enemy since it fought Hitler.'

  4

  'Sharon Mandeville,' Monica announced. 'Let's start with the profile I've built up on her – so far as it goes…'

  It was the morning of the same day that Paula had provided a meal for her two guests. Newman sat in an armchair, his long legs casually crossed. Paula, hiding a yawn, was behind her desk, and Tweed was leaning forward in his swivel chair.

  'Sharon is forty-two years old, looks younger,' Monica began. 'I obtained a recent photo of her from the editor of a fashion magazine, a friend of mine. Here it is.'

  Newman took it from her. Sitting down again, he studied the glossy print. Then he whistled before passing it to Tweed.

  'She's a blonde stunner.'

  'She's enigmatic,' commented Tweed. 'I met her at a party in Washington. Not the most recent visit. When I was there three weeks ago.' He passed it to Paula. 'What do you think?'

  'Hard to say,' she said eventually. 'A photo can mislead.'

  'If I could proceed,' Monica said impatiently. 'Sharon was born in Washington, DC. So she's an American citizen. Her mother was English, her father an American industrialist with money. Sharon was partly educated in England, partly in the US. When Sharon was fifteen the three of them moved here. Apparently her father thought he could make more money in Britain. Result? He lost everything on the stock market and they all returned to the States. Soon after they got back the parents were both killed in a car crash. Sharon was eighteen. A year later she married a Texan oil millionaire. There was a prenuptial agreement. Twenty months later she divorced him and was a rich woman.'

  'Because of the prenuptial arrangement?' Tweed suggested.

  'Exactly,' Monica confirmed. 'There's a pattern. To cut it short, she remarried three times, always to millionaires or, in one case, to a billionaire. Always there was a prenuptial agreement with a generous settlement for her. Now she may be the richest woman in America.'

  `Gold-digger,' said Newman.

  'Not necessarily,' Tweed objected. 'Didn't strike me like that when I met her. You have to remember it's a jungle in the US. Rich men treat their wives like trophies, but they can be mean and unreliable. Maybe Sharon spotted that – hence the prenuptial agreements.'

  'If I may go on,' snapped Monica. 'So now she's single with four husbands behind her. After the fourth fiasco – if you can call it that – she bought an apartment in luxurious Chevvy Chase and mixed with high society in Washington. She became a friend of the President's wife and was given various jobs.'

  'I'd say Newman was right. Gold-digger,' said Marler. He had come. into the office a 'few minutes earlier, nodded and now had taken up his usual stance, leaning against a wall. 'And very attractive,' he concluded, handing back the print.

  'You can't always tell from the photo what someone is like,' Paula protested.

  'Jefferson Morgenstern, Secretary of State,' Monica continued, 'is difficult. I'll get there but I concentrated on Sharon. Morgenstern, as I'm sure you know, originated in Europe. Not sure where yet. His real name is Gerhard Morgenstern. He's now at the American Embassy here, like Sharon.'

  'You've done very well,' said Tweed.

  'Haven't finished yet. Sir Guy Strangeways, who lives now at Irongates in the village of Parham, made his pile as a property developer in the States. An ex-Guards officer, I gather he's still very British. He was in America for twenty years and for some time he lived in Washington. Travels a lot all over the world. There are mysterious gaps in his whereabouts at certain periods. More later.'

  'When did he come back here?' Tweed asked. 'He was still in Washington when I was there three weeks ago.'

  'Came back two weeks ago. A sudden departure.' 'That's interesting,' Tweed remarked.

  'Now, Ed Osborne,' Monica went- on. 'The most mysterious of the lot. He also had an English mother and an American father. He was born in New York, in Hoboken. Not the most salubrious part of that place. His father was an unsuccessful locksmith. His childhood was poverty-stricken. Then, Heaven knows how, he's at Harvard. Afterwards there are huge gaps in his life. No knowledge as to whether he was somewhere in the States or somewhere abroad. Then he joins the CIA and rockets up. I'm still digging.'

  'Keep on digging,' Tweed suggested.

  'Finally, Basil Windermere. Chucked out of Tonbridge when he was discovered with an under-age girl. I've only just started to build up his file. That's it for now.'

  'So, Tweed,' Marler enquired, 'what's your reaction?' 'Menace.'

  'How do you make that out?' Paula asked.

  'Sixth sense.'

  'Now you're going cryptic again.'

  As soon as she had spoken it struck her that Kurt Schwarz and Tweed had one thing in common. They never revealed their thinking until they were sure. She guessed why this was. Tweed was careful not to point his team in any direction until he was sure he had worked out what was happening. This made his team think for themselves, come to their own conclusions.

  'I simply don't have enough to go on,' said Tweed, answering Paula's comment. 'Incidentally, you'll find several key people here have disappeared. In the night I sent them down to the Bunker. A skeleton team, if you like.'

  'You said that casually,' Newman told him. 'When you talk like that it usually means there's a major emergency.'

  'There is.'

  'I've had an idea,' Newman remarked. 'Basil Windermere came up with the suggestion that I meet him in a bar during the evening. I wasn't encouraging, but I think I'll have a chat with him. Might help Monica to build up her file on him.'

  'Good idea,' agreed Tweed.

  'If that's all, think I'll mosey off,' said Marler. 'Another good idea. I know you're all short of sleep. So go home and catch up on some rest.'

  'Half a mo,' Marler replied. 'Your camp bed is pushed against that wall behind Paula's desk.'

  'I noticed that too,' Paula agreed. 'Decided not to ask any questions.'

  'Well, I've just asked one,' Marler insisted. 'Tweed, Bob told me you went home soon after midnight.'

  'I did.'

  'So why is your camp bed out of the cupboard?'

  'My fault,' Monica piped up. 'I managed to get the linen to the laundry, then you all came storming in before I could put the bed away.'

  'I'll confess,' Tweed said with mock humility. 'I came back from my flat by cab in the middle of the night. I wanted to supervise those members of the team who were going down to the Bunker. They'd been warned in advance.'

  'So we wouldn't know,' Marler accused.

  'So I didn't have a lot of questions asked in the middle of the move. Then I slept here instead of another trip back to my flat. Off you go, all of you.'

  The phone rang before anyone had time to leave the room. Monica answered it, frowned before she looked across at Tweed.

  'George says there is an Ed Osborne downstairs. The gentleman wants to see you.'

  'Wheel him up, then. The rest of you stay for a while.' 'How the hell did he find out this address?' demanded Newman.

  'Maybe Cord had no time to erase certain confidential information from the computer in Langley, Virginia.'

  A restless, guarded atmosphere had spread through the office. Only Tweed seemed unaffected, undisturbed. He looked up as George opened the door and a six-foot aggressive American burst inside. It was as though a hurricane had entered. The new arrival was big in every way, radiating dynamic energy. His thick hair was grey-white, his expression dominant, and ice-cold blue eyes swept round the, room. Above them were shaggy white brows, below them a straight wide nose and below that a broad thick-lipped mouth. His gaze homed on Paula.

  'Hi, baby, you're lookin' good. You and I could make music.'

  'I don
't think so, Mr Osborne,' she replied coldly.

  'You must be Tweed.' He swung round, extended a large hand, looked surprised as he gripped Tweed's hand and squeezed it with the force of a power shovel. Tweed's grip was equally strong.

  'You'd better sit down,' he invited his visitor. 'I do prefer people to phone me for an appointment.'

  'Waste of time. I just crash the barrier.'

  Osborne lowered his bulk into an armchair. Newman had already resumed his seat in his own chair close to the American's. The American lifted his legs, planted his feet encased in very large shoes on the edge of Tweed's desk. Newman leaned forward, grasped both feet by the crossed ankles, dropped them on the floor.

  'We don't do that sort of thing over here,' he explained. 'We like good manners.'

  'Get you nowhere. World's movin' on. Move with it or get left behind.'

  'Britain has been around for quite a time. Your lot has been on the planet only two hundred years.'

  'You're Bob Newman, the foreign correspondent. Hoped we'd get on together. Any time you want to interview me, I'm available. Might give you something to write about. They've set up an outfit at the Embassy called the Executive Action Department. Don't know what it does – if anything. You might enquire about it – just for laughs. EAD, they call it. I'm the new Deputy Director of the CIA. They handed me the job on a plate when Cord Dillon went. Don't forget. EAD.'

  'You Americans love initials,' Newman commented. 'Saves time. We like to move fast. I'm at the Embassy.' 'Maybe, Mr Osborne, you could enlighten us as to why you have come here?' Tweed suggested.

  'Sure. Why not? And who's the thin streak of a guy holding up the wall?'

  'He just called in for a cup of coffee,' said Newman. 'That I could do with myself.'

  Monica rose slowly from her chair. Tweed had nodded, his agreement. Osborne swung round in his chair, stared at her.

  'Black, honey. Don't ruin it with milk or sugar.'

  Her lips pursed, Monica left the room. I hope she doesn't put poison in it, Marler thought. Although it might not be a bad idea.

  'Why am I here?' Osborne rumbled on in his deep, aggressive voice. 'We have this special relationship with you Brits. We think it ought to be strengthened. A lot more close cooperation. A lot more exchange of information about what's really goin' on in the world. The way I see it we're natural partners. We have to sit on the same bench. Be buddies.'