This United State Page 6

'How is it you still speak perfect English, after all that time spent over there?'

  'I came back over here frequently. I have a small mansion in Dorset. Sometimes I think I'd like to live here for good. I find America raw. You glanced at your watch.'

  'I've enjoyed our conversation. I hope you'll excuse me — I have an important appointment this afternoon.' 'Of course.'

  A light had been flashing on her phone for several minutes. It had been reflected in a mirror close to the door. Tweed collected his coat from the hanger she had put it on while Sharon sat behind her desk. Picking up her phone she listened, then answered.

  'Yes. Yes. Yes. Now don't bother me again.'

  She got up and walked slowly towards him. Again it occurred to Tweed that she was an incredibly elegant woman. She shook hands with him.

  'When you have the time perhaps we could meet again for lunch or dinner to chat some more.'

  'It will be my pleasure.

  He walked into the corridor, she closed the door and he felt very alone.

  There was something about the atmosphere of the building which Tweed found disturbing. No sign of anyone. No sound. He'd have expected the Embassy to be a hive of activity. He had paused, was about to turn to his right when the door across the corridor opened.

  A tall American with a smooth face and a blank expression stood facing him. Tweed had the impression of a man conscious of his position in the pecking order. When the American spoke he wondered how he had known Tweed would be in the corridor. Sharon Mandeville had finished speaking before she opened the door, which had not made a hint of noise.

  'Tweed?' the American enquired.

  'Yes. Who are you?'

  'Chuck Venacki.'

  The penny dropped. Tweed recalled Chief Inspector Buchanan's story of the encounter when Newman had rammed the Lincoln Continental on the edge of Park Crescent. This physically impressive man had said he was an attaché at the Embassy.

  'Main elevator you came up in is out of order,' Venacki said tersely. 'Turn left, end of corridor turn left again. Take the elevator there. There's a door to the side street.'

  'Thank you.'

  Veriacki didn't hear his reaction. He had closed the door in Tweed's face. A certain lack of warmth, Tweed said to himself. As though Venacki resented his presence. And there had been an air of hostility. Tweed turned right, heading for the elevator which had brought him up.

  There was a notice hanging from the elevator's closed door. Out of order. He pressed a button. Nothing happened. Next to the elevator was a wide staircase which, presumably, led to the exit floor below. He was just descending the first step when he looked back along the corridor. Chuck Venacki was outside his office, watching him. He disappeared instantly, as though he had dashed back into his quarters. Tweed frowned.

  He descended the several short flights of stairs slowly, listening. Still not a sound. Peculiar. The atmosphere now seemed menacing. He reached the bottom and the spacious hall was empty - except for the receptionist behind her desk. Her phone rang. She answered it, slammed down the receiver, got up, vanished through a door behind her. Tweed walked quickly to the door. When he tried to open it the door wouldn't move.

  He turned round, headed for the revolving door leading out to the square. Close to it was a small desk with a phone. He was about to pass the desk when the phone buzzed faintly. Carefully, Tweed lifted the receiver. A man's voice he didn't recognize was speaking.

  'The operation's under way. Double-check with Charlie.

  What operation? And who the heck was Charlie? Tweed moved swiftly, pressed a hand on the revolving door. It remained stationary. He couldn't get out the way he had come in. He was trapped. Calmly he surveyed the reception hall. There was no one he could contact. No doubt about it - he was imprisoned inside the building.

  He peered out beyond the immobile revolving door. A stretch limo had pulled in behind a blue Chrysler parked, at the kerb. Without waiting for his uniformed chauffeur to alight, a passenger jumped out of the rear seat, slammed the door shut, ran up the steps. On his arrival Tweed had noticed two video cameras aimed down the flight of steps. He recognized - from pictures in the papers - the lean energetic man running up the steps. The recently appointed American Ambassador.

  Taking no notice of the man inside, the Ambassador pushed at the doors and they began revolving. Tweed walked out as the Ambassador walked in. The keen cold air hit him after the warmth of the air-conditioned building. Tweed paused at the top of the steps, scanning the street. Then he ran one hand over the top of his head, smoothing down his hair.

  He had almost reached the bottom step when three tough-looking men emerged from the Chrysler. One opened the rear door. Another addressed him in a harsh American accent.

  'Mr Tweed?'

  'Yes..

  'We'll drive you back to where you're going. Get in.' 'No, thank you...'

  'I said get in, Buddy.'

  Something hard and circular was rammed into his back. Two men took him by the arms, began to hustle him inside the rear of the car. On the far rear seat a small bald man was playing with a Colt automatic pistol, grinning unpleasantly at Tweed.

  Tweed became aware of a commotion, a scuffle behind him. He was released from the hand grips. Newman hit one thug over the head with the barrel of his gun. Marler hit another of them with the stiffened side of his hand, the blow connecting with the side of his neck. Harry Butler pointed a wide-barrelled gun, aimed inside the car, pulled the trigger. The interior was sprayed with Mace gas. The bald man and the driver behind the wheel collapsed, choking, unable to see. Newman heaved one unconscious thug into the rear of the car, Marler bundled the second unconscious bundle inside. Butler, who had earlier broken the jaw of the third assailant, shoved him in, fired one more blast of Mace gas, slammed the door shut.

  'Let's go,' Newman said to Tweed. 'Merc's parked over there.'

  'I know. I saw it.'

  'What brought you here?' Tweed asked as Butler drove the Merc back to Park Crescent.

  'Monica,' Newman replied, for once seated beside Tweed in the rear. 'When she told us you'd gone to the Embassy we decided you might need back-up. Too many not-nice people floating around our city these clays:'

  'Well, thank you all. I don't know what they had in mind for me if they'd pulled off the kidnap. Maybe interrogation, maybe murder...'

  He then explained concisely his experiences inside the Embassy. When he'd finished he looked out of the window where a drizzle of rain was smearing London.

  'One key is to find out who Charlie is. I think he may be the real leader behind their Executive Action Department.'

  6

  At four in the afternoon Tweed was driving his Ford Sierra along a narrow twisting lane approaching Parham. By his side Paula sat keeping quiet. She sensed Tweed was thinking as he drove.

  It was almost dark and his headlights shone through the gloom. Overhead dark clouds massed as though preparing for a cloudburst. She noticed he kept glancing in his rear-view mirror. He slowed down at an isolated spot where he could see the lane ahead for some distance, pulled over onto the grass verge, put one hand out of the window he had lowered, gestured for a car behind to stop.

  'We have company.'

  'Hostile?'

  She reached into her shoulder bag and gripped the.32 Browning. When she looked back as Tweed climbed out she saw Newman's Merc pull in behind them. She got out to join Tweed. In the rear seat behind Newman sat Harry Butler and his partner, Pete Nield.

  'Just what is the meaning of this?' Tweed demanded. 'Simple,' replied Newman, still seated behind the wheel. 'We think you need protection.'

  'I thought I emphasized before I left Park Crescent that I was coming down here by myself.'

  'You've got Paula with you.'

  'Paula met Sir Guy Strangeways awhile ago at a dinner in London. They got on well. I think he'll be more relaxed with Paula present. He won't be if he sees you three. He's a bit of a martinet.'

  'May I remind you,' Newman t
old him, 'that when I was bringing Cord Dillon this way we saw the Cadillac with four American thugs drive inside Irongates? Those gentlemen may still be there. Have you forgotten your experience at the Embassy?'

  'I have not. Strangeways is English. Now that you're here find a place open in Parham. Go in and have afternoon tea.'

  'I don't think you can get afternoon tea in this country these days,' Nield remarked amiably.

  Harry Butler and Pete Nield worked well as a team. There was a great contrast between the two men. Butler was short, burly, with broad shoulders, his dark hair roughly brushed, a man who used words as though he regarded them as money. Pete Nield was slim, had fairish hair and a thin moustache. Unlike Butler, wearing a shabby windcheater and a pair of well-worn slacks, Nield took trouble with his appearance. He was clad in a smart grey suit, a pair of shoes from Aquascutum, a raincoat from the same shop. He was never backward in voicing his thoughts.

  'You'll find a tea shop in Parham,' Tweed told him. 'Just keep away from Irongates. This will be a quiet visit.'

  'Famous last words,' Paula said under her breath.

  Returning with her to his car, Tweed drove on. In his rear-view mirror he noted the Merc was still stationary. Paula was furious.

  'That's no way to talk to them after what happened this morning. They rescued you from God knows what.'

  'And I thanked them when we got back to Park Crescent. Here is the beginning of Parham.'

  He guided the car along the old village street, turned into the first, larger square, then into the smaller square with no other exit. There was no sign of life outside the large mansion and the gates were closed. Tweed stopped the car.

  'There's a speak-phone in the right-hand pillar. Would you mind letting our host know we've arrived?'

  'Of course not,' she snapped.

  She got out, still steaming. Tweed was taking risks in a situation which had already proved potentially lethal. It was not only the incident at the American Embassy she had in mind. She was recalling the brutal attempt to murder Cord Dillon in the middle of London. Pressing a button by the side of the speak-phone, she waited. A buzz. Then a commanding voice she recognized. Strangeways.

  'Who the hell is it?'

  'Paula Grey. I have Mr Tweed with me. We understood you—'

  'Enter.'

  'The gates are closed.'

  'Use your eyes.'

  She caught sight of movement. The large gates were opening inwards. She ran to the car, jumped into her seat. Tweed immediately drove forward at a slow pace. Behind them the gates closed, making no sound.

  'Hinges must be well oiled,' Tweed remarked.

  Their tyres crunched on the gravel surface. High banks of rhododendron bushes masked any view on both sides. Paula was experiencing a feeling of claustrophobia - shut away from the outside world like the approach to a monastery where the monks had an evil reputation. At the end of the gently curving drive crouched the house, an ancient mansion, three storeys high and dormer windows in the mansard roof, round like ports for cannons. The style of the mansion was Gothic, grim, its dark stone bleak. Gargoyles leered down at them below the turrets flanking each end of the house.

  'Strangeways himself answered me,' Paula recalled. 'He sounded strange - no pun intended. Like a bear with a sore head. When I sat next to him at that dinner he was charming. Amiable and jokey.'

  'Interesting.'

  She realized Tweed was only half-listening to her. He was peering up at the right-hand turret. He parked the car at the foot of a wide flight of old stone steps leading up to a balustraded terrace. As he locked the car Tweed again looked up at the turret.

  'What a ghastly place to live,' Paula whispered.

  'You have to remember Strangeways spent twenty years in the army as a young man before he went into business. Prior to that he was at a public school. That sort of background does not make you aware of your surroundings. You take no interest in taste or comfort.'

  A heavy front door opened as they reached it. Framed in the doorway was Strangeways. Five foot ten tall, well built, his fleshy face was red, his nose like a hawk's, the eyes dark and forbidding, his mouth tight-lipped above an aggressive jaw. Grey-haired, he sported a trim moustache, stood ramrod erect and was wearing a blue business suit.

  'You're late,' he rapped out.

  'We're on time. Your watch must be wrong,' Tweed said mildly.

  'I pride myself on punctuality,' Strangeways barked. 'An old army habit.'

  'My watch is an Accurist. Greenwich mean time. Better buy one for yourself,' Tweed rapped back. 'Are we going to stand out here all afternoon in the cold?'

  'Of course not. Please do come in.' Their host's manner had mellowed. As he closed the door he lowered his voice. 'My apologies to you both, but my wretched son turned up out of the blue. I'll introduce you, then tell him to push off...'

  They followed Strangeways across a large stark hall with woodblock flooring. The only furniture was a large ugly oak chest stood against one wall. No pictures. Strangeways opened a door into a large room, again without a carpet or rugs. Close to the left-hand wall was a plain desk supporting an outsize globe and behind it a map of the world. A heavy oak table occupied the middle of the room and the chairs which surrounded it were hard-backed and looked uncomfortable to Paula. The interior of the house reminded her of a prison.

  'This is my son, Rupert,' their host said without enthusiasm.

  Sprawled on a couch was a man of about thirty. He wore riding kit with jodhpurs thrust inside gleaming knee-length boots. His right hand held a riding crop which he was tapping against his thigh. His boots were resting on the end of the couch.

  'Get those damned boots off the furniture,' Strangeways growled. 'This is a friend of mine with his assistant, Paula.'

  Rupert took his time about planting his boots on the floor. He stood up, five feet eight inches tall, a slim man, his jet-black hair neatly trimmed. He had his father's hawkish nose, his dark eyes alert, and a foxy chin, and he surveyed Paula insolently. She bridled inwardly as he slowly took in her legs, higher up her body and then her face.

  'Rather like the look of you, Paula. You're not bad.' 'I'm supposed to take that as a compliment?'

  'I take my time.'

  Tweed had been studying Rupert, who ignored him. Strangeways guided Tweed to a seat at the table. Standing behind him he stood erect, looking embarrassed. He coughed, glanced at Paula.

  'I don't quite know how to phrase this. The last thing I want to do is to appear impolite.'

  'But you'd prefer it if the two of you, could talk alone,' Paula suggested with a smile.

  'My dear, there's a library on your left as you go back into the hall. If you're interested in books it's quite an unusual collection I've built up over the years.'

  'I'd be happy to wait there.'

  'Not so fast.' He went over to the wall, pressed an old-fashioned bell. 'The housekeeper, Mrs Belloc, can provide you with tea and cakes. Indian, Darjeeling, Earl Grey? And I'd better warn you Mrs Belloc is an odd character. Goes around with a black shawl over her head. A hard worker but it's difficult keeping local servants. They don't like her. Ah, here she is.'

  Paula had a shock. When the door opened a short powerfully built woman walked slowly in. The black shawl was worn so it concealed most of her features, exposing only gimlet eyes and a nose like a parrot's. A black dress reached almost to her ankles. There was something sinister about her.

  'You wanted me, sir?' she asked, addressing her employer.

  Strangeways gave her instructions to serve Paula tea in the library. Mrs Belloc was staring at Tweed while she listened. Then she withdrew without a word.

  Rupert opened the door again, bowed in an exaggerated way. He was smiling sardonically. Without a backward glance at the two men in the room, he closed the door and caught up with Paula.

  'You don't want to waste your time in the library. Let's go riding. I can give you a gentle nag.'

  'I want to see the library. And Mrs Belloc i
s bringing me tea.'

  'Never read a book in my life,' he replied jauntily, following her as she opened the door on her left.

  'Might do you good if you did read a few.'

  'I seem to get by without them.'

  She was already inside a large room, the walls lined with bookcases. A wheeled ladder was attached to one wall so the high shelves could be reached easily. Nondescript coffee tables were scattered round the room near large leather couches which looked as though they'd been there for generations. The room was chilly. She pulled out a book on Alexander the Great and perched at the end of a couch. Rupert joined her.

  'You'll end up with that old horror, Mrs Belloc, for company. I'm much more fun.'

  'I'm sure you are.'

  'Please yourself, then,' he said acidly. 'Bury your nose in a crummy book. You don't know what you're missing. We could shoot a few birds instead of riding.'

  'That idea doesn't appeal to me.'

  'Playing hard to get.' He stood up. 'Have it your own way.'

  It was a relief to Paula when he left the room, closing the door behind him. Something caught her eye. She looked at a side window, jumped up, ran into the mullioned bay. Outside was Harry Butler, one finger to his lips. Behind him a trim lawn stretched away to a hedge and beyond it was a field. Wrestling with the old security catch, she pushed open a casement window.

  'What on earth are you doing out there?'

  'Prowling. And keeping an eye on Tweed. Newman's orders. Got over the side wall with a telescopic ladder he carries in the boot of his car.'

  'Get out of sight! Quick! The housekeeper is bringing me tea...'

  'I'll have a cuppa,' said Butler and was gone.

  She was struggling to close the window, had just managed it, when she heard a sound. She hadn't heard the door open but now she heard the sound she had heard when Mrs Belloc entered the other room earlier. The rustle of the stiff black material she wore as a dress. Paula froze.

  'Wouldn't have anything to do with him if I were you,' a harsh voice advised.

  For a tense moment she thought the housekeeper was referring to Butler. Then, in the field beyond the hedge, she saw Rupert riding a large stallion. He reined in his mount suddenly. It bucked, reared into the air. Rupert stayed in the saddle, waved his whip at her as his steed's forelegs dropped to the ground.