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  It was the same address Eva had written, plus her phone number, on the piece of paper she had handed to Paula before leaving.

  'That's where she lives,' Tweed told Pete. 'What on earth is she up to now?'

  'Getting ready to go out tonight would be my guess. The bathroom window is all steamed up.'

  'Right. This is what you do. Stay there out of sight. I say that because I'm getting the impression she's pretty smart. She's having dinner with Paula at the Ivy. Follow her, then wait outside the restaurant. One of you had best grab some sandwiches and get that flask you always carry filled with tea. When she goes inside with Paula wait outside for them to come out. Something might happen.'

  'Understood. We'll be ready for a fracas.'

  Tweed began pacing up and down his office again, a sign Paula recognized that the momentum was building up. He was about to issue another order when Marler strolled in, wearing a camel-hair coat as he went to lean against a wall. Tweed stared at the coat.

  'In that garb you could be mistaken for Special Branch.'

  'Which is the general idea. I've been talking to some of Mr Special Branch's informants. Way below the calibre of mine.'

  'Well, get on with it,' Tweed snapped. 'Anything to report?'

  'The mugs all tell the same tale. Rumours that top people from the Colombian cartel have arrived in London. They go vague when I ask where I can find them.'

  'Warner has Colombia on the brain.'

  'Agreed. But I also had a chat with a woman, Carla, who is my favourite informant. Wants to join our outfit, which is why she's working for me. She's clever. Well educated, she can dress like a tart and talk the lingo so a Cockney would think she was from the East End.' He paused to light a cigarette while Tweed waited impatiently. 'Carla,' Marler continued, 'has heard a strong rumour that London is facing its own September 11 - a monstrous attack. She says the killers have slipped into the country, Saudis and a group from Algeria. No clue as to the form the attack will take or where or when, but soon.'

  'You believe her?' Tweed pressed.

  'Carla's never been wrong before. She was in that Soho joint, Belles, which we have reason to know. She has languages, including French and Arabic. She lingered at the bar not far from a table where three Arabs in white turbans were talking . . .'

  'Not black turbans?' Tweed checked.

  'I thought I spoke clearly. Black would suggest something else now. Maybe they weren't keen to advertise. She caught a few words. "The equipment is on its way. It has already left the farm." That was all she could hear.'

  'You have a visitor,' Monica called out after talking on her phone. 'You'll be pleased. Waiting downstairs is Jasper Duller, Chief of Special Branch, together with a partner.'

  'Buller, the Bull, as his staff nickname him. A brute who terrifies everyone working for him. Should be fun.'

  Tweed returned to his desk. He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He glared at Monica as he was speaking.

  'Tell Buller he can come up to see me on his own while his partner waits in the visitors' room. Actually, tell George, who won't stand any nonsense. If Buller doesn't like my suggestion he can go jump in the Thames.'

  Newman got up from his chair and perched on Paula's desk. 'I met Buller recently. He's as thick as five planks.'

  'He's on his way up,' Monica reported after a few minutes. 'On his own. I could hear him swearing at George who just kept repeating your instruction word for word.'

  As Tweed expected, Buller was wearing a camel-hair coat when he stormed into the room. About five feet eight tall, he was very heavily built and had a large head. His hair was cut to a stubble and the face below it suggested aggression. Under thick brows the eyes were dark, hostile and flickered about, checking everyone in the room. In his forties, he had the broken nose of a prize-fighter, a tight-lipped mouth, a determined jaw and the air of a man who expected instant obedience.

  'I won't stand for this,' he bellowed, 'shoving my partner in a bare room and locking the door on him.'

  'Then try sitting down,' Tweed suggested amiably. 'It is normal to phone for an appointment first.'

  'Blow that for a lark,' Buller growled and sagged into an armchair. 'You don't seem to know who you're talking to.'

  'It is Jasper Buller, I presume,' Tweed said genially.

  'It is the Chief of Special Branch.' His tone was a snarl.

  'Now, I need to know what you and that young lady . . .'He turned to look at Paula and his expression briefly became cordial as she stared back '. . . were doing ferreting around up at Carpford.'

  'Why?' Tweed enquired. 'You think the place is populated with Colombian cartel barons?'

  'Mr Tweed.' Buller leaned forward, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. 'I would much appreciate it if we could talk in private. Please.'

  Tweed called to Monica to ask if Howard's office was available. She told him it was, that Howard was not expected back for at least an hour.

  Tweed stood up, went to the door, followed by Buller. He led the way upstairs to Howard's spacious office. He knew Howard was always careful to lock away any important documents when he was absent. They walked inside and sat down.

  'I appreciate this,' Buller repeated. His whole manner had changed and he spoke politely with a warm smile. 'I think you should know that I visit the mosque in Finsbury Park, the one which is notorious.'

  'I'm surprised they let you in.'

  'Ah!' Buller smiled warmly again. 'I go dressed as an Arab. That is just between you and me. The Minister, Warner, has no idea I'm doing this. I know he wouldn't approve. He has Colombia and a drug cartel on the brain. I suspect that a number of Taliban have been smuggled into this country.'

  'You have evidence of this infiltration?'

  'Unfortunately, no. But I've seen several Arabs who have the appearance of having arrived very recently. In the end, it may come down to you and me. Not,' he added hastily, 'that I'm asking for cooperation. But I will attempt to keep you informed when I do have something solid. Now, I had better go.'

  'Thank you for being so frank. Yes, do keep in touch . . .'

  Tweed ran back down the stairs while Buller lumbered behind, heading for the exit. Tweed carefully closed his office door. He spoke rapidly to Marler, standing close to him.

  'Buller is just leaving. He may separate from his partner. The man to follow is Buller - where he goes, anyone he contacts.'

  'I'm on my way.' Marler grabbed his coat and was heading for the door. He called back over his shoulder. 'I have one of those small cameras, non-flash, which the boffins in the basement invented. Hold it in the palm of one hand.'

  'Marler!' Tweed called out. 'Be careful. You could be walking into a cauldron . . .'

  9

  Inside the huge barn next to Oldhurst Farm in Berkshire the third milk wagon had eased its way inside. The English driver stepped down from his cab. He flexed his fingers, stiff with driving the large vehicle. He walked over to the leader he knew as Adam, who stood on a large sheet of canvas spread out over the floor.

  'OK, mate. Another load of drugs delivered. What is it? Cocaine? And I'll take that two thousand quid you're holding in your paw.'

  He was aware there were other men behind him but his eyes were on the fat wad of banknotes Adam was holding.

  Adam was a small man, neatly dressed in English clothes. His skin was brownish, a tan from spending several months in the Seychelles. He spoke perfect English.

  'By the mercy of Allah you have done well,' the little man said with a twisted smile.

  'Allah!' The driver was appalled. 'You're a bunch of flaming Arabs. You . . .'

  It was the last word he ever spoke, as a man behind him drove a wide-bladed knife into his back between the ribs. He twisted the knife, withdrew it, stabbed again and again as the driver, already dead, slumped on to the canvas.

  No need to issue any orders. Several men with dark complexions stripped his clothes of all identification. They wrapped the corpse inside the can
vas, rolled it up, then secured it with heavy chains. Three of them carried the rolled canvas out of a back door and across a field. It was dumped into a large septic tank, where it sank to join the two other bodies of English drivers dumped earlier.

  Inside the barn other Arabs dressed in English clothes had already unrolled another large sheet of canvas, ready for when the fourth English driver arrived with his milk wagon. 'Abdullah' had planned very carefully.

  The neat little man, Adam, whose real name was Ali, now gave fresh orders. The milk wagon was opened and an exceptionally strong Arab was lowered inside on a rope ladder. Equipped with gloves, he felt round below the surface, located the hook, then the cable wrapped round the container resting at the bottom of the wagon. It took him all his strength to haul up the container, its wrappings dripping milk.

  He hauled it over the side where other hands waited to grasp it and laid it on the ground. The bloodstained knife which had murdered the English driver was used to cut through the layers of wrapping, exposing a metal container. At this point Ali took over.

  Unlocking a huge padlock, he lifted the lid. He warned his helpers in savage language to be careful. A curiously shaped weapon was gently laid on the floor. Perched on a strong-legged base was a huge shell-shaped object, the warhead already in position in its nose.

  Ali repeated for the umpteenth time the instructions he had given earlier.

  'It is harmless now. When it reaches its destination, with the weapons in their different positions, I will give the order to press the orange button. Then the weapon is active, but still harmless.' He pointed, at the button. 'At the moment when the stupendous attack is launched you press the red button.' He pointed to another button embedded in a shallow hole. 'Then London is devastated, praise be to Allah.'

  None of the Arabs listening had any idea of the destination the weapons would be taken to. The master planner had hired the drivers of the milk wagons by contacting men on the verge of release from prison for comparatively non-violent offences. They had been told they would, for the sum of two thousand pounds, have to drive certain vehicles transporting drugs.

  They had also been told the original drivers of the milk wagons would be tied up when a truck, slewed across a quiet road, stopped them. What Ali had not told them was that the original drivers would have their throats slit, their bodies weighted and cast into convenient marshes en route. The master planner had also anticipated that in due course the companies owning the milk wagons would report their disappearance. But who would see anything sinister in the hijacking of five milk wagons?

  Certainly not the police - or not until havoc had been created in London and thousands of bodies had been blown to bits.

  10

  It was two hours later and darkness had fallen. Earlier Monica and Paula had fetched lunches from a nearby deli for Tweed, Newman and themselves. When Newman had finished his meal Tweed had started pacing again. Paula watched him as he frowned. The momentum was building up again. He stopped by Newman, seated in an armchair.

  'Bob, I want you to get moving. You know someone at the Daily Nation, someone you can trust?'

  'I've several pals there. The most close-mouthed one is Ed Jenner, sub-editor. Why?'

  'I want you to find out every little thing you can about Drew Franklin - where he lives in London, how much time he spends in his office at the paper, any rumours about new girlfriends. Every morsel.'

  'That's easy,' Newman told him. 'And Franklin tucks himself away in a small office well away from Ed Jenner. See you all, some day . . .'

  'Why has your attention switched to Franklin?' Paula asked when he had gone.

  'Just a thought. I suspect he has great freedom of movement.'

  Which tells me nothing, Paula thought. Tweed has got some bee in his bonnet.

  Night had come later. Monica had been using the phone non-stop, scribbling on her pad as people told her things.

  Tweed was studying his Carpford map again when Monica called across to him.

  'I know you didn't ask me to check out Jasper Buller but I've done that among other people. Didn't think you'd mind.'

  'Tell me.' Tweed was impressed. His staff knew him so well now they could guess what might be useful to him. 'Fire away . . .'

  Before she could open her mouth Marler walked in with a vague smile. Paula knew he had succeeded in his mission to track Buller. He threw off his coat, lit a cigarette.

  'I hit the bull's-eye, following Buller. No pun intended. I follow him to his pad in Pimlico. Then I wait, but not for long. The Bull can move. I've parked among other cars and what emerges from the flat? Buller, wearing Arab dress. Long flowing robe, the lot. He dives into a cab he must have phoned for. Where do you think we go to? The mosque in Finsbury Park. His cab waits round a corner. The Bull shuffles inside the mosque. Not there long. Probably kneels on the rolled-up carpet tucked under one arm, bows three times towards Mecca - that's a guess.'

  'Oh, my God, who would have guessed it was Buller,' gasped Paula.

  'Wait a little longer, my dear.' Marler squeezed her gently on the shoulder as he continued. 'Now we're off back in his cab to Pimlico. Pays the driver, disappears back into the flat. He's not there long. He comes out again, dives into another cab. This time he's clad in warm holiday clothes, carrying a suitcase. We set off again. Destination? Waterloo. Buller's heading for Eurostar when he swings round, catches me completely by surprise, talks straight at me. "Bit of a run-around for you, Marler. I want you to give a highly confidential message to Tweed. Tell him I'm on my way to meet a contact at Milan in Italy. I'm tracking the money route financing these hellish Taliban."'

  'I'm staggered,' Paula commented.

  'A bit more.' Marler took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, handed it to Tweed. 'That's the name and address of his contact in Milan. He said you should have it in case he doesn't come back.'

  'I don't like the sound of that,' Newman said grimly.

  Tweed was reading the neatly written words on a sheet obviously torn from a notebook. Mario Murano, Via Legessa 290, Milano.

  'This opens a new front,' Tweed said quietly. 'Italy.'

  'Buller also said he might get the routes they were using, then he had to dash before missing his train. End of the story.'

  'As long as it isn't the end of Buller,' Tweed remarked.

  'I would never have dreamt all of this,' Paula burst out. 'I thought he was just a stupid bully.'

  'Which tells you,' Tweed said half to himself, 'what a complex mixture people - men and women - are. That act of posing as the Bull is remarkable cover.'

  'I bet his lordship, Victor Warner, hasn't a clue as to what Buller is really doing,' Paula reflected. 'And no one else inside his organization.'

  'Oddly enough,' Tweed told Marler, 'Monica was compiling a dossier on Jasper Buller. On her own initiative.'

  'Well,' Monica addressed him, 'I haven't dug up anything like what Marler has told us. Only his address in Pimlico, plus the fact his staff really hate him, and the intriguing fact that he often goes off on his own for hours - despite insisting that employees sent out on a mission must always travel in pairs. Nothing about secret trips to the Finsbury Park mosque. That's the notorious one.'

  'I passed the short time he was inside taking photographs of everyone else who went in there,' Marler told them.

  He produced his tiny camera, which not only produced negatives but also converted them into prints. Extracting a roll of prints, he dropped it on Paula's desk. She started separating them into individual prints with a pair of scissors, then took them over to Tweed.

  'Don't suppose they'll amount to anything,' Marler warned.

  Paula went behind Tweed's desk and leant over his shoulder. Tweed checked each print carefully. Just a bunch of Arabs in Muslim garb. Paula reached for one, examined it under the magnifying glass she had brought with her. She half-closed her eyes.

  'This figure reminds me of someone. Damned if I know who.'

  'Let me see,' Tweed requested.


  The figure was leaving the mosque. Probably a woman. The figure carried a stick and appeared to have a limp. Crouched well forward, it was impossible to assess its height. The face was covered except for the eyes.

  'Doesn't ring any bells,' Tweed decided. He beckoned to Marler, pointed a finger at the crouched figure. 'Did you by chance notice where this one went to?'

  'Heavens no! I just snap-snap-snapped. Had to be careful. Finsbury Park isn't the safest area in town.'

  'File them,' Tweed said pushing the photos towards Paula as she walked round the desk to head back for her own corner. 'Marler, you have achieved a minor miracle -finding out about the real Jasper Buller.'