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  'You're satisfied with our expedition?' she asked.

  'I am.' He put his arm round her. 'You've been such a great help taking all those photos. We now have powerful evidence of the lengths to which the so-called State Security lot are going in plotting to turn Britain into a police state.

  On top of that, at the battle of the ridges six of the bastards killed each other. Add to them the crew in the speedboat and that makes nine less of them to worry about. The first phase of the war went well.'

  'You're right,' Paula agreed, 'it is a war. I wonder what's been going on in London while we were away in Dorset.'

  9

  The Cabal was holding yet another of its brain-storming sessions. All three men were seated round the strange triangular rosewood table. Outside dusk was falling and they had the lights on. Nelson was playing with his fountain pen, still wearing his Armani suit. As usual, Noel was holding forth.

  'The Parrot has reported to me about the informant she sent to spy outside Tweed's office. He was still there, so the plan to involve him in that horrible murder in Fox Street didn't work.'

  'What horrible murder?' enquired Nelson.

  'Obviously you don't read the Daily Nation,' Noel sneered. 'It might help if you kept up with the news. There's a lurid article on the murder by that swine of a lead reporter, Drew Franklin. We ought to do something about him, put him out of action . . .'

  'You've just made two mistakes in a few sentences,' Nelson said severely. 'First, you must call Miss Partridge by her proper name. If she ever heard you use the nickname Parrot we could lose her loyalty, which is important to us. And, in addition, don't try any of your funny tricks on Drew Franklin. He may be a nuisance but he has great influence. Just watch it, Horlick.'

  Noel, his face livid, jumped up, ran round the table, his long hands reaching for Nelson's neck. 'Don't ever call me by that name again,' he screamed.

  Benton stood up just in time to stop him reaching Nelson. He grasped Noel's outstretched arms, forced them down by his side. Breathing rapidly, Noel glared at Benton, who was smiling.

  'Go back to your chair, Noel.' He looked over his shoulder. 'Nelson, I think you'd be wise to remember his name is now Macomber. An apology would help -otherwise I'm adjourning the meeting.'

  'My sincere apologies, Noel,' Nelson said quickly. 'I made a blunder, which you can rest assured will never be repeated.'

  'I should damned well hope not,' Noel snapped.

  He returned to his seat, mopping his sweating forehead with a handkerchief. To calm himself down he poured water from a carafe into a glass, drank the lot. He waited and there was silence while he got a grip on himself. He resumed talking.

  'As I was saying, Miss Partridge's informant visited Tweed, found him seated in his office, his normal self. She, the informant, did notice one relationship we might exploit to throw Tweed off balance. I refer to his senior assistant, Paula.'

  'What about her?' asked Benton.

  'She is Tweed's weak point. He appears to be fond of her. If she was kidnapped—'

  'What!' demanded Benton. 'Who gave you that idea?' he went on, his tone ominously quiet.

  'Thought it up myself,' Noel replied with a smug grin.

  'In that case,' Benton leaned across the table, his eyes fixed on Noel's, 'you can remove the thought from your evil mind.'

  'In any case,' Nelson interjected, 'first, who is the informant Miss Partridge used who is capable of penetrating Tweed's fortress?'

  'That's restricted info,' Noel replied. 'Not to be told to anyone under any circumstances.'

  'I see.' Benton pressed on. 'Had you anyone in mind to carry out this dangerous folly?'

  'As a matter of fact,' Noel continued in the same smug way, 'I have the perfect operator for the job.'

  'Who is? This time you tell me,' Benton demanded.

  'Amos Fitch.'

  He was not able to proceed any further. Benton's full face became red, red as a man with high blood pressure.

  'Oh, my God!' He lifted a hand, ran it through his thick greying hair. 'Amos Fitch. You've lost your mind. We can't be involved with a brute like that. About eight years ago he was charged with knifing a man to death. The not guilty verdict was due to his brilliant lawyer discrediting the circumstantial evidence.'

  'Just a thought,' Noel said, smiling. 'Forget it. And no one has noticed that all the time we've been talking the door to the next room has been left open a few inches. Who left us last?'

  'Actually,' Nelson observed airily, 'it was Miss Partridge.'

  'I'm checking,' Noel whispered.

  He crept over to the door, moved it slightly. Well-oiled hinges. He closed it quietly, testing the latch. He pulled at it quietly. It was firmly closed. He looked at the other two.

  'I'm going to see if anyone is there.'

  Again he opened the door, slipped into the next room, closing the door carefully. On their own now, Benton looked at Nelson.

  'That was a bad slip, using the name Horlick. You saw the effect it had on him.'

  'My mistake, but I have apologized.'

  Noel surveyed the spacious room next door. No sign of Partridge at her large desk. The only occupant was her assistant, Coral Flenton, seated with her back to him at a corner desk as she worked at a word-processor. Noel crept up behind her, laid a hand on her shoulder.

  'Oh, please! Don't do that.' She had moved her mirror and she had nearly jumped out of her chair, which amused Noel. She swung round in her swivel chair, her large hazel eyes glaring at him. She put up a hand to push back a lock of red hair. 'What is it?' she snapped.

  'No "sir"? I am a junior minister,' Noel said genially and gave her a wide smile. He perched himself on a nearby desk, looming over her small neat figure.

  He had a winning smile and she responded with a faint smile of her own, but ignored the reference to 'sir'. He folded his arms. He still looked youthful and she had mixed feelings about him.

  'The door to our sanctum was open, not properly closed,' he began. 'Not that I'm suggesting it has anything to do with you. Has Miss Partridge been lingering near that door?'

  'I doubt it. In any case,' she went on, emboldened, 'with my back to it how would I know who comes and goes?'

  'Of course you wouldn't. When you leave the office tonight maybe you would join me for coffee or a drink?'

  'That's very nice of you,' she replied in a neutral tone, 'but I'm attending a girlfriend's birthday party.'

  'Pity.' He stood up, still smiling. 'Maybe some other time.'

  He walked slowly back across the wide room to the door and voiced his thoughts to himself, barely muttering.

  'Paula is the key. And Amos Fitch is the man for the job.'

  Amos Fitch was at the greyhound races. He kept at the back of the crowd, always remaining as inconspicuous as possible. Five feet eight inches tall, he wore a brown overcoat and as usual he also wore a large trilby hat, the brim pulled well down, exposing only the lower half of his face. Which, unintentionally, was kinder to the rest of the world. His restless brown eyes hardly ever stopped moving while they checked his surroundings. The thick upper lids were frequently half-closed so only part of the searching eyes were seen. His bent nose above a thin twisted mouth added to the cunning look, almost his trademark. His mouth was little more than a slit with a heavy jaw below. He was known in certain not-so-law-abiding circles as Sly. He was pondering the brief message on his mobile inviting him to meet Canal at 9.30 p.m. in an East End pub called the Pig's Nest.

  Tony Canal was a dubious go-between who never revealed the identity of his employer. This habit had caused Sly to follow Canal on an earlier occasion. Canal was an old Etonian who had gone to the bad, as they said at the Yard. So Sly knew that the real employer was a toff. A real toff, called Noel Macomber.

  10

  Tweed was driving slowly in the country near the border of Surrey and Sussex. He was searching for Peckham Mallet, where General Lucius Macomber, father of the three Cabal brothers, had a cottage. He'd decid
ed it was time he met the General, had a chat with him.

  It was early afternoon, the sky was a clear blue, sunlight illuminated the forested area. He had been driving for over an hour, searching for this tiny village. He hadn't found it on the map back at Park Crescent. It was only when Monica suggested checking the index that he'd located it. Should have thought of that first. Was that drug still fogging his system? Percodin, Saafeld had called it.

  There were no houses in the forested area, no pubs, no one he could ask for directions. He drove slowly on and almost missed an ancient signpost at the entrance to a turning. He reversed to read it, barely able to make out the words on the worn signpost. Peckham Mallet.

  He proceeded slowly down the narrow lane. After about half a mile he saw an old codger, dressed in working-man's clothes, scything the grass verge. He stopped, got out, smiled as he approached the man. His shoulders were permanently bent, probably due to the nature of his work. About seventy, Tweed assessed. His face was lined, his chin was shrunken and he'd not had a shave for days.

  'Can you help me, please?' Tweed began. 'I've been asked to give General Macomber some information. I need to speak to him urgently.'

  'Who might you be?'

  Tweed produced his folder, held it under the old boy's nose. The workman studied it. He attempted to straighten up but the shoulders stayed bent. He gazed at the folder, then gazed at Tweed.

  'SIS? That wouldn't be Secret Service, would it?'

  'It would be and is. I'm asking for your help, please.'

  'Won't find the General round 'ere. Comes up to the cottage on his way to Lunnon. Spends a few days up there and then goes back 'ome. On his way up he calls 'ere to pay me wages, checks the cottage back there.'

  He waved with the scythe he was still holding. Tweed stepped back quickly to stay clear of the deadly blade. He looked up a pathway to a cottage set in the fields as he spoke.

  'Would you mind putting down that scythe while we chat for a moment?'

  'Means I'll 'ave to bend over to lift it again. If I'm able to manage that. . .'

  'I'll pick it up for you,' Tweed said quickly.

  Without bending, the workman threw the scythe a foot or so away from them. What a dreadful way to spend the later years of your life, Tweed thought as he looked up the pathway at the cottage. Built of brick with a renewed tiled roof and a brilliantly polished brass knob on the freshly painted wooden front door that gleamed in the sun. The General was obviously a stickler for appearances.

  'Stays there overnight sometimes. Just sleeps there, then buzzes off to Lunnon.'

  'When was he last here - and in London?' Tweed asked in an off-hand tone.

  'A week ago. Stayed up in the Smoke a few days, then came back here this morning on his way 'ome.'

  That places General Lucius Macomber in town at the time of the murder of Viola Vander-Browne. Interesting, Tweed thought. He bent down, picked up the scythe carefully, handed it to its owner.

  'Where is his real home, then?' Tweed asked. 'The MoD had lost his permanent address,' he concluded, making it up as he went along.

  'That be a distance from 'ere. He's a large house on Black Island, near Tolhaven. You takes the ferry, gets off at Lydford, walks past the village, takes the first road to the left and he's a short way along on your left. I goes down there to look after his garden, more like a park. Other people 'elps 'im but he likes me to trim edges. I'm Pat,' he added.

  'You've been very helpful, Pat.' Tweed paused. He was absorbing the shock that the General lived in the location where Newman and Paula were exploring. 'Oh, where does this lane lead to?'

  'Mountain 'igh. See all over Sussex and Surrey from the top. I'd take the car, if I was you. It's a long pull walkin' up there.'

  Tweed drove up the lane, which swiftly became very steep as the trees disappeared, with green grass spreading up the slope. Tweed was aware he was climbing a considerable height. He'd never heard of Mountain High. Too difficult to find the lane up, he decided.

  He had another surprise when he reached the summit. It was flat as a billiard table and extensive. An airsock to show wind direction suggested private planes landed there. He parked on the edge of the landing field, climbed out and took in a deep breath of the marvellous fresh air. He was on top of the world.

  Pat had not exaggerated. The panoramic view in every direction was stunning in the sunlight. Tweed could see for miles, and in the far distance he could make out a small plane high in the sky. He went back to his car to fetch his powerful field glasses.

  He had already located the General's cottage, which from where he stood looked no bigger than a doll's house. What had attracted his attention was a large enclosed truck moving away from the back of the cottage. Through his lenses he read the legend painted on its side: Windrush & Carne Removals. Take Anything But A Tank.

  He watched it heading towards a large barn whose rear doors were wide open. The truck entered the barn. The driver appeared at the back and Tweed had a clear view of the contents. Heavy old furniture - and a black metal box. The driver climbed inside the truck, inserted a key, lifted the lid of the black box. Tweed had a brief glimpse inside -a maze of wires. His lips tightened. High explosive.

  He had a clearer view of the driver. Grabbing a small sketch pad from his pocket, he used a pencil to draw his impression of the driver's face. A brown trilby pulled down at a slanting angle over his forehead. Thick upper lids were closed down over half his eyes, a bent nose, a slit of a mouth, heavy jaw, the whole expression had a cunning look. The driver turned his head away. Tweed slipped the pad back into his pocket, continued watching through the glasses.

  The driver jumped agilely out of the furniture van, fixed a large padlock after closing the heavy doors. He then repeated the process after leaving the barn. He ran across to a Saab parked nearby, jumped in behind the wheel. Tweed noted the plate number and the car was moving fast down the field on to the road leading back to London.

  Tweed turned round as the light aircraft he'd seen flew closer, dipped and was landing on the airstrip. The moment it was stationary the pilot leapt out, removed his goggles and helmet. He grinned at Tweed.

  'First person I've ever found up here.' He was youngish, his voice was cultured, his personality friendly. He marched towards Tweed.

  'Care for a spin? Half an hour and you'll look down on the beauties of this part of the world. I love it.'

  'Thank you,' Tweed replied, 'but I have to go now to an urgent appointment in London. I appreciate the offer.'

  'Maybe another time.'

  Tweed walked briskly back to his car. This landing point might just be useful one day, he thought. Newman is an expert pilot. He could get us down here in no time.

  The Cabal's meeting had resumed after lunch. Nelson insisted that they must keep checking on progress. So many aspects to keep moving. Benton spoke gently, gazing up at the ceiling. His words were aimed at Noel.

  'Still wasting our time chasing the girls, are we?'

  'Of course. What better way of spending a free evening? I've dumped Eve. She was too prissy when it came to the point. Women are useful for only one thing. Not to mind. I'm on with a girl called Tina. Very hoity-toity, but I'm sure she knows what men need.'

  He's younger, Benton thought. He'll grow out of it. Or will he? Another anxiety surfaced. He stared at Noel.

  'The idea you had about kidnapping Paula Grey isn't going anywhere, I trust?'

  'Gone clean out of my mind,' Noel lied. 'Too many other problems to sort out. There's the prison - the one on Black Island

  'We haven't seen any plans,' Benton snapped. 'Before we even consider starting building I want to see the plans. So, I'm sure, does Nelson.'

  'Yes indeed,' Nelson agreed.

  'No work's done yet,' Noel lied again. 'As to the plans, the project is so secret the only plan is with the surveyor on Black Island. I thought it too risky to have photocopies floating about.'

  'Well,' Benton persisted, 'not a brick is to be laid until we hav
e seen them. I'm worried about the idea.'

  'Benton,' Nelson interjected, 'we do need somewhere to park social saboteurs.'

  'And what does that sinister phrase mean?'

  'Anyone who tries to disagree with the new society we are creating.'

  'Too vague,' snapped Benton. 'If we give the State Security staff too much rope some will use it to pay off old scores. I won't sanction that.'