This United state tac-16 Read online

  On this note she ambled slowly to the door, left the library, closing the door behind her. Paula selected another cake. As she consumed it her mind whirled with thoughts. She was also wondering how Tweed was getting on with his host.

  'How about a double Scotch?' Strangeways had suggested as soon as they were alone.

  'No, thank you. I'm driving.'

  He watched Strangeways walk briskly to a cabinet against a wall. Taking out a glass and a bottle of expensive whisky, his host poured a generous drink. As the bottle touched the rim of the glass it rattled. He drank half the contents, returned to the table, sat facing Tweed.

  'That's better. I needed it.'

  'You're worried about something?'

  'Tweed, you know I've spent a long time in the States. By now I know America. I know a lot of the top people. I know the way they're thinking. Incidentally, I'm having dinner with Jefferson Morgenstern in town this evening.'

  'Is he worried?'

  'I think so. Look at it from their point of view. Globally. They feel encircled. Across the Pacific they have China facing them. That's a distance, but not in these days of inter-continental ballistic missiles. They think the Russians are going to ally themselves with the Chinese.

  That's looking west from where they sit. Now take Europe and the Middle East. Iran, to mention only one Muslim state, is building a nuclear arsenal. If it combined with Turkey – which could soon become a Muslim state again – they might over-run Europe. Turkey, as you know, is close to having 'a population of a hundred and fifty million. Bigger than any nation in Western Europe.'

  'Iran is a long way from America,' Tweed pointed out, glancing at the wall map of the world facing him.

  'London is roughly half the distance Beijing is from San Francisco – and they're worried about Beijing.'

  'Why mention London?'

  'It's much closer to the East Coast of America.' 'Why is that relevant?'

  'If an enormous Muslim power took over Britain, America would be an isolated fortress, menaced on both coasts.'

  'Why do they think that would happen?' Tweed enquired.

  'Because they think this European Union idea is a shambles. Umpteen nations, speaking different languages, with different histories, many secretly hating each other. They quote the old Austro-Hungarian Empire – also a. goulash of nationalities – which collapsed at the end of the First World War. More recently, they point to Yugoslavia. Again a mix of races with their own languages, religions. Tito dies and the whole house of cards comes tumbling down.

  'So?'

  'They foresee a scenario whereby an overwhelming Muslim force could conquer Western Europe. Supposing a federated Europe was attacked. Imagine the indecision in Brussels. They'd still be working out what to do when the Muslims crossed the Rhine. There'd be a large element arguing that any life would be better than death.'

  'So what do the Americans propose to do about it?'

  'They have a plan. I do know that. Morgenstern, remember, was born in Europe. Was in Europe until he was a young man and went to the States.'

  'It's his plan?'

  'I don't know. But he carries tremendous influence in Washington.'

  'What is the plan?' Tweed asked point blank.

  'I don't know. They never forget I'm English.' Strangeways finished off his drink. 'So they don't confide in me.'

  'But you seem to know a lot.'

  'I simply know how they're thinking. What about you? Have you a clue as to what is going on?'

  'Nothing, really,' Tweed replied evasively.

  'I do know they think very highly of you, Tweed,' Strangeways said casually.

  Strangeways was looking at the wall as he said this. His right hand was playing with his empty glass. For a moment Tweed detected a hint of shiftiness in his host, something he had never seen before.

  'Why me?' he asked.

  'They respect your global outlook. Your achievements in the past. Above all, you're not a politician. Morgenstern once described you as having the brain of a statesman.'

  'Nice of him. Do you agree with what is happening?'

  'Damn it, I can't make up my mind. The world is changing day by day. There's no precedent for the present grim situation.'

  'Why did you ask me down here, Guy? If I may call you that?'

  'Of course you may. I felt a strong need for a sounding board. To get your reaction. I'm going to have another drink.'

  'I hope you don't mind – ' Tweed checked his watch – 'but I'll have to be going soon.'

  He looked round the chilly uncomfortable room. Yes, it all came from a boarding-school upbringing. There was an atmosphere in the room he didn't like, a restlessness which he felt sure originated in his host. He also felt alarmed and couldn't put his finger on the reason for this sensation.

  'Sorry, Tweed,' Strangeways said, returning with his refilled glass. 'I've been pouring out my anxieties to you. Not like me.'

  'Why do you think the Prime Minister was assassinated?' Tweed asked suddenly.

  Strangeways was sitting down. He froze. The liquid in his glass shook. Then he stood up, his expression grim.

  'That was a nasty business.' He drank more whisky. 'But I'm detaining you.'

  He accompanied Tweed into the forbidding hall, went over and opened the library door. Paula was immersed in her book. She looked up and smiled.

  'I've really enjoyed the peace and quiet in here.' 'Rupert hasn't been bothering you, has he?'

  'Heavens, no.'

  She spoke over her shoulder as she carefully replaced the volume where she had found it. Strangeways watched her action with approval.

  'You know something,' he told her, 'you're the first visitor who hasn't taken out a book and then left it on one of the couches. Tweed is leaving now…'

  The three of them were walking across the hall when the front door was hurled open. Rupert entered, slapping his crop against his thigh. He stared hard at Tweed.

  'Don't know you.'

  'No, you don't,' Tweed replied abruptly.

  'But I must say goodbye to the alluring Paula.'

  'Go straight upstairs to your room,' Strangeways snapped.

  'Your wish is my command.'

  Rupert began running up a wide curving staircase to the left of the doorway Tweed and his father had just left. As he ran he twirled his riding crop in a way which reminded Paula of an American girl leading a parade before a sports match, manipulating her symbolic stick. He's athletic, she thought. Then Rupert threw the crop into the air, caught it with one hand as it fell behind his back. And quick reflexes, she said to herself.

  'I'll give you a buzz,' he called down to Paula. 'We'll have dinner in London.'

  She didn't reply, Strangeways tightened his mouth and then his son was gone. The doorway where Rupert had entered was still open. Paula thanked their host as they left and Tweed turned on the terrace.

  'Enjoy your dinner with Morgenstern,' he said.

  Strangeways said nothing, merely nodded before closing the door. At the bottom of the steps Tweed paused with Paula, glanced up at the right-hand turret before getting behind the wheel of his car.

  'Someone is watching us.'

  'I know. Mrs Belloc, seeing us off the premises. I'm glad we are going. Something creepy about that place.'

  7

  Tweed had a shock when he arrived back at Park Crescent. He had found the Merc parked outside a tea shop in Parham. Newman had emerged immediately with Butler and Nield. Paula was secretly relieved to see Butler. During the drive back Tweed had told her he would explain what had happened with Strangeways when they got back. This made Paula resolve to say nothing about her encounter with Rupert for the moment.

  It was dry and bitterly cold when Tweed parked his car and they entered the SIS building. George, who let them in, pointed to the waiting room.

  'You'll never guess who is waiting to see you.' 'Then I won't try.'

  Newman and Nield were heading up the stairs to Tweed's office when George called out to
them, 'Marler has arrived. You'll find him up there.'

  Butler paused. He made no attempt to follow the two men up to the first floor. He spoke tersely before heading for the door to the basement. 'I have to visit the boffins. They're cooking up a new gadget for Marler.'

  'Well, George, what is it?' Tweed asked when he was alone with Paula.

  'And you'll never guess what he said to me. Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan has been waiting for almost an hour. He told me that if anyone at the Metropolitan Police asked if he was here I was to say I hadn't see him.'

  'He used the phrase Metropolitan Police?' Tweed checked in a puzzled tone.

  'His very words.'

  'Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Roy,' Tweed apologized as he entered the waiting room with Paula. 'You didn't phone to let me know you were coming.'

  'Deliberately. My office may be bugged.'

  Paula was gazing at their visitor. Normally Buchanan's manner was sardonic, deceptively offhand. Now he looked like a man under pressure, his expression grim. She recalled the bizarre change in Strangeways' appearance, how the jokey amiability had been replaced by tension. He had struck her at Irongates as being taut as a guitar string under unbearable strain. What on earth was happening to these men?

  'Roy,' said Tweed briskly, 'in my office there are Newman, Nield and Marler. And, of course, Monica. Would you sooner they didn't hear what you have to say?'

  'I'd sooner they did. At least they are trustworthy…'

  When they were all settled in his office Monica suggested some coffee. Buchanan accepted the offer gratefully. Paula sensed that Monica had noticed the change in the Chief Inspector. Their guest normally lounged in his armchair. Now he was sitting bolt upright.

  'Fire away, Roy,' Tweed invited.

  'Something terrible is happening to this country,' Buchanan began. 'Like a monster octopus extending its tentacles round every key position. I've been told to lay off the Americans,' he said savagely.

  'In what way?' Tweed enquired.

  'For starters, no investigation of the outrage in Albemarle Street. No witnesses…'

  'Oh, yes, there are!' Paula exploded. 'I'm a witness – that is, if Tweed agrees. But I can't reveal the identity of the man they tried to kill.'

  'I know it was Cord Dillon, ex-Deputy Director of the CIA,' the Chief Inspector replied. 'Tweed called me at home from his flat. I gather he's in hiding and there are no other witnesses.'

  'The street was empty,' Paula went on vehemently. 'It was a freezing night. And it happened just after ten o'clock. No one was about – which isn't surprising.'

  'Then,' Buchanan went on, 'I've been told to destroy my report on the Lincoln Continental incident, when Newman rammed it outside here. Again, lay off the Americans.'

  'Who told you this?' Tweed asked.

  'The Commissioner himself. Had me in his office this morning. Just the two of us. He was apologetic, defensive. The trouble is there's a strong rumour he's going to be replaced. And he's the best man in the country to hold down the job.'

  'He was adamant?' Tweed suggested.

  'Not entirely. He was escorting me to the door and then said, "You must use your own judgement, Roy."' The phone rang. Monica had just returned and served Buchanan with coffee. She picked up the phone, listened, looked across at Tweed.

  'Sorry to interrupt. Butler's on the line from the basement. Said it was urgent.'

  'What is it, Harry?' Tweed asked on his own phone.

  'Thought I'd better own up. While you were at Irongates I used a telescopic ladder to scale the side wall. Wanted to check you were OK. Then explored round the back, found a big garage. Padlocked shut but there was a gap in the old doors. Shone my torch inside and there was the Chrysler they tried to shove you into outside the American Embassy.'

  'You're certain?'

  'Same number plate.'

  'You did well. I need that information.'

  Putting down the phone, Tweed told Buchanan there was something he ought to know. He then described the attempt to kidnap him and Butler's Chrysler report. Buchanan's expression changed. He relaxed in his chair.

  'Now I've got something I can get my teeth into. Kidnapping – or the attempt – is a major crime. And, if you agree, Tweed, I've got witnesses. Newman and Butler would do.'

  'I agree,' Tweed said promptly.

  'You can keep the SIS out of this?' enquired Marler, standing against a wall.

  'Newman would make the perfect witness,' Buchanan pointed out. 'He's the best-known foreign correspondent on Earth. Butler works for the General amp; Cumbria Insurance outfit. Tweed is its chief investigator. His speciality is supposed to be the insurance of prominent men against being kidnapped. A clever counsel could link the whole thing up – someone Tweed has insured is in danger of being kidnapped.'

  'Any idea why the Prime Minister was assassinated?' Tweed asked out of the blue.

  'None at all.'

  'I think I have. Normally we know who would have taken his place. But the Cabinet and the MPs rebelled. They chose someone else. An apparently neutral figure. Whoever paid for the assassination banked on their own man getting the job.'

  'That's shrewd,' Buchanan commented. 'Incidentally, Interpol contacted me about the possible identity of the assassin.'

  'Who did they come up with?' interjected Marler.

  'I know why you've asked. If anybody eventually locates the bastard you will. Interpol told me it could be the Phantom. They're sure he killed that German, Keller, and the French Minister. They then told me – emphasizing it was no more than a rumour – that the Phantom could be an Englishman.'

  `So what about the Chrysler?' Tweed prodded.

  'You've been told to lay off the Americans.'

  'Blow that. I'm getting a search warrant for Irongates so we can open up that garage. If I get the sack, then I do. I'll send a team down there. Think I'd better get moving.'

  'Watch your back,' warned Tweed.

  'I've been doing that for years – some of the people I've had to deal with.' Buchanan stood up, grabbed the overcoat Monica had put on a hanger in a corner near the door. 'And thanks, Monica, for the coffee. You make the best in London.'

  With one hand on the door handle, he turned to look quickly at everyone. He pulled a wry face.

  'Don't do anything I would. Otherwise you'll get yourselves into a proper pickle…'

  'He's his old self,' said Paula when Buchanan had gone. 'Must be the coffee.'

  'We gave him something he can get hold of,' Tweed asserted.

  'Oh, I had an early morning phone call before I left my flat,' Newman announced.

  'Give,' rapped out Paula. You look pleased with yourself.'

  'Sharon Mandeville wants me to have dinner with her tomorrow evening. How she got hold of my ex-directory number I have no idea. She suggested Santorini's, the new place down by the river.'

  'And you're going to oblige the lady?'

  'Thought I might get some information out of her.' 'Of course. That ravishing photo of her we showed you had nothing to do with it.'

  'I just wonder,' Tweed mused, 'whether she's had it up to here with America. Maybe she's decided to settle down over here. Hence her buying a house in Dorset. In which case she'll be keen to build up a circle of friends.'

  'I've just found out about that, Monica intervened. 'She's actually bought a small manor in Dorset.'

  'Which backs up my theory about her, Tweed remarked.

  'I'd better get moving,' Newman said, standing up. 'I want to go home and freshen up. I'll need my wits about me. I'm meeting that slug Basil Windermere this evening.'

  'Look forward to tomorrow,' Paula told him. 'Santorini's will cost you a fortune. The lady would make an expensive girl friend. Lucky you can afford it,' she continued to tease him.

  'I'm getting out of here. I'm Paula's target.'

  He was walking to the door when it opened. Butler walked in, carrying a cardboard box with a pink ribbon round it. He handed the box to Marler.

 
; 'It works,' he told him:

  'What works,' demanded Newman.

  'It does.'

  'I'll come with you, Bob,' decided Marler.

  He walked out, carrying the box under his arm. Newman warned him again on their way down the stairs that there would be hell to pay if Windermere recognized him.

  Inside the American Embassy, in the large room overlooking the square, was a conference table. At its head sat Jake Ronstadt. Only five foot four tall, his presence nevertheless dominated the eight Americans seated on either side. Clean-shaven, he had a large head, a thin mouth, a short thick nose and a lot of jaw. His chest was like a barrel but his legs were thin, his feet small. He shuffled a pack of cards as he gazed from one man to the next, his eyes hard, intimidating.

  'You guys had better work a damned sight harder for the huge pay cheques you get,' he growled. 'I'm having to do everything myself. Met a guy who gave me the data on Strangeways. He wanted five thousand bucks for what he told me. He's at the bottom of the Thames now. Get the message?'

  'Sure, Jake.'

  It was a chorus from the eight men assembled around the table. A fulsome chorus, motivated by fear. Jake continued to shuffle the pack of cards. No one had ever seen him play a game. It was just a weird habit he had, part of his forceful personality. His accent was New York's back streets and he spoke in a deep rumble, spacing out his words as though addressing a bunch of morons. All his subordinates wore black English business suits. Jake was clad in a leather windcheater, leather trousers.

  'Charlie says the operation is moving too slowly.' 'Who is Charlie?' asked Diamond Waltz.

  'Hank.' Jake paused. 'I guess you kinda asked the wrong question. How cold do you reckon it is at the bottom of the river?'

  'Sorry, Jake.' The bald-headed Waltz was shivering with fright. 'I'm very sorry. I made a bad mistake.'

  'Don't hire guys to make mistakes. Keep your goddamn trap shut. Maybe then you'll live longer, Baldy.'

  'Are we still working with Chuck?' asked another man. 'Just want to get the score clear.'

  'Chuck Venacki wasn't invited to attend our little meetin' – you check everything you find out with me. Here are your targets.'