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  'Where is everyone else?' Marler asked.

  'I sent Newman to check up on Drew Franklin. Pete and Harry are following Eva Brand.'

  'You can't suspect such a lovely creature.'

  'She's a woman, not a creature,' Paula snapped.

  'She's a niece of Drew Franklin,' Tweed remarked. 'Plus the Hogarth brothers, Billy and Martin, being cousins of Drew Franklin. We really don't know who knows who out at Carpford. So we're going to find out. Beaurain used the word "base" about the place.'

  Paula had checked her watch. 'Heavens, I've got to go to my flat and get ready for my dinner at the Ivy with Eva. That doesn't take five minutes.'

  'How women compete with each other,' Newman remarked. He had just returned. Paula fled out of the room as he made his comment.

  'You'd prefer them sloppy?' Tweed growled. 'It is one of their nice traits. I like it.'

  The phone had rung while they were talking and Monica called out.

  'That was a message from Jules Beaurain. He's landed back at Heathrow. Expects to be here in about an hour. Says he has important news, very important.'

  Inside the barn at Oldhurst Farm the fifth and last milk wagon had arrived. The body of the English driver was already at the bottom of the septic tank. The weapon had been hauled up out of the wagon, was now transferred to the interior of a small white van bearing the legend Flourishing Florist on both sides of the vehicle. The three vans which had departed earlier bore a different legend, Fresh Fruit.

  Ali, arms crossed, stood gazing with satisfaction inside the van where the weapon had been placed in position near the front of the vehicle. Its three strong legs rested on a metal plate which had holes drilled on four sides. Large metal screws were now in place, gripping the tripod tightly to the floor.

  To any normal human being the device would have seemed sinister and menacing. The large shell, tipped with its warhead, perched on the brutal tripod holding it firmly in place, would have seemed horrific. Ali, on the other hand, was gloating as he visualized it leaving its platform when the red button was pressed. The special powerful explosive which, on hitting its target, would explode outwards and upwards to cause the maximum of havoc.

  'Now fill the van with the camouflage,' he ordered in Arabic. 'Four of you get the job done.'

  Huge bouquets of expensive flowers, including orchids, were piled up round the device, almost to the roof of the van. Large pots of flowers, secured inside boxes open at the top, were placed close together at the rear of the van. A number of very large pots, tipped backwards with wedges, were placed inside as the rear doors of the van were closed slowly.

  'Abdullah' had hammered home this instruction to Ali. In the rare event that a van was stopped by a police car the driver would hand the keys to an officer, standing back.

  When the officer opened a door an avalanche of heavy pots carrying plants would descend on him, possibly knocking him out. That would curb a patrol car's officers from probing any further into the van. Similar 'barricades' had been built up against the locked doors of the three 'florist's' vans.

  Ali checked his watch. They were keeping to the timing. The master planner had insisted the vans, departing separately, should drive south so they would be caught up in the London rush hour. Hardly a time when police would be stopping vehicles and adding to the chaos. As with the planes which had flown into the World Trade Center in New York, everything had been thought of. London was doomed.

  11

  Paula, clad in a pale orange suit, glanced back through the rear window of the cab taking her to the Ivy. She couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she was being followed.

  There were three cars behind her cab, but close behind the third car was a motor-cyclist. Black leather gear, a large helmet which concealed his face, the shape of his head. She'd thought she had heard a motor-cycle start up soon after the cab left her flat.

  It was night, but the Strand was well illuminated. Street lights and shop windows glowing. They were close to the restaurant when she looked back again. The motor-cyclist was now behind her. She decided to pay the cabbie now, gave him a generous tip. As he pulled in to the kerb she threw open the door, jumped out, and ran to and inside the Ivy. The manager told her Miss Brand was already waiting, at their table.

  She followed him into the spacious restaurant. Already the place was almost full. Eva wore a close-fitting dress of gold with a high collar. She jumped up to kiss Paula and a bottle of Krug was nestling in an ice bucket.

  'You look ravishing,' Paula said as she sat down. 'Gold suits you.'

  'And your suit is so smart,' Eva replied with a wide smile. 'Now we've told each other how good we look let's have a toast.' She raised the glass the waiter had just filled. 'Here's to crime.'

  'I prefer here's to the destruction of criminals.'

  'Excuse me.' Eva chuckled. 'That was the toast we used to drink at Medfords, the security lot. Without crime we'd have been out of business. Mind if I smoke? Thanks.'

  'I was really thinking of Mr Warner. A disappearance is in a way even more disturbing than a body. You wonder and wonder. Victor Warner conceals his emotions well but he must be going nearly crazy.'

  'I agree.' Eva played with her cigarette in an ashtray. 'She was a nice lady. Like me she was a linguist.'

  'You knew her then?' Paula asked.

  'I met her at several panics. She loved England. Said she'd travelled but there was nowhere in the world like it.'

  'What languages do you speak then?' Paula asked, looking up from the menu.

  'Oh, French, Arabic, Spanish and Italian.'

  'Arabic? That's impressive.'

  'Medfords once sent me to Cairo after a man who'd absconded with a large sum of money. Now,' she said quickly, 'see anything that appeals?'

  They ordered. Both avoided starters and Paula ordered the salmon fishcake. She had the impression Eva wished to get the conversation away from Arabs and Arabic. Determined that they would not just indulge in chit-chat, Paula changed the topic.

  'What do you think has happened to Mrs Warner?'

  'Who knows?' Eva waved an elegant hand. 'Kidnapped?'

  'Then why no ransom note? I happen to know that is the case. After three long weeks.'

  'It's a mystery others must solve. I heard your people are working hard on the case,' commented Eva.

  'Among other things. So you're also fluent in Italian. I imagine you've been to Italy?'

  'Rome, Florence and Verona. And Milan.'

  'So when were you last in Milan?' Paula asked with a smile.

  'If I didn't know you have perfect manners,' Eva began, her smile gone, her large dark eyes staring, 'I would get the impression you are interrogating me.'

  'Now why would I do that?' Paula enquired with a smile. 'Is there some significance about Milan? Do tell.' She sipped her champagne. 'This is wonderful. I suppose you can get it in Milan,' she persisted. 'I've heard in Italy they push their own vintages.'

  Eva, her expression neutral, buttered a piece of bread. She ate it before wiping her wide mouth.

  'Italy does have some excellent wines. But of course, if you stayed at a top hotel you could get anything you fancied.'

  She's evaded my question, Paula thought. Why? They began to chat about well-known people occupying tables a distance from them. Eva showed a malicious side to her humour.

  'I do detest that fat pig over there. I avoid pop stars like the plague. Why have they become so important -self-important might be a better description. Making a fortune out of a ghastly row they call music. The fat pig has just looked at me and then obviously turned his head away. Maybe he can lip-read.' She chuckled. 'I do hope so.'

  A skinny young man in a white suit who was not completely sober came to their table, grasped Eva's wrist below her full cuffs. His sensuous lips were open in an inviting smile, exposing bad teeth.

  'Miss Eva Brand, if my eyes do not fool me. I'm Joe Yorkie, lead singer with the Busy Bees. Got a yacht in the Med. I could fly you down there.'
/>   'If you don't remove your hand off me this plate of omelette is going to end up all down that silly white suit.' She took hold of the plate with both hands, began to lift it.

  'Don't . . . thin . . . think you're my type.'

  'Then fly down to the Med, dive off the deck and don't bother to come up again. Shove off, you nobody.'

  Eva's tone was vicious. Paula stopped eating, convinced the omelette would end up on the suit if the drunk didn't get the message. He did, staggering a little on his way back to his table.

  Eva smiled, as though nothing had happened. 'Now, what were we talking about?'

  The rest of the meal passed pleasantly, with both women chatting about this and that. Paula was careful to keep away from any more controversial subjects. After coffee she checked her watch.

  'Eva, it has been an evening for me to remember, but I have to leave. A business appointment,' she fibbed, 'at this hour. Such is life. And thank you again.'

  'Do you mind if I wait?' Eva suggested with her wide smile. 'A friend is coming to have liqueurs with me. I still do the odd job for Medfords. Damned if I know why . . .'

  Paula was collecting her coat in the lobby as the girl was about to help her on with her coat. Hands appeared behind her, grasped the coat.

  'Allow me,' Peregrine Palfry said cheerfully. 'Don't forget we're having dinner some time. You really do look so devastating I could melt.'

  'Thank you very much, Mr Palfry . . .'

  'All my friends call me Perry. Please.'

  Palfry, his smooth skin gleaming in the light, was wearing a dinner jacket. His greenish eyes held hers as he kissed her on both cheeks.

  'Have a care,' he concluded.

  Paula pretended to take time buttoning her coat, stepping back so she could see into the restaurant. Palfry bent down and hugged Eva, then sat down opposite her and began talking animatedly, waving his hands.

  'That's weird,' Paula said to herself and walked out into the freezing night. They were waiting for her the moment the door closed behind her and she stepped on to the pavement.

  A short, heavily built man in working clothes, with a cap pulled well down over his swarthy face, grabbed her right forearm tightly. Since it was the right forearm Paula could not reach down for her Browning. Another even larger man with a bald head grasped her left arm.

  'Got a limo to take you 'ome,' snarled the brute with the cap. 'Ups-a-daisy.'

  Helpless, she knew her feet were about to be lifted off the pavement while she was carried to the limo. Harry Butler appeared out of nowhere, slammed a haymaker into the man with the cap.

  'Shouldn't have done that, you piece of rubbish,' Harry rasped.

  Her right arm was released and the grip on it had been so savage she could hardly move it. At the same moment, Pete Nield, also appearing out of nowhere, hit the bald-headed man with his stiffened right hand against the side of his neck, followed it up by a vicious punch into the kidneys. Blinking, but free, Paula stepped back.

  This was only for starters. Harry's first punch had hit the attacker in the stomach and his target was bent forward, groaning. Harry jerked up his metal-rimmed boot between the man's legs. His target screamed, bent over the pavement. Harry rammed his head down on to the stone pavement. Paula heard something crack.

  Pete now had a choke hold on Bald Head whose tongue was protruding from between his thick lips. While all this took place, Paula saw Newman running to the limo where a driver waited behind the wheel, his window up. Newman reached in through the open window with his left hand, pressed the button, closing the window. While it was partly open he tossed a smoke bomb inside. The driver stopped trying to release his seat-belt as acrid smoke filled the interior. He began to cough, spluttering, unable to leave his seat. Newman brushed his hands together, dived into his waiting car, drove it over to where Paula waited.

  'Take you home, lady. Only a modest charge . . .'

  She was already seated in the front passenger seat and he drove off as she fastened her seat belt. She looked back. Harry and Pete were still hammering at the two thugs who were now lying on the pavement. She had little doubt both of her attackers would be crippled for weeks.

  'How come you were there? You saved my bacon, as they say.'

  'Tweed's idea. He was nervous about that dinner at the Ivy, sent out Pete and Harry to wait for you. I decided to join the party.' He chuckled. 'Driver of that limo waiting to cart you off somewhere is having a smoke.'

  'Sorry?'

  'I chucked a smoke bomb inside his limo - after locking his door. Doubt if he'll smoke a cigarette for months. Now, how are you?'

  'Shaken, but OK.'

  'Park Crescent here we come.'

  Arriving back at Tweed's office, they found him pacing, unable to keep still. He ran forward to hug Paula while Monica, noticing her ashen face, hurried out to make tea. Slipping out of her coat, Paula, in a state of shock, sagged into the chair behind her desk. Reaction had set in and she was trembling.

  'What happened?' demanded Tweed.

  Newman gave a brief but graphic report about the attack outside the Ivy. Monica returned with a cup and saucer, planted it in front of Paula.

  'Sip that,' she ordered. 'It's sweetened tea. Know you don't like sugar but just get that inside you.' She watched over Paula as she grasped the cup in both hands, leaning over the saucer to take any spillage.

  The door opened and Pete and Harry rushed in. Harry, who was especially fond of Paula, went over to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. She had stopped trembling and had finished her cup of tea. The colour had come back into her face. She sat up straight and looked round at the men in the room.

  'I want to thank you all for saving me from what I imagine could have been a very unpleasant experience. What made you suspicious, Tweed?'

  'Call it sixth sense.'

  'I wonder why they wanted me,' she mused.

  'My guess,' Tweed told her, 'was they were after information about how far we'd got in our investigation.'

  'Investigation into what?'

  'Could have been several factors. What interests me is how they knew you were at the Ivy. One answer is Eva Brand. Did she have a mobile?'

  'She could have - in her handbag tucked by her chair. But she'd have to have worked fast. It was only minutes after leaving the table before I walked outside.'

  'A brief call could have been made in seconds,' Tweed insisted. '"She's on her way out now."'

  'On the other hand I'm sure I was followed in the cab taking me there. By a motor-cyclist in black leather with a huge helmet.'

  Marler, standing against a wall when Paula and Newman had arrived back, had remained silent. Now he spoke.

  'My bet is on Eva Brand. What sort of conversation did you have with her over dinner?'

  Paula recalled, word for word, what they had talked about. Tweed frowned at one point. Paula saw the frown and asked him what had struck him.

  'Her reference to Milan, to speaking their language. Italy keeps looming into the picture . . .' He fingered the piece of paper with the address Marler had given him. 'Marler, tell us all about your experience with following Buller.'

  They listened while Marler repeated the report he had given Tweed earlier. He left nothing out. Paula had heard it before but now she sat up very erect, waiting until Marler waved a hand, indicating he'd finished. Harry had sat cross-legged on the floor. He whistled.

  'The Finsbury Park mosque. That's the one where those rats who belong to al-Qa'eda are supposed to be brainwashed and given their orders.'

  'And,' Tweed emphasized, 'Milan keeps coming into the picture. First, Buller is on his way there. He's a bit like you, Paula - gets an idea and follows it up on his own. Now we have Eva Brand linked with Milan.' He checked his watch. 'Bob, get any information on Drew Franklin when you went to the Daily Nation?'

  'Yes - and no. Met my pal, the sub-editor. Took him out to a pub. He said Franklin isn't liked by the rest of the staff, but they all admit his column is so brilliant and snide th
ey know a lot of their readers turn to it first. Doesn't talk to anyone, gives the impression they are all members of a lower class, that intellectually he's way above them, and shows it. Has a London pad not far behind Eaton Square — I've got the address. Drives off up to Carpford to type his column. Goes to a lot of parties in London - I suppose he's picking up gossip. He goes abroad in January for six weeks. No one knows where to. He only misses handing over the text of his column for one week. Behind his back they nickname him Snooty. Not a lot, but he seems a bit of a mystery man.'

  'Paula, time for you to go home, get a good night's sleep after the Ivy business. Beaurain is still trapped at Heathrow - Security at Heathrow got an anonymous call that there was a terrorist aboard his flight. Beaurain is marooned there until they've checked everyone. He'll be here later tonight so I'll wait.'