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  'So will I,' said Paula forcefully.

  Half an hour later, Marler was looking out of the window after pulling aside the curtain. Pete and Harry had earlier left to get something to eat. Marler whistled and grinned as he looked at Tweed.

  'You're honoured. Prepare for a shock.'

  'You'll never . . .' began Monica, who had answered the phone. She cut off the rest of her remark after a certain look from Tweed.

  'You have a visitor,' she said quietly. 'Victor Warner, Minister of Security, wants to see you urgently.'

  'We know by now what he is,' growled Tweed. 'Ask him up - by himself.'

  'Arrived in a couple of black limos,' Marler reported. 'The second one is crammed with camel-hair coat types. They've jumped out, started parading round. Comedians . . .'

  The door opened and Victor Warner, clad in a camel-hair coat — presumably to disguise his identity during the drive from Whitehall - dashed in, clutching a cardboard-backed envelope. He sat in the armchair facing Tweed.

  'Thought it best to come over here. It's an emergency. We think we know the target - and who is behind all the rumours.'

  'That would be a step forward.'

  Tweed became silent as Warner extracted a photograph from the envelope. He slapped it down in front of Tweed. His expression was grim, his manner disturbed.

  'What would you say that is?' demanded Warner.

  'It is a photo of Canary Wharf, the main tower block. It is easy to identify.'

  'Now look on the back,' Warner snapped.

  Tweed turned it over. Scrawled in an illiterate but readable hand was one word. Next? Tweed raised his eyebrows, looked at Warner.

  'Where did this come from?'

  'Bit of luck. In my position you need a bit of luck. Learned that when I was with Medfords. A couple of policemen in that area saw a man taking photos of the building from different angles. They collared him, Buchanan phoned me, sent the pics over by courier. Chap taking the pictures is under arrest. A certain bigwig in the IRA. Released from prison a couple of months ago.'

  Marler had glided over, appeared behind Tweed's back. Casually he picked up the photo and headed for the door. Warner swung round, furious.

  'Where do you think you're taking that?'

  'We have a chap on our staff who once worked at Canary Wharf,' Marler lied glibly. 'He can confirm positively that this is Canary Wharf.'

  'Of course it is,' Warner roared. He stabbed a thick finger as he went on. 'And I forbid you to make any copies. Got it?'

  Marler had gone. Tweed started doodling on a pad with his pen. He pursed his lips, then asked the question as though the answer wasn't important.

  'What do you know about the track record of this IRA man, the bigwig?'

  'Name is Tim O'Leary. Known to have been sent to the Mid-East at one time to try and get collaboration - arms - from groups out there. Speaks fluent Arabic. Believed to have spent three months out there, although the timing is vague.'

  'And he was openly photographing Canary Wharf, despite the presence of two policemen?'

  'Doubt if he'd noticed them. Probably thought if he took pics openly he wouldn't look suspicious. Bit of luck the police were there, spotted him.'

  'So you think Canary Wharf is the next target of the Real IRA mob?'

  'That and maybe St Paul's Cathedral at the same time. I have taken all precautions. Everyone who enters either building is thoroughly searched. More than that . . .' Warner was building up a head of steam. 'The RAF have fighters flying non-stop with orders to shoot down any airliner - even if crammed with passengers - if it enters the non-flying exclusion zone we've organized. We'll be ready for them if they come - on the ground or in the air. The PM has - albeit reluctantly - backed me.'

  Marler had returned with the photograph, now inside a transparent evidence envelope, placed it on Tweed's desk. Warner glared at him, then spoke to Tweed.

  'All this is confidential. I'd sooner he wasn't here. Nor that girl behind the word-processor.'

  'Give us a few minutes alone,' Tweed said, thinking confidentiality was a bit late in the day. He pounced when Warner looked at Paula.

  'Miss Grey stays. She knows as much as I do. If ever I was put out of action she'd take over command.'

  Paula was astounded, even a little embarrassed. She had never before heard Tweed suggest elevating her to control of the entire organization. Warner nodded before continuing.

  'So, I think, Mr Tweed, you'll agree I have everything under control. No need for you to concern yourself with this problem any more. And now, I had better love you and leave you,' he concluded, standing up.

  'Thank you, Minister, for keeping me informed,' Tweed replied very quietly.

  Paula walked to the door, opened it for Warner to leave. He hadn't even the courtesy to thank her. Tweed asked her to tell Monica and Marler. Newman, who had left without being asked to also came back.

  A few minutes after Marler reported the two limos had left on their way back to Whitehall the phone rang yet once more. Monica reported that Jules Beaurain had just arrived. Tweed pulled a face.

  'Now we know what has held up the poor devil so long. Warner's new security precautions at Heathrow. Tell him to come up now.'

  Paula was expecting the Belgian to look exhausted after his long day, the irksomeness of hanging around forever at the airport. Instead, when he charged into the room he was bursting with energy and smiling broadly. He dumped the small case he had been carrying by the armchair, again sat opposite Newman.

  He was wearing a neutral-coloured windcheater, corduroy slacks. Paula observed he was freshly shaven and guessed he'd tidied himself up inside the plane's toilet. Besides bubbling with energy he looked ready to start a new day. Don't know how you do it, she thought. He waved to her.

  'I have news,' Tweed remarked, 'but I'm sure you have too.'

  'Gentlemen first.'

  Beaurain waved a hand in Tweed's direction. He settled himself into the armchair to listen. His eyes were fixed on Tweed's as he listened to the details of Warner's surprise visit. Tweed ended by shoving the evidence envelope across to the Belgian. He merely glanced at it, then pushed it back across the desk.

  'Decoy.'

  12

  'Decoy!' Paula exclaimed. 'You used the same word when you were shown a drawing last time you were here.'

  'Because I believe the only purpose is to lead Tweed in the wrong direction. They, whoever they may be, are conducting what the Americans call a campaign of disinformation. It is so obvious.'

  'I agree,' Tweed interjected. 'I had the same reaction.'

  'What's so obvious?' Paula demanded.

  'Paula,' Beaurain explained, 'you have many talents and none of them is stupidity. Consider the scenario at Canary Wharf. This Tim O'Leary - chosen because of his previous connections with the Real IRA - stands out in the open, snapping away with his camera. A one-time terrorist — you think he wasn't well aware of the presence of two policemen?'

  'And,' Tweed added with a smile, 'Victor Warner has swallowed the bait hook, line and sinker.'

  'Just the man to be Minister of Security,' the Belgian said drily.

  'Paula,' Tweed suggested, 'I want Jules completely in the picture. Could you describe the attack outside the Ivy?'

  She took a deep breath, began speaking rapidly. She was almost reliving the speed and brutality of the incident.

  Beaurain, his expression now grave, watched her intently. He nodded when she had finished, then said, his tone grim, 'Now that I do find significant. They were obviously going to kidnap you, interrogate you, maybe worse. I'll be thinking over everywhere you've been, who you have seen. With concentration on Carpford. You touched someone's nerve.'

  'You mean . . .'

  'I mean whoever is behind all this is worried that you saw — or heard in conversation - something dangerous. So, play back everything in your mind. Incidentally, it is important we discover who knew you were at the Ivy. Maybe the motor-cyclist who followed you on your way ther
e. But I would like to meet this glamorous lady, Eva Brand, when I can.'

  'Oh, you'll enjoy that. She's so attractive,' she chaffed him.

  'Paula,' Beaurain said with a cynical smile, 'in Belgium I met a number of fascinating ladies and listened while they chattered on and on. They ended up in prison, which is where I put them.'

  'Jules, your trip to Brussels,' Tweed said impatiently. 'I am waiting for the details of your visit to that banker.'

  'He collapsed very quickly - when I showed him certain documents which could put him behind bars. The money from Carpford, which mounts up to a considerable sum, does not stay in Belgium. It is immediately transmitted by wire to a certain individual in Milan I happen to know. A certain Mario Murano. Here is his address.'

  Tweed masked his surprise as he read the sheet of paper Beaurain had given him. Via Legessa 290. He looked up and told Beaurain about Marler's encounter with Jasper Buller, the new Chief of Special Branch, at Waterloo before Buller boarded the Eurostar.

  Beaurain leaned back in his seat and studied the ceiling. It was several minutes before he straightened up and spoke.

  'I hope Buller can look after himself.'

  'He probably can,' Tweed assured him. 'Why?'

  'Mario Murano is a very dodgy . . . right word? Good . . . customer. A battle-scarred con-man. He's in touch with the Mafia, who trust him. Then, for a fat fee, he reports to a top carabinieri officer - Italian police. When he has learned the hideaway of a top capo. But he also gives me info - again for a fat fee. One of these days he's going to trip himself up. Outcome? End of Mario.'

  'Dangerous,' Tweed commented.

  'I went to Paris from Brussels today,' Beaurain told them. 'I had to keep moving. I talked to your friend, Tweed, the Chief of the DST - Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire - or French counter-espionage. He sent you a message. Not polite, I fear.'

  'Tell me,' Tweed said with a smile. 'The old brigand is reliable.'

  'He doesn't think the Brits, as he called them, are. He was fuming. They know key members of al-Qa'eda have moved over here recently. He sent the data to the Ministry of Security. They replied with thanks — and have done nothing. Not even arrested them. He thinks we are crazy.'

  'He's right. I can hardly contact Warner and ask him what he thinks he is doing. You flew back from Paris then?'

  'Caught the flight from Charles de Gaulle by the skin of my teeth. Then ran into the wall of security at Heathrow. I have decided to travel to Italy myself tomorrow, to see Mr Murano and ask him where the money from Brussels goes on to. Not just the rent. Someone code-named Brutus in Carpford sends huge sums. Anyone want to come with me?'

  'Me!' Paula shot up her hand.

  'You will permit?' Beaurain asked Tweed.

  'She'll give me hell if I refuse.'

  'That's settled.' Beaurain took out a notebook and wrote in it. Paula noticed he wrote as fast as he talked. He went over to her desk, gave her the sheet he'd torn from the notebook. 'My hotel, a small place near Victoria. My room number on the back. I'm registered as Mr Vance. We meet under the destination board at Waterloo at 4 p.m. tomorrow. Now, give me your Browning pistol. Thank you. I can smuggle this through with my own Beretta. Bring only one case., and plenty of warm clothes. I'll have the tickets. I'm off now!' He paused before opening the door. 'That nasty incident outside the Ivy. Don't overlook this man Palfry. He could have been waiting in the lobby until he saw you were leaving, dashed outside to signal those thugs, then back in to greet you. Au revoir . . .'

  'Interesting what he told us about the information from Paris,' Tweed said half to himself. 'And they have an uncomplimentary version of the word London.'

  'And I'm off to Italy,' Paula enthused. 'That will make an exciting change. I'll bet it's Milan.'

  'Not too exciting, I hope,' Tweed replied with no enthusiasm at all.

  13

  Milano Centrale. The long-distance express glided to a halt. Beaurain, with Paula by his side, was already standing at the exit as the automatic doors opened. They stepped on to the platform, Paula gazed up at the vast cavern, curving above them like an arched cathedral.

  'It's enormous.'

  'It is,' Beaurain agreed as he grabbed her arm to hustle her along amid a vast crowd descending from another train. 'I want us out of here fast. We were followed all the way from Waterloo. That small smartly dressed man seated a few seats in front of us. Dark suit, carefully manicured hair which you called coiffeured. He used his mobile as we were coming in. I suspect someone unpleasant is waiting for us . . .'

  It was late in the afternoon but still daylight. While on the express Beaurain had slipped something wrapped in thick glossy paper to her, suggesting she visited the toilet before unwrapping it.

  Inside the toilet she had carefully unwrapped layer after layer of the paper, which felt strange to the touch. Inside she found her .32 Browning and three magazines. Earlier, from the same suitcase which had contained Paula's weapon, Beaurain had extracted a similar package, had visited the toilet. In a hip holster he now wore his favourite gun, a .38 Special Smith & Wesson with a shortened barrel, weighing only eighteen ounces.

  When she had returned to her seat Paula had folded the odd-feeling paper and handed it to Beaurain. He had slipped it back inside his case, thanking her, remarking that it was very expensive.

  As they approached the exit Paula looked to left and right. It appeared there were at least twenty platforms. Passing through the ticket barrier, they made their way across the crowded concourse to the exit, a long flight of very wide stone steps.

  'Keep close to me,' Beaurain warned, his eyes everywhere.

  As they descended towards a vast paved open space Paula gazed at the extraordinary edifice looming up higher than any of the other solid stone blocks situated round the space. A shaft of sunlight broke through the hazy clouds, beamed like a searchlight on the dominant edifice.

  Immensely tall and slim, its sides were curved. They swung round at the end nearest to her, creating the impression of a gigantic cone. She sucked in her breath.

  'That must be the world-famous Pirelli building. It really is an architectural masterpiece.'

  'Yes, that's Pirelli . . .'

  Beaurain sounded abstracted. He never stopped surveying the scene as though expecting trouble. No pedestrian coining towards them escaped his eagle eye, checked with a brief glance. They had left the steps and were walking towards Pirelli when Paula noticed a long black stretch limo parked by the kerb. As they reached the limo her attention was distracted by an Italian pushing a trolley towards them laden with fruit.

  The rear door of the limo suddenly swung open, blocking Beaurain's way. At the same moment the Italian pushing the fruit trolley lost control. Fruit spilt all over the pavement.

  'We have been expecting you, Signor Beaurain,' the expensively dressed businessman type seated inside the limo called out. 'We have made reservations at the Hassler . . .'

  He stopped talking as Beaurain pointed his Smith & Wesson revolver at him. At the same moment the driver dashed out of his seat, ran round the front of the limo, holding a Clock pistol, a deadly weapon. He was aiming it at the Belgian's back when Paula rammed the muzzle of her Browning into his side.

  'Drop that bloody gun,' she shouted. 'Or say goodbye now,' she snarled.

  It was probably the ferocity in her voice which frightened the driver. He dropped the gun. She kicked it under the car. Beaurain leaned inside the car, struck the passenger savagely across the forehead. He slumped down in his seat.

  'Let's go,' Beaurain whispered as he hit the driver such a blow on the jaw the man sagged to the pavement.

  Bending down, he hoisted the unconscious driver up by the armpits, threw him into the back of the car, slammed the door shut.

  'You're a major asset,' he said as he grasped Paula by the arm and hustled her out of the square. 'We can just catch that tram, I hope . . .'

  They were inside as the automatic doors closed behind them and the almost empty tram
began moving. With both their weapons already bolstered, they sank into a couple of seats together.

  Paula wiped her clammy hands on her trousers. She had removed her gloves when Beaurain had warned her as they left Centrale. Despite the bitter cold which hit them on leaving the express she'd taken that precaution in case she had to use her weapon. At least it was warm inside the trundling tram. She rubbed her hands together.