by Colin Forbes
'What's going on?' Lisa asked.
'They're scanning the area. 'Ad a good look at my pub. They check out alleys, anywhere they could 'ide. That squat thug pinched the cap off Bert.'
'When?'
'They first appeared a couple of hours ago, got out of cars, scanned this area quickly, then drove off. I sent Bert after them on his motorbike. They drove to the West End, parked, then checked out expensive restaurants, discotheques. You name it. Now they're back 'ere.'
'You think they're getting ready for a riot?'
'Not yet,' Herb told her. 'Not if I read the signs aright. They're choosin' targets for somethin' later. Here come six more of the tykes. Foreigners again. Walkin' separate as though they don't know each other.'
Selecting an apple from a stall, Lisa asked how much. The stallholder grinned, shook his head. He exchanged banter with Herb, who explained as they continued walking while she munched the apple.
'That was because you was with me. See that villainous lot that's just arrived? They're passin' Delgado as though he didn't exist. That's deliberate. Ever seen that brute before?'
'Yes. Once in a bar in Brussels. He caught me looking at him and I think he's a man who remembers people. Shouldn't you have some protection, with Delgado's mob casing the area?'
'Got a shotgun under the bar. Illegal. But not if Delgado ever comes in, waving that knife about. We'd better get back so I can help out Millie.'
'Did Bert make a list of the targets here and in the West End that Delgado was interested in?'
'He did.'
'Could I have a copy?'
'Course you can. I'll borrow it off Bert now. Can't think why you want it but you keeps yourself to yourself. Then, you're a smart lady . . .'
Customers were filling up the pub but Lisa was able to go to the end of the bar by herself. She copied Bert's list, then used the phone to call Tweed again. The same nice woman answered, regretted that Tweed was out again, asked if he could call her.
'I'll try again later, thank you . . .'
Tweed and Paula went inside Marlows, an obscure club located on Pall Mall alongside more prestigious establishments. Tweed was asking the porter if Mr Gavin Thunder had arrived when a small well-dressed man in a grey suit appeared in the hall. Well-built, he couldn't have been more than five feet four inches tall, Paula estimated, and he exuded physical energy as he held out a hand, smiling.
'Welcome, Tweed. Too long since we last met. And this must be the hyper-efficient Miss Paula Grey. And an attractive lady, if I may say so.'
'Thank you,' replied Paula as she shook his firm, muscled hand. 'I don't know about hyper-efficient but I get by.'
'With flying colours, according to many who know you. Shall we adjourn to the library? Very quiet in there. I'll lead the way . . .'
He was just as she'd expected. In his forties, he had dark brown hair, a high forehead, a commanding nose, a strong mouth. He walked rapidly and had an aura of amiability that put people at their ease. His most striking feature were his eyes, intense blue eyes that looked straight at you.
They followed him into a room lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling. The room was deserted except for a waiter and Thunder sat them at a small table circled with comfortable arm chairs.
'Coffee for everyone?' he suggested and nodded to the waiter. He sat forward, hands clasped in his lap, looked from one guest to the other.
'Got your reports, Tweed, as I said on the phone. Read both of them.' He spoke rapidly, like a man with an agile brain. 'Doesn't seem to be any doubt about what happened to poor Jeremy Mordaunt. Murder.'
'I'm afraid it was,' agreed Tweed and fell silent.
'What worries me, frankly,' Thunder continued when he realized Tweed was not going to say any more, 'is the inquest. It will, of course, be held at Eastbourne. That might just keep most of the press away. The government can do without yet another scandal.'
He kept quiet as the waiter returned and served the coffee. He only resumed speaking when the door had closed . . .
'Incidentally, I'm Gavin. Have I your permission to call you Paula? Thank you. I get so fed up with being addressed as "Minister".' He smiled. 'I feel like looking round to make sure I'm not in church.'
Paula chuckled and Thunder waved both hands as much as to say what a world we live in. He stared at Tweed, his expression grave.
'May I ask you a personal question? If you don't want to reply I'll quite understand.' He leaned forward again. 'At the inquest will you be telling the coroner you are still pursuing your investigations and request an adjournment?'
'I'm going to do exactly that.'
'Thank you for answering - between the three of us only.'
'Am I then to assume,' Tweed began, his voice sharper, 'that I am still in charge of the investigation? That would be most unusual.'
'You are to assume that, yes. I know it's unusual - there are people who would call it irregular. But there could be political implications, now we know it was murder. You see, Jeremy was very bright technically.' He paused. 'I have again to ask you to keep this just between the three of us.' He paused. 'A couple of days before Jeremy travelled to Alfriston he discovered my office was bugged.'
'And you'd discussed confidential matters in that room?' asked Tweed.
'Heavens, yes, I had. Thought I was safe there. So Jeremy removed all the listening devices. I decided not to report it to anyone.'
'Why?'
'Because I was beginning to wonder who I could trust.'
'Even among Cabinet members?'
'If you don't mind, I'd sooner not answer that question.
But I've been doing all the talking. Have you something you'd like to ask me?'
'Yes, I have. Do you know why Jeremy Mordaunt travelled down to Alfriston? Who he was going to see?'
'I have absolutely no idea. I kept him on a loose rein -he was clever and wouldn't tell me certain things until he had the complete story. I have made enquiries.'
'What about?'
'Discreetly, about who lives in that part of the world. So far I have only come up with Lord Barford. But since he gave up the job as chief of the Special Branch hasn't he retired?'
'One would expect him to have done that.'
'Oh, there is something else.' Thunder checked his Rolex watch. 'I'll have to go shortly. A Cabinet meeting.' He looked at Paula and smiled. 'You wouldn't care to come and keep me company - to prevent me from being bored stiff?'
'I don't think they'd welcome me,' she said, returning his smile.
'Before we go,' Tweed said, 'what was the something else?'
'I'd appreciate it if you'd liaise with Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan about your investigations. It would go some way to regularizing the situation.'
'I was going to do that anyway.'
They left the library. Thunder collected his coat, and they walked into the street. As they did so a limo pulled up at the kerb. Thunder swore, apologized to Paula.
'I did tell them to send an ordinary car for me. All this pomp and circumstance is so idiotic. Now, thank you both so much for giving me your time. And I've enjoyed your company.' He whispered the rest as the chauffeur opened the door with a flourish. 'Which is more than I expect to do when I get back to Downing Street. . .'
'You have your lunch with Aubrey Barford,' Tweed reminded her as the limo moved off. 'Is there time for us to walk up St James's Street before you get a taxi?'
'Yes, there is.' They began to stroll. 'Well, that surprised me. I expected him to rave.'
'He can, I've heard. If a subordinate isn't quick enough or forgets something. And Thunder is the right name for him when he's speaking in the House of Commons. A magnificent orator. I've heard gossip that there's a cabal of Ministers plotting to remove the present PM - so they can instal Thunder in his place.'
'What did you think of his story about Jeremy locating and then removing the bugs from his office?' queried Paula.
'Gavin Thunder has an ingenious brain.'
CHAPT
ER 5
At about the time Tweed and Paula entered Marlows a helicopter landed at Heathrow. Two passengers emerged and parted company as the sun came out. Both were men of the same height and in their forties. Here the similarity ended.
The athletic man with blond hair that gleamed in the sunshine boarded the motorized passenger trolley which had driven out as the chopper was landing. He radiated wealth. Clad in an Armani suit, he wore Gucci shoes, a Chanel tie and carried an expensive brief-case.
Once aboard the executive jet and settled in his seat he heard the engines starting up. An attractive stewardess brought him a glass of champagne and he leaned back to enjoy himself. The pilot had earlier filed a flight plan for Schiphol Airport near Amsterdam.
The flight took less than an hour. Landing at Schiphol, the passenger left the machine and stepped into a waiting limo. It drove him to the best hotel in the city where he alighted while the chauffeur, who had collected his case which had been aboard the jet before he'd arrived, handed it to a porter.
He registered at the desk. Victor Rondel. Once alone in his suite he noted with satisfaction a bottle of champagne waiting in an ice bucket. He went into the bathroom, locked the door.
Removing the blond wig carefully, he exposed thick dark hair. He checked the time. Have a sleep here first, he decided, then a good dinner downstairs. When it was nightfall he would leave the hotel and wander down a certain street Amsterdam was famous for. Beautiful girls, wearing very little, would be sitting in showcase windows. He would take his time selecting the one he preferred.
Earlier, back at Heathrow, the other passenger who had alighted from the helicopter strode across the field towards his terminal, carrying an ordinary case. He wore a beret and a dark overcoat as he stepped it out. When the passenger trolley returned from the jet he climbed aboard and was transported to the terminal. He showed his passport in the name of Rene Pinaud and was just in time to board his next flight.
It was a boring trip of about fifty minutes to his destination. Glancing now and then out of the window he saw nothing but a sea of cloud. He refused all refreshments. When the plane landed he was among the first off. After passing swiftly through the formalities he climbed inside a company car waiting for him. It drove him to the area for private planes and he boarded the twelve-passenger Gulfstream private jet. Its interior had been luxuriously refurbished and he sank with relief into a leather armchair. The male steward in a fresh white uniform approached him. He spoke in German.
'Would sir like something to drink?'
'Just a brandy,' the passenger replied in the same language. 'Also a bottle of mineral water. Flying dehydrates . . .'
When the steward returned, his passenger had removed the beret he had worn pulled down tightly over his head. He took out a mirror and combed his blond hair.
'Something to eat also, sir?' the steward enquired.
'Nothing, Hans. A meal will be waiting for me when we get there . . .'
He glanced out of the window and again saw nothing except a sea of cloud. Alone, he took out a special mobile phone — special because it had a device which made interception impossible and was safe to use in flight. He pressed a series of numbers. At the other end a voice said 'Yes?' in German.
'Rondel speaking. I'll land in about a half-hour. I have to say the situation is building up dangerously. They are assembling formidable—'
'I prefer you to wait until you have arrived . . .'
There was a click and Rondel realized the connection had been broken. The voice had been, as always, authoritative but without a trace of arrogance. It had spoken slowly and each word was exceptionally clear. It was the voice of a very remarkable brain.
The sun came out as they were crossing the coast and Rondel concentrated on gazing down at the rippling blue of the Baltic Sea. On the mainland he had a glimpse of Traveműnde and then it was nothing but blue sea.
The Gulfstream was losing height and he stared down for a sight of the island. Berg Insel - or Mountain Island- was located well clear of all shipping routes, a private fastness. The plane lost more height and he caught his first glimpse. A sloping mountain peak reared up at its centre.
On the southern side sheer granite cliffs fell into the Baltic - the harbour and runway were on the northern shore.
As the machine dropped even lower he saw at the summit of the mountain the lighthouse which always functioned as dusk fell, or when fog covered the island in daylight. A short distance below it he saw the tall stone chimney-like edifice that housed the most advanced scientific system in the world.
'I still can't reach the man I must see,' Lisa protested. 'I have called several times and he's always out.'
'Whoever it is, you must persist,' Herb advised.
They were were eating lunch in an isolated room behind the bar at The Hangman's Noose. Herb was doing his best to calm her down but without much success.
'I have persisted, damnit,' Lisa snapped, banging down her fork.
'Have you an address?' Herb enquired.
'Yes, I have.'
'Is he the sort of man you can just call on, then?'
'No, I don't think so. I should make an appointment.'
'Then do that when you can.'
'Don't you think I have tried time and again? Seeing Delgado prowling round was the last straw.' She had raised her voice. 'Something very violent is being planned . . .'
She stopped speaking. The door from the bar had opened and a man stood looking at them. Delgado. Lisa reached under her jacket, gripped the Beretta behind her belt. The giant walked in closer.
'Heard my name. What you two doing?'
'This is a private room,' Herb said.
'What you two doing?' repeated Delgado, coming closer.
Behind him Millie rushed into the room, dashed into the kitchen, came out with a large rolling pin in her hand. Her face was very red. She brandished the rolling pin.
'Get out. Get back to the other side of the bar. Then get back out of the pub before I smash your stupid skull in, you scum.'
She seemed larger than Lisa had thought her to be. The giant took a step back, then another as Millie followed him. She yelled at him at the top of her voice. He ran back through the door, leapt to the other side of the bar. Herb was on his feet, just behind Millie. Delgado glared at him.
'Your place will be first to go up in flames . . .'
Then he rushed to the outer door, knocking over a table as he passed it. Customers' beer was spilt over the floor and he was gone.
'Sorry, gentlemen,' Herb said calmly. "Ad too much, he 'ad. What he knocked over was lager. More comin' up. On the 'ouse . . .'
He closed the door to the room, leaving Lisa inside. She picked up a phone and pressed numbers. She was breathing heavily and held her throat when the same woman answered and she asked for Tweed, giving her name.
'He's here now. Sony you've had so much trouble . . .'
'Tweed here. Who is this?'
'Lisa. We met yesterday at Lord Barford's party. Do you remember me?'
'Of course I do. You wanted to come and see me about something.'
Herb had come into the room. He was carrying a pail and a cloth he'd used to clean up the spilt lager. He paused, unsure if she wanted privacy. She smiled at him, went on talking.
'If I could come at six o'clock? It will be dark then and might be safer.'
'Safer from what?'
'Mr Tweed, large organized gangs of refugeees are prowling the city, choosing the places which will be targets when they start devastating riots. I don't think they're ready yet but I can point out the targets they've chosen so far.'
'Are you sure about this?'
'I've seen them with my own eyes. It's a huge operation and, at the moment, covers London from the West End to the East End. Have you a few men, tough men, you could bring with you? Just in case.'
'I think we might handle that problem, but first, could you get here at, say, 5.30 p.m. so we can have a chat? You have the address.'
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'I'll be there at 5.30 on the dot. Don't be surprised how I'm dressed.'
'I'll look forward to seeing you . . .'
Lisa thanked him, put down the phone, turned round to find Herb staring at her, still holding his pail and cloth. He shook his head.
'Goin' over the top a bit, aren't we? Large organized gangs. There weren't so many of them. And look how Delgado scarpered when Millie went for 'im.'
'Bert gave me a long list of places in the West End he saw them looking at. Delgado will need a lot of thugs to cause mayhem over such a large area. I'm sure he's got reinforcements that we haven't seen.'
'Who is this Tweed?'
'Someone I know. Don't on any account mention his name to anyone.'
'I'm just goin' to forget the whole thing. Wish I knew where you'd been when you were abroad for weeks.'
'I don't want to talk about it. I need more sleep. Ready for tonight.'
As Tweed was relaying to Paula, Newman and Butler in his office what Lisa had said, the door opened and Marler, a key member of his team, walked in.
Marler, in his late thirties, was impeccably dressed as usual. He wore a warm beige suit, gleaming white shirt, a Valentino tie and carried a military-style raincoat with large lapels. Hanging it up, he adopted his favourite position, standing in a corner while he lit a king-size cigarette.
