by Colin Forbes
'More customers. Excuse me . . .'
Wendover waited until he was alone. Then he poured the rest of his drink down a drain. He was careful about drinking and driving. Taking the empty glass back inside, he thanked the barman, walked out and a short distance up the High Street and into another pub. Except for the barman the place was empty. He ordered another pint of mild. The barman was a short, plump jovial type.
'Nothing wrong with startin' early, I always say. Just so long as you're not driving.'
'It's got a lot of character, this village,' Wendover remarked. 'But I don't imagine anyone important lives here.'
'Well, if I may say so, sir, you'd be wrong there. A bare five miles away Lord Barford lives. Got a big estate. Family's lived here for generations in the mansion, Barford Manor.'
'He does? I thought the aristocracy was being taxed out of existence.'
'Got a point there, you 'ave. Had two surveyors in here recently. One 'ad been asked to inspect the place. He was tellin' his friend his lordship's in deep trouble. Risin' damp, dry rot. He said the whole roof has to be replaced, and half the windows. Cost his lordship over a million. He lives well but he hasn't got that sort of money. And he's got a helicopter and a ridin' stable. Often rides over the Downs, he does. Towards the Eagle's Nest.'
'What's that?' Wendover asked, then sipped at his pint.
'One of these crazy modern houses. Very big. A chap called Rondel owns it.'
'Sounds foreign. Barford and Rondel are friends, then?'
'Don't think so. Lord Barford spent a lot of time abroad in the Army. Don't think he's keen on foreigners. Can't blame 'im.'
Wendover was aware that a few minutes earlier someone had come in and stood close behind him. He made a point of not looking round. The newcomer spoke, his voice unpleasant, arrogant.
'Mind telling me what you're doing here?'
'Yes, I do.' Wendover turned round. A short man stared at him with a hostile expression. He wore a dark, ill-fitting suit. 'Who are you?'
'Bogle. Chief Constable.'
'Assistant Chief,' the barman said.
'Barrow,' the policeman snapped. 'You keep out of this. I'll have a lemonade.'
'Boogie?' Wendover enquired. 'Like a bugle soldiers blow at ceremonies?'
'Bogle,' the policeman repeated. 'B-o-g-l-e. Got it?'
Here we go, thought Wendover. Newman had relayed to him over dinner Tweed's encounter with this character. He turned his back, sipped more of his drink. A hand tapped his shoulder. Wendover put down his glass, swung round.
'I don't like people who touch me.'
'And I don't like people who ignore me. I'm investigating a murder. You've been going into pubs and asking questions I find suspicious. I'd like to see proof of your identity.'
'Would you? You're going to be disappointed. Unless you can charge me with some offence. Incidentally, your lemonade is getting cold.'
With this parting shot Wendover walked out into the street. He was on his way back to his car, which took him past the open door of the first pub he'd visited. A shout from inside stopped him. The barman came running out.
'I think maybe you dropped this when you took your wallet out of your back pocket to pay me.'
He handed Wendover a small notebook bound in blue leather. Opening it, Wendover saw the letters MoA engraved in gold on the inside of the front binding. Riffling through the pages he saw a series of coded numbers and words.
'Thank you,' he said to the barman. 'Without this I'd have been lost at work.'
Slipping the book into his pocket he hurried back to his car. He knew from his time at Langley with the CIA that MoA was an abbreviation for the Whitehall Ministry of Armaments. He surmised that Bogle had probably dropped the book while he had been putting on his gloves, presumably to make himself look more official. Now he wanted to get out of the village before Bogle discovered his loss.
He had also decided to drive straight back to Park Crescent. It could be important to Tweed to hear about the information he had picked up.
Seattle, Washington State, Pacific Coast. The HQ of the World Liberation Front was located in an apartment overlooking Lake Washington. This location had been carefully chosen due to its upmarket situation. Successful, well-off Americans were happy to live in this area. No one — including the FBI — would dream that dangerous revolutionaries might be found here.
In the spacious ground-floor apartment at the end of a block with a view across a trim lawn down to the lake, a man sat in front of the Internet. His long greasy hair was coiled in a ponytail. On the back of a nearby chair hung the jacket of the expensive business suit he wore. Leaving the apartment - or returning to it - he always wore a hat with the ponytail tucked out of sight. His neighbours thought he was one of those whizz-kids, something in electronics.
It was the middle of the night when he checked the time, then clicked the mouse to a repeat program on fitness. This catered to insomniacs of both sexes who whiled away the dreary hours following the instructor, a big man who was all muscle and no fat. Standing on a platform, he faced a class of mixed sexes, demonstrating exercises.
Ponytail had a pad open in front of him, noted down every third word of the instructor, who spoke slowly. The moment the program was over he glanced at the words which had formed into a message. He picked up the phone and dialled an unlisted number in London.
'Oscar here,' a rough voice answered.
'You sound like a comedian,' Ponytail replied and connection had been verified.
'You have the business report?' Oscar enquired.
'With this takeover the minimum of pressure can be used. End of report. . .'
In his room above a little-used warehouse at Reefers Wharf Oscar Vernon sucked the end of his pen. The correct interpretation of the word 'pressure' was 'violence.'
'This, I thinks,' he said to himself, 'is what Brits call the escalation. London will have the rough night.'
CHAPTER 7
Tweed came back into his office after having a good wash. He had just eaten the lunch Monica had brought in from the local deli. He looked annoyed.
'I wonder if we'll ever hear from that boy wonder, Mark Wendover. If he does turn up I'm going to give him a real grilling.'
'I've been surfing several American sites,' Monica began. 'There was a weird one on gardening - the woman commenting spent ages between naming each flower. Then there was one on keeping fit. That was weird, too -the instructor took so much time between giving fresh instructions. I had the feeling it was coded.'
'Surfing the net.' Tweed snorted. 'Sounds like playing in the waves down in Devon. As for coding . . .'
'Monica,' Paula interjected, 'was once a code-breaker in the Communications building further down the Crescent. Until you spotted her potential and moved her here.'
'I would like what I wrote down about the gymnastics to be examined by our chief code-breaker,' Monica persisted.
'I'll call and get Jacko over here,' Paula said, going to the phone.
'Don't mind me,' grumbled Tweed. 'I only work here.'
'He's on his way,' Paula said.
Tweed took out his pad with loops round names, studied it. A few minutes later someone tapped on the door. A slim blonde girl of about thirty came in, wearing a fawn trouser suit which went well with her hair.
'I'm Jenny,' she announced. 'Jacko moved to another job in GCHQ about a month ago. I'm the chief code-breaker.'
She took the sheet of paper Monica handed her. Newman looked at her and she was aware of his interest.
'I've an idea this could be fairly simple,' she remarked.
'Doubt if it's a code at all,' Tweed commented.
Ten minutes later she handed a sheet from the pad to Tweed. He pursed his lips as he read it.
With this takeover the minimum of pressure can be used. End of report.
'It was every third word,' Jenny explained.
'Obviously some business corporation working a deal,' Tweed said sceptically. Paula was peering
over his shoulder. 'You see, it means nothing,' he said to her.
'I wonder. When they had those riots in Washington I saw them on TV. One thug yelled at the camera "It's a takeover." He meant they were taking over Washington -or trying to.'
'Did he?' Tweed looked thoughtful, then decided. 'I think for this expedition with Lisa tonight we'll marshal our forces. Harry, phone Pete again. Tell him to get here at once. Pity Marler is down in Dorset.'
'If you need me again,' said Jenny, standing up, 'just call me.'
'We will. And thank you for what you've done.'
'It was a piece of cake . . .'
She had just left when the phone rang. Monica answered and informed Tweed that Mark Wendover was waiting downstairs.
'Send him up. I've a good mind to put him on the first plane back to the States.'
Paula looked with interest at the tall well-built man when he entered. She liked the way he was dressed informally, the way he smiled as he accepted Tweed's suggestion to sit down.
'I have to inform you,' Tweed began grimly, 'that here we work as a team. I haven't heard one damn' word from you all day. Where have you been? Then I'll want to ask you a lot of questions about your background.'
'I did try to phone Bob Newman before I left the Ritz. But there was no reply.'
'I came straight here,' Newman told him.
'Well . . .' Mark looked back at Tweed. 'I drove to Alfriston, got some information you might find interesting. Can I tell you about my trip before you hang me from the nearest tree?'
'Go ahead.'
Tweed's expression gradually changed to neutral as he listened intently to Mark. The American explained in great detail everything he'd experienced while in East Sussex. He had total recall for every conversation that had taken place. He concluded by producing the blue leather-bound notebook.
'You've done a very good job,' Tweed said as he examined the book. 'I don't want to hear about your background. You know what I think happened with this notebook? Bogle was there before Paula and I arrived. He denied touching the body but I think he lied. He found it in one of the late Jeremy Mordaunt's pockets and kept it. MoA. Very interesting. Paula, could you get Jenny back here for me, please?'
'Something wrong?' Jenny asked when she arrived back in the office.
'Nothing. Since you left us this book has come into my possession.' He handed it to her. 'Would you say the entries are in code?'
'Could be,' she said, after glancing through the pages. 'I would have to work on it before I'm sure. MoA.'
'Yes. Which means no one except yourself in Communications should see it. Can you ensure that?'
'I can. I have my own little office to work in. It has three locks on the door - two Banhams and one Chubb. And I do have a safe where I keep top secret material.'
'That's top secret.'
'I realize that. Who shall I report to if I solve it?'
'Myself or Paula. If neither of us is available, then Monica.'
'I'll get cracking - literally - on it right away. Could I have a thick envelope? Something I can carry the notebook in so no one sees it when I get back to Communications.'
Monica found one for her. Jenny put the book inside, sealed it. She gave Newman a brief wink. She had hardly glanced at Mark, but Paula felt sure she would recognize him if she saw the American again.
'This make take longer than the other problem,' she warned Tweed and left the room.
For several minutes Tweed explained to Mark the Lisa situation. He emphasized that he was very unsure about her, told him how he had met her.
'Lord Barford again,' Mark mused.
'Yes. And from what you've told me Bernard Bariord is on the rocks financially. Something I didn't even suspect..."
The phone had rung. Monica called across to Tweed. 'Lisa is waiting downstairs now. Bang on time.'
'Ask her to come up.'
Lisa came into the room, wearing a grey raincoat. Monica had offered to take it but she shook her head, sitting down at Tweed's invitation. He started by introducing everyone in the room except Paula by their first names only.
'Now, before we decide to go anywhere with you, I need to know far more about you. Where do you live?'
'In a flat off Ebury Street. I'd sooner not give you the address. Two very tough-looking men stalked me but I gave them the slip,' Lisa explained.
'Who were they? Or who sent them, if someone did?'
'I've no idea. Absolutely no idea.'
'This is all very vague,' Tweed suggested. 'At Lord Barford's party you told me your job was that of a confidante. Can you elaborate?'
'I should have said I was a security consultant.' She was relaxing now, no longer sitting stiffly in her chair. 'I look after one of the most powerful men in the world. He told me to come and see you.'
'I'm surprised he knows I exist.'
'He has deep contacts all over the world. He knows who you really are.'
'And who am I?' asked Tweed.
'Deputy Director of the SIS. That insurance stuff on that plate by the front door is just cover. He knows very big trouble is planned for London. He sent me over to find out first which areas they're targeting - so I could tell you. They're the West End and the East End. Tonight.'
'Who are the troublemakers?'
'Your stupid government lets in too many so-called refugees. They don't realize that many have been trained in guerrilla warfare abroad. I'm pretty sure that tonight is a dress rehearsal for the main attack which will come later. They'll be testing out the reactions of your police force. I don't know when they'll strike, but I'm sure it will be after dark.' She lifted a hand to brush back her mane of red hair. 'How many men can you muster?'
'Probably, including myself, say six. Except for one who will arrive shortly, they are in this room. One of them,' he went on, not looking at Newman, 'has SAS training. The others are up to his standard. Paula is among the six. I wouldn't make the mistake of understimating her.' Tweed raised an eyebrow, looking at Paula.
'We have met.' Lisa smiled. 'I think she could be dangerous.'
'Would you like a cup of coffee?' asked Monica belatedly. She had been fascinated by what-Lisa was saying.
'I'd love one, thank you very much.'
'This very powerful man you mentioned. I'd be happier if I knew his name,' Tweed demanded.
'I have promised never to reveal that.'
'Couldn't be Rondel, could it?' he asked casually.
Lisa looked down at her lap.
'No, it couldn't be,' she said.
'You know . . .' Tweed began doodling faces on his pad. 'If I've no idea where I can contact you we simply can't work together.'
'He said you were not only very clever, but also very tough and never gave up. I'm not living at the flat off Ebury Street any more. I've moved to The Hangman's Noose. It's a pub in the East End near Reefers Wharf. You could always get me there or, if I'm out, speak to Herb, the owner.'
'Is he trustworthy?'
'He should be.'
'Why, if I might ask?' interjected Mark, who had kept silent while he watched her.
'Why?' She turned on him. 'Because at one time he served with bloody Military Intelligence.' She took a folded sheet from her shoulder bag, handed it to Tweed. 'That is a list of the probable targets tonight.'
Tweed read slowly through the typed list. He was careful not to show his anxiety. He looked straight at her.
'This covers a lot of territory. My guess is that Herb, with his Army experience, has helped build up this list.'
'You've hit the nail on the head.' She smiled. 'He also said you were very quick on the uptake.'
'Herb, you mean?'
'No, the man who sent me over here as the Messenger to warn you. You said there will be six of us . . .'
'Seven. Including yourself.'
'We'll need transport to move us from the West End to the East.'
'And we have loads of it,' said Harry Butler. 'In all makes and sizes.'
'I've worked
out how we'll travel,' Tweed announced. 'Three cars. I'll drive Car One with Paula next to me. Newman will drive Car Two with Lisa and Mark as passengers. Car Three will be yours, Harry, taking Pete Nield with you, if he does ever get here.'
'He will,' Harry said. 'And mine will be the four-wheel drive. I've reinforced the ram at the front. Might come in useful.'
'Could I go to the bathroom?' Lisa asked as she finished her coffee. 'That was very good,' she added, turning round to look at Monica. 'Thank you.'
'I'll take you,' Paula volunteered. The two women left the room.
'Well, what do you think of her?' Tweed enquired, glancing round the office.
'She'll do,' said Butler. 'I've been watching her.'
'Resourceful, reliable.' Newman gave his verdict.
'I second Bob,' Mark agreed.
'I case you're interested in my opinion,' Monica began, 'I think she's the tops. And in a rough-house my bet is she'd give a good account of herself. Notice the steel rims on the toes of her shoes?'
'No, I didn't,' Newman admitted.
