by Colin Forbes
'Until it's safe to come out. There are fifteen acres round the farmhouse. Mrs Carson will show you outside. She'll give you some old farmer's clothes in case anyone sees you. They'll think you're a yokel.'
'Better practise my yokel accent.'
Mrs Carson was putting the plates of food in a warming drawer. She produced her keys, ready to let Newman out.
'One more thing, Cord, before I go. All the things you have seen recently, what has happened to you. Any idea what it's all about?'
'The whole grim business is a mystery.'
Mrs Carson dimmed the lights before unlocking the main door. Newman hugged her, went out into the breathtaking cold air to his car. He drove slowly back up the track and Mrs Carson timed the opening of the gate perfectly.
Leaving the farmhouse behind, he turned his lights on full beam. As he navigated the maze of lanes half his mind was on driving the car, half on what Dillon had told him. Why did he have a sense of imminent doom?
2
When Newman walked into Tweed's office in the middle of the night there was a tense atmosphere. Paula and Monica sat silently behind their desks. Tweed was leaning forward in his chair chatting to a man in his thirties who Newman detested. Basil Windermere.
Leaning against a wall, smoking a king-size, stood Marler, a key member of Tweed's team, reputed to be the best marksman in the whole of Western Europe. Shorter than.Newman — he was five feet seven tall — Marler was slim and, as usual, smartly dressed. Wearing a grey suit with a Prince of Wales check, his trouser creases were knife-edged, his white shirt fresh from the dry-cleaner, his blue silk tie decorated with a subtle chain link design. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and his clean-shaven face had an expression suggesting he was miles away in thought.
'I think you know Basil,' Tweed said.
'We've met,' Newman replied without enthusiasm.
'Good to see you, old chap.' Windermere extended a hand which Newman ignored. 'What a bunch of night birds we are,' he went on in the soft voice which made many women fall over backwards. 'I'm here to put Tweed on to a good thing. Heard on the grapevine Sharon Mandeville is up for insurance to the tune of thirty million dollars.'
'Thought she was in America,' Newman lied.
'My dear chap, you're the world's greatest foreign correspondent. Thought you kept up to date. The delectable Sharon is in town here. Some big job with the American Embassy. Thought of Tweed at once. His insurance company handles protective cover against eminent souls being kidnapped.'
Which confirmed to Newman that Windermere had no idea the General & Cumbria Assurance plate on the., door at the entrance was a cover for the secret HQ of the SIS. He simply nodded. Windermere turned back to Tweed.
'I'm a bit short of the readies.' He flicked index finger and thumb. 'Some of the folding stuff for the tip would most certainly not come amiss.'
'Who is proposing to pay this enormous premium?' Tweed asked.
'Presumably her latest billionaire boy friend back in the US of A.'
'Presumably? The boy friend has a name?'
'Sorry, I haven't got that far.'
'Maybe this anonymous boy friend hasn't got that far either. He could just hope to.'
'Mind if I smoke?'
Windermere extracted a gold cigarette case from his pocket and selected a Turkish cigarette with a flourish. On the outside was engraved a royal-looking crown. Undoubtedly a fake, Newman decided. Just like the owner.
Windermere was known to live off rich women. Once a male model, he was six feet tall, and took care to keep his weight down at a health club. This was one place where he encountered female prospects. He was wearing a white linen suit, which was ridiculous for the time of the year. He hardly ever stopped smiling, which Newman described as a smirk. He had a head of thick hair and too-perfect features.
'How did you come by this information?' Tweed probed.
'Met her at a party, didn't I? She's something else again — a real knock-out. Intelligent with it. Told me during the course of our long conversation. Think she rather liked me. I took the liberty of mentioning your organization.'
'Who mentioned my name?'
'She did, as a matter of fact. Hope you don't mind.' 'Don't do it again,' Tweed said. 'I don't tout for any of my business.'
'Any chance of a small advance for the tip?'
'None at all. Too vague.'
'A couple of hundred pounds would make me happy.'
'Try your luck with the lottery.'
'Suppose I'd better love you and leave you.' Windermere stood up. The hostile reception has at last penetrated his thick skull, Newman said to himself. 'I had a coat.'
Monica was already taking down his white coat from a hook. She simply handed it to him without making any effort to help him on with it. Windermere stood very still, glancing round the spartan office. Newman could see why he would be attractive to a certain type of woman.
'Don't think I know you,' Windermere remarked, addressing Marler.
'You don't.'
'And what a charming lady,' Windermere went on, gazing at Paula.
She had her head down, studying some papers. She appeared not to have heard him.
'Newman will accompany you to the door,' Tweed told him.
'Let's keep in touch, you beautiful people...'
Newman had the door open. As he closed it and followed their visitor down the stairs Windermere began talking over his shoulder.
'I say, Bob, maybe we could have a drink together one evening.'
'Maybe.'
'I frequent Bentleys in Swallow Street. You'd find me there about eight in the evening. In their sumptuous bar downstairs.'
'George,' Newman called out, 'our visitor is leaving if you'd unlock the door...'
Windermere paused just outside the exit to button up his coat. Newman stayed inside after glancing outside across the Crescent. As George was closing the door Newman ran back upstairs into Tweed's office. He looked annoyed.
'Why on earth did you let that gigolo get inside here?' he asked.
'To see if he'd provide me with any information. He did,' Tweed replied.
'You mean about someone insuring Sharon Mandeville for thirty million dollars?'
'No. That was nonsense. His excuse for coming here to check up on my staff, to identify as many as he could. Marler caught on and so did Paula. So who could be anxious to penetrate our organization?'
'Sharon Mandeville,' Newman suggested.
'Not necessarily. Windermere babbles on but is a stranger to the truth. He may not have even met the delectable Sharon, as he described her.'
'Well,' Newman retorted as he sat down, 'you might be interested to know that everyone who leaves this building is being photographed. This time a Lincoln Continental is parked out on the main road. I caught a glimpse of a man aiming a camera at Windermere as he was leaving.'
'Get a picture of you?' Tweed enquired.
'No, I kept well back.'
'I don't understand it,' protested Paula. 'First a Cadillac, now a Lincoln Continental. If it is an American gang you'd think they'd use British cars. Why American?'
'To intimidate us,' Tweed told her. 'I expect their campaign to get a lot worse, even more aggressive. But enough of that. Bob, you arrived back just in time. Marler has discovered who assassinated the Prime Minister.'
'Up to a point,' Marler drawled in his upper-crust accent. 'I'm just back from Paris,' he explained to Newman. 'While over in Gay Paree, as the Yanks used to call it, I met three of my informants in various seedy parts of the city. The first two couldn't give me the time of day.'
'They didn't know?' Newman queried.
'The question scared them stiff. Then I met the Ear in another low-down bar.'
'The Ear?' asked Paula, puzzled.
'That's his nickname in the French underworld. He has guts. He plays both sides. For money, of course. By both sides I'm referring to the police and the underworld. And what I have just said is utterly confidential.'
'He's playing a dangerous game,' Newman commented.
'With great skill,' Marler told him. 'He's helped the Prefect of Paris to put some very lethal saboteurs - especially from Algeria - behind bars. Bit of a patriot, the Ear.'
'And was he also scared stiff when you put the question to him?' Newman suggested.
'Not a bit of it. He just doubled his normal fee, which I was happy to pay. This assassin is pretty damned good. He killed that French Minister a few weeks ago, the one who made a powerful speech attacking the Americans, accusing them of trying to take over the world. A month before that he took out Heinz Keller, the German politician who is anti-American and might have one day become Chancellor of Germany.'
'Sounds as though the assassin is American,' Paula speculated.
'That's one thing he isn't,' Marler corrected her. 'It makes sense when you come to think of it. If he was ever caught Washington would take worldwide flak. Our friends across the Atlantic appear to have become more sophisticated. Diabolical might be the word.'
'Do we get a name?' Newman prodded impatiently. 'Why not?' Marler said offhandedly. 'He's called the Phantom.'
'He sounds very sinister,' Paula commented.
'Sinister,' Marler agreed, 'highly skilled and professional. He assassinated the heavily guarded Prime Minister. Afterwards Special Branch never found the rifle he used. Imagine smuggling that away with a horde of security men checking everyone they could find. And the devil's firing point was the rooftop of a warehouse used for storing books. A repeat of Dallas all those years ago.'
'Has the Ear any clue as to his nationality?' pressed Newman.
'He's European, could even be an Englishman. The Ear stressed that was a rumour. He didn't know whether it was true.'
'So his identity is completely unknown?' Newman asked.
'Completely. Rumoured he has a number of girl friends. Again the Ear emphasized that also was no more than a rumour.'
'So we have no name.'
'None at all. As yet. The Ear is going on digging. Speaks good English. He'll contact me here if he finds out more. Monica, he'll give the name of Maurice and leave a message. Maybe just an address and a time and day.'
'Any other clue?'
'Only one, which could be misleading. The Ear says it's known he's paid in dollars. That could be a smokescreen. Could be some other nation is his paymaster.'
'You've done well,' said Tweed. 'Now I think we should all hear what Bob has to tell us.' He looked at Marler. 'He has just returned from escorting Cord Dillon to the Bunker. Come to think of it, maybe Paula had better put you in the picture first. She had a bit of an adventure late yesterday evening.'
'A bit of an adventure,' Paula repeated ironically. 'That's one way of describing it. Here goes...'
Newman and Marler watched her as she gave a terse account of her experience with Cord Dillon. She started with her leaving the hotel in Albermarle Street. Yet again Newman thought that Paula was a very attractive woman. In her thirties, slim with a very good pair of legs, her black hair had a glossy sheen, falling just short of her collar. She had a face with strong bone structure and a determined chin. Her voice was soft but he could hear clearly every word she said. Smartly dressed in a two-piece navy blue suit she was a woman men in the street turned to look at. Above all else she was enormously capable and had great stamina.
'That's it,' she ended. 'And that's enough, I'd say.' 'Tough cookie,' said Marler, squeezing her shoulder. 'If you say so.'
'Now it's Bob's turn to bring us up to date,' Tweed suggested.
He made occasional notes as Newman outlined everything that had happened when he'd escorted Dillon to the Bunker. Monica was recording the entire story, as she had with Paula.
'That's it,' Newman concluded, 'to quote Paula.'
'It's a lot,' Tweed said. 'Some of it very disturbing. Now we have quite an array of players in ;this grim game. Monica, in the morning I'd like you to start building profiles on these people. Jefferson Morgenstern, esteemed Secretary of State, whom I know. Ed Osborne, the new Deputy Director of the CIA. Both now in London. Sir Guy Strangeways, who lives at the mansion called Irongates at Parham. And...' He paused. 'Sharon Mandeville. Her whole history, which could be interesting.' He stared at the ceiling. 'Add Basil Windermere to that list if you would, please.'
'I'll start tonight,' Monica announced. 'New York is five hours behind us and some of my contacts work late. Then San Francisco — they're eight hours behind us so I'll catch my contacts there. Don't look at me like that. I'm fresh as a daisy '
The phone rang. Monica picked it up, frowned, put her hand over the mouthpiece, looked at Marler.
'It's for you. Maurice on the line...'
'Marler speaking. Where are you?'
'On a public phone at Heathrow. Need to see you urgently.'
'Hang on a moment.'
Marler put his own hand over the mouthpiece. He spoke to Tweed, spoke quickly.
'The Ear has turned up at Heathrow. Needs to speak to me. Can he come here? He thinks I work for an insurance outfit.'
'Yes. Tell him to take a cab. You can see him in the waiting room.'
The moment Marler ended the brief call, giving the Ear the address, Tweed reacted. He gestured towards the curtained windows.
'We have to shift that Lincoln Continental fast. If it's still there they'll photograph the Ear.'
'I'll handle that,' Newman said, standing up. 'There's going to be an accident. I'll take the four-wheel drive. Could you get the police here yesterday?'
'I'll call my old sparring partner, Roy Buchanan at the Yard. I've already reported the attack in Albemarle Street. He's not best pleased with the Americans.'
Newman snatched a scarf and his trench coat off a hook. As he hurried downstairs he was wrapping the scarf round the lower part of his face, covering his nose. He pulled up the military-style lapels, darted out of the front door and round a corner to where the vehicle with a ram was parked.
He drove a roundabout route which brought him back on to the main road. A plane was flying very low overhead as he saw the Lincoln parked at the edge of the Crescent. He pressed his foot down, slammed into the back of the American car, smashing up its rear badly. He then reversed, dragged metal off the damaged car.
'Made of tin,' he said under his breath.
Turning off his engine, he got out as a tough-looking passenger jumped out of the back of the Lincoln. He had a boxer's nose and the face of a moron. His head was bald. He swaggered up to Newman, now standing in the road as a car pulled up alongside him. Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan was at the wheel with Sergeant Warden, a heavily built man, beside him.
'Buddy, I'm going to put all your teeth down your throat,' the thug said with a rough American accent. 'You could try it,' Newman replied.
'Here it comes then. Kiss your mouth goodbye.'
Newman timed it carefully. As a huge bunched fist slammed towards his mouth he jerked his head sideways, took the punch on the side of his jaw. The fist slid off him. Newman made no attempt to retaliate as Buchanan appeared with Sergeant Warden on his heels.
'This car was illegally parked,' Newman told him. 'A plane flew very low and distracted me. You don't expect a car parked here at any time.'
'And I saw you assault this man,' Buchanan said grimly.
'Who the friggin' hell are you?' the thug snarled. 'Chief Inspector Buchanan of the CID...'
'I've got a diplomatic passport, so frig off.'
The thug raised one finger almost in Buchanan's face. Then he swore foully.
'I wish you hadn't done that. Diplomatic passport? And the moon is blue.'
'Look at the licence plates, buddy,' the thug ranted on. 'It has diplomatic plates.'
In the distance Newman heard police sirens coming closer. Buchanan folded his arms and studied the thug. Then three police cars with uniformed officers aboard appeared and pulled up, forming a laager round the Lincoln. Buchanan was a tall lanky man in his forties, wearing a dark suit, an ironic smile
on his lean intelligent face. Villains found something disturbing about his casual manner.
'I think I recognize you,' he said, addressing the thug. 'A bank raid in the City a month ago. No money taken - just security documents about a number of prominent British citizens. One of the raiders was caught on video. Looked just like you. I'd appreciate you giving me your name.'
'See for yourself,' snapped the American. 'Hank Waltz.' He shoved a diplomatic passport at Buchanan.
'Sometimes known as Diamond Waltz,' Newman remarked. 'Look at all the flashy rings on his stubby fingers. Fakes, I imagine.'
'Fakes?' Waltz clenched his fist. 'You want another one?'
'Cool it, chum.'
One of the uniformed police who had spilled out of the cars stood very close to the American. While Buchanan was examining the passport the driver of the Lincoln stepped out and came up to them.
Tall, with the appearance of a quarterback, his manner was very different from Waltz's. Wearing a Savile Row suit, he was smiling, conciliatory, his American accent soft.
'Good evening. I'm sorry if we've caused any problems. And Hank has a short fuse. He's fond of the Lincoln — normally he drives the car.'
'I do?'
'Hank, now the Chief Inspector has given you back your passport I suggest you get back to your seat. Every time you open that mouth of yours you shove your big foot in it.'
'Could I have your name?' Buchanan asked stiffly. 'Sure. Why not? I'm Chuck Venacki. Attaché at the Embassy.'
'What are your duties, sir?' Buchanan demanded. 'Public relations.'
'Diamond Waltz isn't going to help you much in that direction.'
'Hank Waltz. He's a bodyguard. The new American Ambassador has received threatening warnings. You'd like to see my passport?'
'I don't think that will be necessary.'
As Buchanan replied there was a heavy rumbling noise behind them. Newman glanced back to see a large vehicle transporter pulling in behind them. Men in working clothes got out, started walking round the Lincoln.
