by Colin Forbes
'How on earth did you get hold of them?'
'Reliable Arthur Beck again. He omitted to mention it, but he sent the material to Roy Buchanan at New Scotland Yard. The two men met at an international police conference a few months ago. Roy told me they got on very well together.'
'I can spot some of them already,' Newman reported as they neared Grosvenor Square.
'Some of who?' Paula wanted to know.
'Buchanan's plain-clothes sleuths. Stationed to keep a close eye on who comes and goes from the American Embassy. I think he's told some of them to make their presence obvious — to act as a deterrent. Roy Buchanan really never, under any circumstances, misses a trick.'
For Tweed, as they mounted the steps and walked inside the spacious entrance hall, it was like a replay of a film he had seen before. The girl who had treated him so offhandedly on his previous visit was behind the reception desk. But this time when he gave his name her attitude was very different. Standing up, she gave him a beaming smile.
'Mr Tweed, Mr Morgenstern is waiting to see you. His suite of offices is on the first floor. Here is the number,' she said, handing him a plastic disc. 'And could you please take this card? There are a lot of guards about who may stop you. If you show them this they will let you straight through.'
'Thank you, said Tweed.
He led the way to the elevator, pressed the button. The door opened and inside he pressed the first floor button. The elevator ascended, the doors opened and they stepped out into the wide corridor. Tweed stopped, smiled.
Denise Chatel had been walking towards the elevator. For once, Paula noticed, she was not carrying a file. More than that, she was stylishly dressed in riding kit, complete with jodhpurs and gleaming riding boots.
She gave them a great big smile. Coming forward she hugged Paula, kissed Tweed on the cheek and then gave Newman the same attention. To Tweed she seemed a different woman. Her attitude was buoyant and cheerful and warm. What could have happened?
'How do you like my outfit?' Denise asked.
She swivelled round in a circle. Her brunette hair swung over her shoulders. Her face was pink and full of life.
'Very fetching,' said Paula.
'The picture of happiness,' said Tweed.
'You look just terrific,' Newman told her. 'What have you been up to?'
'I've just come back from a ride in Hyde Park. It's a wonderful day. I even managed a gallop, which may be illegal, but I just didn't care. I was on top of the world.'
'Hence your high spirits,' Tweed remarked.
'You've hit the nail on the head,' Denise responded. 'And what else?'
'Why?' She hesitated. 'Nothing else.'
'You'll excuse us. We've come to keep an appointment.'
'What was all that about?' Paula asked as they proceeded along the corridor.
'No idea.'
A tall, smooth-faced man came out of a room, closed the door behind him. Dressed in a smart blue pin-stripe suit, he strode confidently towards them. Then he stopped, gave a broad grin.
'Chuck Venacki,' greeted Newman. 'The great survivor. How do you do it?'
'Do what?' Venacki asked amiably.
'Survive. The catastrophe at Schluchsee.'
'Where's that?' Venacki enquired, still amiable. 'Sounds as though it could be Austria, Switzerland, Germany?'
'Give the man the money,' Newman went on. 'Even though he didn't get it until his third try. Come off it, Venacki. You remember when we last met.'
'Sure I do. Outside Park Crescent a hundred years ago. When you rammed the Lincoln Continental with your four-wheel drive.'
'Nice try. At Schluchsee Ronstadt drove his car straight at me. Four men inside that car. You were sitting with Ronstadt in the front. Ronstadt, by the way, is dead, but you survive.'
'Guess you mistook me for someone else, wherever this dramatic car incident took place. Now, I have to get going.' He looked at Paula, then at Tweed. 'Enjoy yourselves. We try to make visitors feel at home here.'
'And that,' said Tweed quietly, 'sounded like the voice of the anonymous American who phoned me in my room at the Colombi. The call which told me Ronstadt had left.'
'I don't get it,' Paula commented. 'He seemed nice enough.'
'And this,' Tweed said in the same quiet voice, pointing to a door they were passing, 'is where Sharon lives. We'll come back later. The critical interview is the one with Morgenstern.'
47
'Do come in. Good to see you. I've had fresh coffee delivered. The receptionist told me you were here.'
In response to Tweed's knock Jefferson Morgenstern himself opened the door, ushered them inside. He locked the door, then gazed at his visitors with a smile. Tweed introduced Paula as his assistant and confidante. Morgenstern smiled even more broadly as Tweed turned to Newman.
'No introduction necessary here, Tweed. Bob Newman once interviewed me. And I don't give many interviews.' He shook Newman's hand warmly. 'You're looking great and maybe a bit tougher. Experience does that to us all — if we have the fibre. Come and sit down. I'll serve coffee.'
Paula had been studying Morgenstern closely. He was shorter than she had imagined, but his figure in a grey Savile Row suit was well padded. She had the impression of a man of great intelligence who enjoyed the good things of life — especially wine and food. His hair, neatly brushed, was greying and he emanated an aura of supreme self-confidence and dynamic energy — of power.
His large desk was a genuine antique, Chippendale, she thought. On it was a silver engraved tray with a silver coffee service. Three comfortable upright chairs were arranged in front of the desk and Morgenstern dragged his swivel chair round to join them. Not a man to flaunt his importance.
'You were looking at my coffee service,' he said to Paula after she had seated herself, which made her realize this man didn't miss a thing. 'When I was a poor student in Europe I was once invited to a mansion where they had such a service. I decided then,' he continued as he poured coffee, 'that one day I'd have one like it.' He smiled. 'It was a long journey before I was able to purchase one.'
His face was long, Paula noted. His nose was long, his features strong, and beneath his American accent she detected a trace of some European accent. When he had served coffee he sat down near Paula, drank half the contents of his cup, folded his arms.
'Tweed, I've been giving a lot of thought to what you said to me when we last met. At the time I was dismissive. Since then I have given your accusations more thought. I admit I'm a troubled man.' He looked at Paula, then at Newman. 'May I take it that anything we talk about today will be in complete confidence?'
'Quite definitely. These two are my right and left arm. I said recently I'd trust them with my life. That I had done.'
'Good enough for me. The weak link in what you said is a complete lack of evidence.'
'That is what I have brought with me. Overwhelming evidence. In photographs and documents. Some of it was supplied by Arthur Beck, Chief of Swiss Federal Police. I can supply you with his number in Berne if you want it later. While in Basel recently four of the men attached to this Embassy tried to murder me — along with Paula and Bob. Instead, they were killed. They all carried American diplomatic passports. Here is a photograph of the dead killers, supplied to me by Beck. Their names are on the back. And here are photocopies of the passports they carried. Beck has the originals.'
Morgenstern studied the photo of the dead Umbrella Men. He looked at the back, where their names were given. Placing it on his desk, he looked at the photocopies of the passports. His mouth tightened. He placed them on his desk.
'There's worse to come,' Tweed warned. 'There's a clear video picture of the man who left the bomb in the Oxford Street department store.'
'His name is Vernon Kolkowski,' Newman said quietly. 'He also had a diplomatic passport. Once, in New York, the police chief told me he was a professional who had murdered at least six men. They could never indict him. No witness dared testify. If one was willing to testify he
'd been found dead in a side street.'
'Then,' Tweed continued, 'we rescued a poor woman who was being tortured by another American with a diplomatic passport. Name of Rick Sherman. He's dead too.'
'Could you pause?' Morgenstern requested. He took from his pocket a leather-bound notebook. 'I'd like to note down some of these names. What was that last one?'
'Rick Sherman.'
'Thank you. And Vernon someone. I'd like the surname.'
Newman spelt it out carefully. Morgenstern wrote it down in his notebook. Then he looked again at the video print of the man who had planted the bomb in the Oxford Street department store.
'As far as I can gather,' Tweed went on, 'I know you are handling the diplomatic side of this huge operation. But there is another secret section inside this Embassy called the Executive Action Department. That is staffed by what I would call the gangster level - and all the members have been given diplomatic passports.'
'How can I phrase this?' Morgenstern wondered aloud. 'While you were away I made certain enquiries here. I had the impression certain people evaded giving me answers to my questions.'
'Have you heard of the Executive Action Department?'
'No.'
'I'm certain it's located in this building. That it is responsible for the outrages. Individual murders and wholesale bombings.'
'I am good at assessing character, Tweed. I am sure you would not ever invent such horrific stories.'
'Is there any way you could check the names of everyone who has been issued with a diplomatic passport over, say, the past seven weeks?'
'I was thinking of that. Yes, there is. But first I must refresh your cups.'
Paula glanced round the large room while Morgenstern manipulated the silver coffee pot. The room was furnished in expensive but restrained taste. Heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains flanked the windows, curtains with a Regency stripe. The wall-to-wall carpet was a pale mushroom colour. The few pieces of other furniture were also antiques. The room had a restful atmosphere. On another desk the Stars and Stripes was suspended from a bronze column.
'I'm going to ask the Ambassador's personal assistant for the record of all diplomatic passports issued recently,' said Morgenstern.
'Mrs Pendleton,' he said on the phone, 'I require urgently the list of all personnel working here issued with diplomatic passports over the past seven weeks.'
Mrs Pendleton had a loud raucous American voice. Tweed could hear her end of the conversation clearly.
'Well, the list exists, but I can't supply it to you without the consent of the Ambassador.'
'Ask him now, then.'
'I can't. He is out.'
'Mrs Pendleton, do you recognize my voice?'
'Of course, sir.'
'Then kindly remember you are talking to the Secretary of State.'
'I do know that, sir.'
'Then I expect you to deliver the list to me within two minutes.'
'Some people,' Morgenstern smiled briefly, 'who have held down a job for years develop delusions of grandeur.'
Paula was struck by the brief smile. Since Tweed had started to produce his evidence a change had come over Morgenstern. Instead of his earlier amiability his expression had become one of gravity. He's taking this very seriously, she thought.
There was a tap on the door, Morgenstern called out to come in. A plump self-important looking woman in her late fifties entered. She was holding a green leather- bound ledger which she placed on the desk.
'I'm afraid I need a receipt before I release that ledger,' she said, producing a small pad.
'Really?' Morgenstern stared at her. 'Have you a short memory? If so, something could be done about that. Only minutes ago I reminded you I am Secretary of State.'
'I suppose I could make an exception.'
'Mrs Pendleton. Do you see the handle of that door you opened to come in here?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Go over it, take hold of it. That's right. Now turn it to the left.'
'I'm sorry, sir, if...'
'Now you keep hold of the handle. Pull the door open towards you. I see you've managed it. Now, walk into the corridor and close the door quietly behind you. It's not too difficult.'
Tweed smiled to himself. It was notorious that Morgenstern had an acid side to his nature. He couldn't suffer fools gladly.
'Now, we can do our homework,' said Morgenstern.. 'Excuse me if I go and sit behind my desk for a moment.'
Taking his chair back to its original position, he sifted through the photos and documents he had quickly arranged in a pile before Mrs Pendleton arrived, so she couldn't see anything. Taking out his notebook, he then opened the ledger. He had perched it on an inkstand so his visitors could not see its pages.
Using a pen as a pointer, he began to check the names provided by Tweed with the list inside the ledger. It took a while but often he stabbed at a name in the ledger with his pen. His expression became grimmer. When he had closed the ledger he sat staring at Tweed. Then he hauled his chair back to join his visitors.
'I have decided,' he said.
'What is your decision?' Tweed enquired.
'Can you leave with me all the items you have given me?'
'Certainly.'
'I have a Gulfstream jet standing by permanently at Heathrow. I like to be mobile. Soon after you have left me I shall drive to Heathrow, board the jet, and fly immediately to Washington. If you want to contact me, call this number.' He took a pad from a drawer, wrote on it, handed it to Tweed. 'I shall inform all my aides that if you call you are to be put through to me — even if I'm at the White House.'
'Sharon Mandeville next,' Tweed said when they had left Jefferson's lair. 'Might as well tie the lot up at once.'
'Do come in.' Sharon, like Jefferson, had opened the door herself to welcome them inside. 'What a pleasure to see you all again.'
She kissed Tweed on the cheek, shook hands with Paula and Newman. Then she escorted them across the spacious room towards a desk which was even larger than Jefferson's. As they followed her Paula glanced round the room. It was very expensively furnished - money had been no object - but unlike Jefferson's office, it was very modern.
Sharon's enormous desk was made of gleaming white wood, all the chairs were upholstered in white leather, the carpet was white and scattered across it were tiger- skin rugs. The coffee service on a tray on her desk was almost surreal in design. And the rims of the cups were six-sided, which made them very difficult to drink out of without the contents ending up in your lap.
Three chairs were arranged in front of the desk. Behind it was a high-backed chair which reminded Paula of a throne. Sharon gave Tweed a ravishing smile.
'Do sit down, all of you, please. Coffee for everyone?'
'Not for me,' said Tweed as he sat down.
'Me too neither, thank you,' said Newman.
'I'll also pass,' said Paula.
Sharon was wearing a navy blue trouser suit which suggested the high-powered businesswoman. Newman thought she had never looked more attractive. She was pouring herself a cup.
'Excuse me, but I need an ocean of caffeine to keep me going.' She sat in the chair behind the desk. 'Well, Tweed, I suppose we can say we have completed the Grand Tour of Europe.'
'Something like that.'
'Oh, come - ' she gazed at him over the rim of her cup - 'no call to be so serious. It isn't the end of the world.'
'Isn't it?'
Sharon's nails were painted blood-red, a varnish which Paula hated. She had a high collar, buttoned up to her neck. She went on gazing at Tweed, as though assessing his mood. He had taken off his glasses and was cleaning them on his handkerchief. He put the glasses on again.
'Now you get a clearer view of beauty,' Newman joked.
'I have a clearer view of a lot of things now,' Tweed replied.
'So why have you come to see me?' Sharon asked in her soft voice. 'How can I help you?'
'You can confirm certain information I have received.' 'You
sound just like a policeman.'
'I was once a policeman,' Tweed told her. 'A century ago.'
'He was the youngest superintendent at Scotland Yard,' Paula explained. 'His speciality was Homicide.'
'What information are you referring to?' Sharon asked.
She was still her calm self. She was leaning back upright in her chair. Her half-closed eyes, glowing greenly, were fixed on Tweed.
'I have here a certain document.' Tweed took a thick envelope out of his breast pocket, extracted a sheet. 'This is a copy of your birth certificate.'
'Really? Isn't this rather personal? How, I wonder, were you able to obtain it?'
'By perfectly legal means. Such certificates are in the public domain, as you must know.'
'Oh, come on, Tweed.' She smiled, still leaning against the back of her upright chair, her body very erect. 'All the way across the Atlantic?'
'Precisely. All the way across the Atlantic.' Tweed unfolded the sheet of paper. 'You were born in Washington, DC. You are forty-two years old.'
'Not very gallant of you, to broadcast my age.'
'On this copy of the certificate it gives your full names. Sharon Charlotte Anderson.'
'So?' Her eyes were almost closed now. 'Where does this lead us to?'
'Charlotte. Sometimes abbreviated to Charlie. Even with a woman. You are Charlie.'
Paula had difficulty suppressing a gasp. She glanced at Newman. He looked stunned. She switched her glance to Tweed, sitting next to her. He looked very relaxed. Still holding the document, he was gazing back at Sharon.
'Charlie,' he said, 'we know masterminded the gigantic operation under way to absorb Britain into America as the fifty-first state. Do you deny you are Charlie?'
'Damn you! Nosy, insignificant little man. Friggin' two-bit so-called detective!' Sharon was standing up now, leaning over her desk as though about to leap at Tweed. 'You don't know what the bloody hell you're talking about!'
She continued screaming at the top of her voice, uttering a foul stream of obscene abuse. Her voice had completely changed. Her lung power was awesome. Suddenly she grabbed the certificate out of his hands, tore it to shreds, threw the pieces over her visitors.
