This United state tac-16

by Colin Forbes

  Nothing in Tweed's expression changed. But she had shaken him. His mind was moving round at top speed – considering a variety of possibilities. All of them menacing.

  'How did you come to meet this man, Cord Dillon?' he enquired carefully.

  'Sharon used to ask him to come to her Washington office from Langley. I was always sent out of her office. Dillon struck me as a reliable soul. Once he arrived early and we were alone together in my office. I knew then that Sharon was due to come to London, that I'd be coming with her.'

  'What is scaring you?'

  'Well…' She paused. 'I saw some of the men who were to come to London. I've seen them since at the Embassy. They watch every move I make. I found my phone had been bugged. My apartment over here in Belgravia – close to Sharon's – was searched while I was at the Embassy. It was a highly professional job. Only a woman would notice that certain things were not quite as I'd left them.'

  'What do you suggest I do to help you?'

  'I want us to keep in close touch.' She turned to look at Marler. 'I'll be happy to have dinner with you tomorrow night. What is your name?'

  'Alec,' Marler said instantly, using the first name to come into his head. 'We'll go to the Lanesborough. Can I collect you at your apartment?'

  'No! Don't do that.' She was alarmed. 'They have someone watching my apartment whenever I'm there. I'll come to the hotel.'

  'Eight o'clock suit you?' Marler suggested. 'I'll be waiting in the bar. I'll arrive early.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Maybe you'd better, tell us why you were supposed to come here,' Tweed reminded her.

  'My God, I nearly forgot that.' She turned to look at Newman. 'You're having dinner with Sharon tomorrow evening at Santorini's. She sent me over in a limo to say she'll be there at eight thirty.'

  'She could have phoned,' Tweed pointed out.

  'She told me she'd tried to get you but the line was always engaged.'

  Tweed glanced across at Monica, who nodded agreement. She had tied up the lines, making calls to her contacts inside America. She was still building up her profiles.

  'I'd better go now,' their visitor said, 'they may wonder why it took so long. And please call me Denise.'

  'I'll see you safely into your limo, Denise,' Marler suggested.

  'No! Don't do that. They may have followed the limo and then they'll see you. But thank you for the offer.'

  'Keep in touch,' Tweed told her, standing up to shake hands. Her grip was firm. 'If you want to tell Marler more tomorrow evening he'll report it to me.

  Monica waited until she had gone. Then she began tapping her fingers on her desk to get their attention.

  'You're all hooked on her.'

  'I don't think so,' Tweed contradicted.

  'Well, I do. I grant you she's a real looker.'

  'Monica, maybe yes, maybe no. You've overlooked something.'

  'What's that?'

  'Your profile on Sharon Mandeville showed her parents died in a car smash in the States. Now we hear Denise's parents were also wiped out in another car accident, so called. That's too much of a coincidence – you know I don't believe in coincidences.'

  'What are you suggesting?' she asked.

  'One theory is the parents – in both cases – were killed so there was no risk of the daughters telling them something Washington didn't want spread around. I emphasize that is no more than my first thought. Have you identified Charlie?'

  'Not yet. It's difficult,' Monica explained. 'I have to get copies of birth certificates faxed to me. A lot of people are given several names by their parents, then use only the one they like. I'll get there.'

  'I know you will.'

  Tweed began to doodle again. After a short time he looked at Marler.

  'Basil… Schwarz…' he said half to himself. 'What nationality was Kurt Schwarz?'

  'Swiss,' Marler said promptly.

  'Which part of Switzerland?'

  'The German-speaking part. His natural language was German.'

  'Got it!' Tweed threw his pen down. 'Soon we'll all fly to Switzerland. Better get some warm clothes packed. There's heavy snow on the Continent.'

  11

  Jake Ronstadt sat at the head of the long table in the large room at the American Embassy. The blinds were closed over the windows. He was shuffling a pack of cards. Eight Americans sat beyond him, four on either side of the table. The Executive Action Department was in session in the middle of the night.

  'Two of my guys went missin' last night,' Jake growled. 'I don't like two of my people to disappear. Which is why Brad and Leo have joined us.'

  'What happened to them?' asked Vernon, the thin- boned man with the hard face.

  'Shut your stupid trap. I was comin' to that. Hank Waltz was sent to deal with Paula Grey. Don't know whether he made it. Don't like what I don't know. Remember that. Lew Willis has also gone missin' – I heard from him on his mobile that after he hijacked a London cab he followed two men from Park Crescent. They drove like hell round all the friggin' side streets here. He loses them, drives back to Park Crescent. Next I hear he's following four people in a Merc. Then nothin' – friggin' nothin', so I try to call him on my mobile. No answer. You boys had better understand I'm good and mad.'

  'We understand,' said Brad, a squat individual with large teeth.

  'What you understand would fit into a pearl – but there'd be no value in it. Kinda shut your trap.'

  Jake made them wait while he shuffled his pack of cards some more. It was important to make them know who was running this outfit.

  'I figure it's time now we organize a reign of terror for London. Show them our muscle. Show the people in this town their police are a bunch of kids. Get it?'

  'Sure, Jake,' eight voices echoed in chorus. 'We got it.'

  'No, you ain't. So I'll tell you. It's called destabilization. For you who don't know what it means – which means all of you – I'll explain. We'll leave bombs – big bombs with timers – in markets. Over here they call them supermarkets. We'll plant them in bars, restaurants – everywhere a lot of people gather. The Brits will get so they daren't leave their homes. Until bombs start exploding inside houses. Terror is a powerful weapon. Got it now? Great idea.'

  'Terrific!'

  'A winner!'

  'A blaster!'

  Every man tried to compete with his colleagues in thinking up a better superlative. Jake glowered at them, his' mouth a thin tight line. He shook his large head, shuffled his pack a few times.

  'You still ain't got it. When a load of bombs have gone off – with heavy casualties – the Brits will start shoutin' their heads off at their police. "Why can't you do something?" That's when we offer to send in an FBI unit. About a week after the FBI have supposedly gone for the tails of the bombers the explosions stop. Result? The Americans are much better at the job than the Metropolitan Police jerks. "Give the job to the FBI," the Brits will beg. We're in control. No more yapping. You had a trial run in Philadelphia when you planted dummy bombs all over the city. None were discovered.'

  'When do we start?' asked Brad, daring to open his mouth.

  'Soon. First I have to check with Charlie. Timin' is so goddamn important…'

  ***

  Tweed had fallen asleep on the camp bed Monica had hauled out of a cupboard then made up with pillow, sheets and blankets. The phone began to ring at 4 am and he was instantly awake as Monica answered it.

  'Are you awake?' she called out softly.

  'Yes.'

  'I have Ed Osborne on the line. Wants to speak to you…'

  'I'll take the call.'

  Slipping on a dressing gown over his pyjamas, he sat behind his desk, picked up the phone.

  'Tweed here, Ed. What can I do for you?'

  'Hope you weren't asleep.'

  'I was. What is it?'

  'Think it's time you and I had a talk. Just the two of us. Do you know a pub called the Raging Stag in Piccadilly?' 'I do.'

  'Can we meet there today? S
ay noon?'

  'Can you give me a hint as to what this is about?' 'Sooner not, over the phone…'

  'Noon at the Raging Stag, then.'

  He told Monica the brief gist of his conversation. She raised her thick eyebrows, frowned.

  'After his performance here I wouldn't have thought you would want another session.'

  'The Americans can be a bit brash. Doesn't worry me. And the more I can find out what they're up to the better. We're very short of time, I sense.'

  'You realize they are taking a great interest in us? Tonight Bob is dining with Sharon Mandeville at Santorini's. Then Marler is taking out Denise Chatel.'

  'The same thought had occurred to me. Incidentally, I want you to book seats on the early morning Swissair flight to Basel for six people. Me, Paula, Newman, Marler, Harry Butler and Pete Nield. Not sure when we'll be going but it will be suddenly. So, each day book, then cancel, and immediately book for the next day. Keith Kent, the money tracer, called me to say millions of dollars have been deposited with the Zurcher Kredit Bank – confirming what Schwarz said. I wonder why.'

  'Who knows? Millions of dollars. That's a vast sum. Going back to Osborne, I doubt he'll tell you much.'

  'He might let something slip. Oh, at a civilized hour, get me Ren6e Lasalle, chief of the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire – French counter-espionage in Paris – on the phone.'

  'Will do.'

  'Any luck with identifying Charlie?'

  'No. As I told you earlier it's difficult, but I'll go on digging.'

  The phone rang again. Monica pulled a sour face, took the call. She looked even more sour.

  'Now we have Roy Buchanan on the line. Says it's urgent – at this time of night.'

  'I'll speak to him.'

  'I know you work all night,' Buchanan began. 'Sometimes I try to get a bit of kip.'

  'Sorry, and all that. Something's happened. Can I come and see you now? I think you'd want to know about it,' Buchanan suggested.

  'Can't it wait till morning?'

  'It could, I suppose. When would suit you?'

  'Eight o'clock. You sound worried. It's too early, to worry. Wait a bit longer and then you'll have something. to fret about. That is, if my present reading of the situation is correct.'

  'I've got enough on my plate,' Buchanan snapped. 'Get a bigger plate. Goodbye…'

  'And you'd better go to the office next door and get some sleep yourself,' Tweed told Monica.

  'I think I will. You talk as though you're expecting a storm.'

  'A gale. Force Ten.'

  Tweed had two hours' sleep. He woke up, alert, hearing the door to his office open. His right hand slid under the pillow, gripped the 7.65mm Walther automatic under it. It was a measure of his estimate of the gravity of the situation, that he had taken this precaution. He hardly ever carried a gun.

  The light came on. Tweed, twisted on his right side, aimed the weapon at the door. Howard, the Director, stood framed in the doorway, looking startled. Tweed sighed, shoved the gun back under the pillow, got up, put on his dressing gown.

  'Sorry if I wakened you,' Howard burbled. 'But George told me you were still here.'

  'As you see, I am.' Tweed glanced at his wristwatch. 'I've had two hours' sleep and that will have to do. What are you doing, prowling about the place? I heard you'd returned from a holiday.'

  He sat behind his desk while the Director flopped into the largest armchair. Howard was six feet tall with a plump, clean-shaven, pink face, and touches of grey in his neatly brushed hair. A large man in his fifties, he was immaculately garbed in a blue Chester Barrie suit from Harrods, a snow-white shirt and a Hermes tie. He rested one long leg over the arm of the chair, his usual posture. His voice was plummy.

  'Hardly a holiday. I've just returned from Washington. I caught up on sleep by going to a hotel after the flight had landed. Had early breakfast, then came straight on here.'

  'What's happening in Washington? Why go there?' Tweed poured water from a carafe into a glass, left for him by Monica. He sipped as Howard ran a hand over the dome of his head, a characteristic gesture when he was worried.

  'I went there at the invitation of the august and influential Jefferson Morgenstern – only to find he had suddenly dashed off over here. He'd left some of his top staff to look after me. I was wined and dined at all the best places. Everyone I met made a big fuss over me as though I was the most important man in the world. Not the usual reception by a long chalk. All of which worried me. They wanted something – but never got round to saying what it was. Under their glowing greetings I detected tension. Something's rotten in the woodshed.'

  Tweed was surprised. The pompous Howard often didn't grasp what was going on. But sometimes he had flashes of insight. Tweed drank more water before he began.

  'The woodshed where there's something rotten is over here. I've got a lot to tell you…'

  It was unusual for Tweed to tell Howard everything that had taken place. He did so now. If I don't survive, he thought to himself, someone had better be in the picture. Howard listened with great attention. He even removed his leg from over the arm of the chair, leaning closer to Tweed.

  'So now you have the full story up to date,' Tweed concluded. 'Didn't they tell you anything in Washington?'

  'They kept going on about the importance of the special relationship between Britain and America, the way things are in the world today. Each time I asked them to be more specific they changed the subject.'

  'Interesting. Anything else?'

  'They also kept asking if I knew where Cord Dillon might be. Told me he'd been sacked for embezzling funds.'

  'Poppycock.'

  'That's what I thought. I wouldn't have told them he was over here even if I had known. You said all the key personnel are down at the Bunker. I see why you had the place created now.'

  'Not all the key personnel – but enough to make it an effective operational headquarters in a secret location.'

  'What's this Ed Osborne you're having lunch with like?' Howard asked.

  'What a lot of Americans would proudly call a tough guy.

  'Don't like the sound of him. Thank you, Tweed, for being so frank. You'll be wanting to take a shower and get dressed.'

  'I will. One more thing before you go. I slipped over to see the new PM at Downing Street. Luckily I knew him when he was a Cabinet minister. He's playing the present situation softly, softly.'

  'That wouldn't be your idea?' Howard enquired.

  'I did make a few suggestions. Apparently Morgenstern keeps asking to see him urgently. The PM has fended him off, saying he'll see him as soon as he can but at the moment he's grappling with his new job.'

  'Interesting, as you said a minute ago. Think I'll leave you to it for now. Anything I can do to help, you know where I am. Take great care.' -

  Which was another surprise for Tweed. He had never before known Howard to be so cooperative. When he returned to his office, fully dressed, Monica was already behind her desk, using the phone. When she had finished the call she looked at Tweed.

  'I could get Rene Lasalle in Paris now. He gets in early to work, I remember.'

  'Try him…'

  'Rene, you old ruffian, how is life?'

  'Life, Tweed, is pure hell. I was going to call you. What is on your mind?' the Frenchman asked in perfect English.

  'I'm trying to get information on a Frenchman called Chatel. I haven't got his Christian name. He was married to an American, has a daughter called Denise. Your people sent him across to Washington as some sort of diplomat. He was killed in a car crash – along with his wife – about a year ago.'

  'Is this line safe?'

  'I met Harry Butler when I was coming into my office recently. He had just flashed the place. It's clean.'

  'Good. Because this is highly confidential. Jean Chatel was posted to Washington as an attache to the French Embassy. He was actually a member of the Secret Service. We'd heard rumours that Washington was considering mounting
a major operation somewhere in Europe. Jean went to try to find out. what it was. Before he could report he died, as you've just told me.'

  'Probably murdered.'

  'We were suspicious.'

  'Any data you could collect on his daughter, Denise, would be helpful. When you can. Now, why were you going to call me?' Tweed asked.

  'A small army of Americans has been passing through Paris from Washington, on their way to London. Not normal tourists – although they pretend to be. All carry diplomatic passports, look like tough professionals. Some fly on to Heathrow but more are coming to you via Eurostar. When I caught on I sent men to the airport. Passport officers signalled when a man showed a diplomatic passport and my people photographed him secretly. I have a collection of pies.'

  'Could I see them? Urgently. I'd appreciate your sending them by courier to me.'

  'Consider it done. What is going on? We don't like Americans too much.'

  'I'm trying to find out. Let's keep in touch.'

  'The courier will reach you today. Take care, my friend…'

  Tweed sat staring into the distance. In his absence Monica had removed blankets, sheets, pillow and camp bed. She had also opened the curtains. In the distance trees in Regent's Park cringed under the onslaught of a bitter wind. Men hurried along the street, heads down. Women walked clutching their collars tighter, trying to keep in some warmth.

  'Monica, could you please add Denise Chatel to your profile list? Sorry to burden you with more work. I gave you the gist of her life story so far last night before I went to sleep. Check it out.'

  'I put her on the list myself.'

  'Roy Buchanan is late. Not like him.'

  'No, it isn't.'

  'Thank you for the breakfast. I hope nothing's happened to Roy.'

  At precisely 9 am a long queue of people crowded into a large department store in Oxford Street. SALE EXTENDED. LAST-MINUTE BARGAINS. GREAT REDUCTIONS.

  Soon the ground floor was crammed. Shoppers sidled past each other, grabbed hold of goods, queued again to pay. They then had trouble leaving, so many people filled the place. There were several arguments as two women grasped the same bargain together.