by Colin Forbes
'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.'
CHAPTER 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 Travemunde 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.'
'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.
'Sense an air of tension,' he drawled in his upper-crust voice. 'Bit of excitement?'
Tweed began again, tersely reporting every word Lisa had said. Then, for Marler's benefit, he recalled the events since the journey he had made with Paula to Alfriston, the aftermath when two shots were fired into their car.
'Tweed, you live a charmed life,' Marler commented. 'And Newman's hatchback is parked outside, as good as new. Is this Lisa Trent trustworthy?'
'Frankly, I'm not sure,' Tweed told him. 'Which is why I've asked her to get here at 5.30. 'I want to grill her. But we should be ready. Harry, Pete Nield has just about had his holiday. Could you contact him?'
'Spoke to him on the phone this morning before I came in. He's bored. I can get him here in half an hour.'
'Do it when we've finished.'
'We carry weapons?' Harry suggested.
'Nothing lethal. We don't want to start a shoot-out.'
'Tear-gas bombs then?'
'Oh, if you insist. But if we do go with Lisa, and I did say if, we're only observing.'
'Organized gangs,' commented Newman. 'Sounds farfetched. I think Lisa exaggerates.'
'I don't,' objected Paula. 'You haven't seen her, talked to her. I have. She's very cool.'
'She was on the phone,' Tweed agreed. 'Although I detected an undercurrent of anxiety.'
'Bob,' Marler began, straightening up. 'Organized gangs. You know I have a lot of contacts in this country – as well as abroad. I've just got back from Brussels. A contact, who I've found reliable in the past, told me he'd heard large groups of so-called refugees were being trained in the remote Ardennes in military style, using live ammunition.'
'Belgium is in a mess,' Newman replied dismissively.
'Also,' Marler ploughed on, 'another contact who lives in that model village near Weymouth phoned me today. Said there were rumours more refugees in large numbers were being brought ashore secretly after dark. Thought I'd pop down there and have a shufti.'
'More rumours,' Newman commented. 'Soon we'll hear the Martians have landed.'
'I'm driving down to Dorset,' Marler said firmly. 'I'll call you, Tweed, if I find anything. And, for your information, Bob, this contact is also very reliable. Toodle pip…'
***
When Gavin Thunder's limo reached Trafalgar Square it ran into the normal traffic jam. The Minister, who had just made a call on his mobile, tapped on the closed window between himself and the chauffeur. The car was stationary as the chauffeur slid the window open.
'Carson,' the Minister told him, 'I'm getting out here. I fancy walking the rest of the way.'
'Very good, sir…'
Thunder walked back the way the car had come. In Pall Mall, as he approached Marlows, he saw a tall fat man strolling along the pavement. He caught up with him near the entrance to the club.
'Good timing,' he commented. 'Now let's get inside so you can tell me how things are progressing.'
Oscar Vernon wore a grey overcoat unbuttoned down the front. Underneath he wore a pale grey suit, a pink shirt, a grey bow tie. In his early fifties, he had a large head, a fat face with bulging grey eyes, a pudgy nose, thick lips and an aggressive jaw which would soon be double-chinned. Everything about Oscar was grey and fat. In his right, well-muscled hand he carried a malacca cane with a curious circular knob.
'You'd like a drink?' Thunder asked as they sat in the library.
'Always.' Oscar chuckled. 'Double Scotch.'
'I'll join you. I've just had a conversation when it was difficult to keep my temper.'
Thunder ordered the drinks, then stared at Oscar, looking him up and down. Oscar was beaming.
'Do you have to dress in such a noticeable manner?'
'Before you have asked. Before I have told you no one takes me seriously. They think I am the clown. If only they knew.'
Thunder remained silent until the waiter had served them and closed the door. Oscar lifted his glass, drank half the contents, beamed again. Thunder leaned close, kept his voice low, rasping.
'So how are things progressing?'
'Under my command…' He drank the rest of the whisky, looked at the glass, a hint which Thunder ignored, '… they progress. As always. Reinforcements continue to arrive. A rehearsal will take place tonight.'
'You'd better be damned careful. It's far too early yet for the real thing.'
'This I know. Discipline. I insist. Under my command…"
'Yes, I know. The reinforcements – where will you train and hide them?'
'On the Bodmin Moor on the Cornwall.'
'They'll be conspicious,' Thunder objected.
&nb
sp; 'No. Tourist buses I hire will take them there. I go there myself. I see the Jamaica Inn for the tourists. They go there. Then they are gone – on to the Bodmin Moor.'
'You seem to have thought it out,' Thunder conceded reluctantly. 'And now I must go.'
'You go?' Oscar beamed, showing his large teeth. 'There is something more. No?'
Thunder reached a gloved hand into his pocket. He handed his guest a thick white envelope stuffed with fifty-pound notes.?10,000. It was his habit to make Oscar ask for the money. It exerted a degree of control over the fat man. He wore gloves to avoid his fingerprints appearing on the money or the envelope. He left the library.
On his way out he met the waiter. He told him to take another double Scotch to his guest in the library. It would please Oscar. More important, it would prevent Oscar appearing before Thunder left the building. Oscar counted the money quickly. The Minister preferred not to be seen in Pall Mall again with Oscar Vernon, dressed as he was.
***
Paula arrived at Martino's in a side street off Piccadilly, handed her coat to the hat-check girl, and saw Aubrey seated at a table in a booth by the wall. He was drinking and a half-empty bottle of red wine stood on the table.
Oh, my God! she thought. I'm going to have trouble with this one.
Aubrey stood up. In doing so he nearly dragged off the tablecloth. He lurched forward to stop the bottle toppling over and grinned. He was reaching for her to kiss her but she eluded him by slipping into the booth and sitting facing him.
'Welcome to the banquet,' he greeted her, his speech slightly slurred. 'What are you drinking?' The waiter had arrived.
'No starter,' she said quickly. 'I'll have Dover sole off the bone with French beans. No potatoes. To drink I'd like still mineral water. No ice or lemon.'
'I'll have the same. And a bottle of bubbly. Make it Krug,' Aubrey demanded.
'That's not for me, I hope.'
'We… are… going… to… set… this town… alight.'
As he paused between each word his fingers marched slowly across the cloth, straightened by the waiter.
