by Colin Forbes
'I damned well did. I know the States. First they'd need one of those copious air timetables giving all flights - so they could pick out long-distance flights carrying tons of fuel. They'd have to decide which flights would be best. Then they'd have to check security. Find out where it was slack. Then locate quiet flats to rent where there was a mix of nationalities, so the killers wouldn't stand out. They'd have to visit the Trade Center several times, decide on the best place to hit both towers. Probably discover where the architectural plans were available so they could study the structure. And a whole lot more. I've been to Egypt, mixed with Arabs. They're not advanced enough to have planned September 11.'
'Who would be then?'
'My bet would be an American - or an Englishman.'
Eva was about to leave when Tweed asked her to wait a moment. He darted out of the office, ran upstairs to where he found Pete Nield and Harry Butler drinking coffee. He told them he wanted them to follow an Eva Brand who was waiting in his office. He described her vividly.
'I want to know where she goes, who she meets. You'll have to get cracking . . .'
Butler opened a cupboard, grabbed a beret and a cap which he shoved into his pockets. They wanted to take up positions outside before their quarry left. Tweed looked at Nield.
'Difficult for you to change appearance in that suit.'
'No it isn't,' Harry told him. 'He can turn it inside out and it's a boring grey colour. Seen him change in an alley. Timing? Thirty seconds. We're off. . .'
Like most of Tweed's staff they wore rubber-soled shoes, and without a sound slipped off down the stairs past the closed door of Tweed's office. Tweed slowly returned as the front door closed quietly. They would be in position well before his visitor left.
Whenever possible Tweed organized two people to shadow a target. The system worked well and made it very unlikely the target would have any idea he - or she - was being shadowed.
Eva was standing up, putting on her smart expensive grey coat. She smiled when he came in and checked her watch. Then she went close to him, kissed him on both cheeks.
'I have taken up too much of your time. Thank you so much for seeing me.'
'Didn't give me much choice, did you,' he replied with a warm smile. 'Do you want to give me your address and phone number?'
'Don't waste much time, do you?' she flashed back, smiling wickedly. 'But Paula has all my details.' She looked back at Paula. 'You take care. See you tonight at the Ivy.'
Then she was gone. With her absence the buoyant temperature inside the office seemed to have dropped. Even Monica seemed more subdued.
'What was all this business, Paula, about having dinner with her at the Ivy? You're developing expensive tastes,' Tweed remarked.
'It was Eva's idea,' Paula explained. 'She said it would be nice for just us two girls to go out and compare notes. I'm wondering whether she wants to interrogate me. I'll' be careful. But, that apart, I like her. She's clever. That business about who planned the atrocity in New York.'
'For weeks I have been wondering exactly the same thing myself. For similar reasons. Oh, I arranged for Pete and Harry to follow her.'
'So you don't trust her?'
'It's just that. As you know, I never take people at face value. Also I thought it curious that she never mentioned the disappearance of Mrs Warner. It has to be the main topic at Carpford.'
The door opened and Marler strolled in. He leant against a wall and produced one of his long cigarettes.
'Who was that devastating gorgeous woman I saw leaving here? The one with a great mane of dark hair and very tall.'
'You've just missed out,' Paula teased him. 'That was Eva Brand and Tweed has just sent Pete and Harry to shadow her. Now, if you had been here . . .'
'I don't think I like you any more,' he commented.
Paula had a point. Had Marler been available, Tweed would probably have sent him after her. An expert tracker, he always worked on his own and none of the targets he had followed had ever been aware of his presence. He lit his cigarette.
'What was Glamour Puss doing here?'
The phone rang and Monica looked surprised. She called out to Tweed. 'You'll never guess who is waiting to see you downstairs.'
Tweed hammered a fist on his desk, part of his new physical vitality. 'I don't want to guess. I want to know who it is.'
'Jules Beaurain.'
Wearing a blue bird's-eye suit, Beaurain breezed in. Tweed introduced him to Newman and Marler. Holding a posy of fresh flowers, Beaurain then walked swiftly to Paula's desk, laid down the posy.
'For an exceptionally intelligent and beautiful lady. It's a Belgian custom.'
'Don't believe that last bit, Jules,' Paula replied. 'They're wonderful. I can't thank you enough.'
'Then don't try.'
He sat down in the armchair facing Newman, stared at him as though he was some strange species. 'You're the reporter. I've read all your articles. Sometimes they're very good,' he chaffed, smiling.
'They're always good,' retorted Newman, returning the smile.
'Enough of this chit-chat. What brings you haring back to London, Jules?' Tweed asked.
'To give you information about Carpford I don't think you have yet. I phoned Buchanan. There are two more people up there you don't know about. You know where Margesson's house is?'
'Yes.'
Tweed had taken a large sheet of cartridge paper from his bottom drawer. Monica had earlier rushed to pick up the posy from Paula's desk, now she returned with a vase of water with the flowers carefully arranged. She placed them on Paula's desk. Paula extracted a rose, trimmed it with scissors, then went over to Beaurain. She inserted it in his lapel, using a safety pin to secure it. He looked up at her.
'With such appreciation next time I'll buy the whole shop.'
'Yes,' growled Tweed. He swivelled the sheet round. 'Have I got Carpford reasonably accurate?'
Paula leaned over Beaurain to study the drawing. She was amazed at how quickly Tweed had worked. Carp Lake was the centre piece. Around it he had drawn Garda, Warner's strange Italianate property; Drew Franklin's concrete blockhouse; Agatha Gobble's Cotswold cottage; Peregrine Palfry's round house and Margesson's Georgian horror.
'You missed your vocation,' Beaurain told him. 'You should have been an artist. Incredibly accurate. Now draw in two bungalows, well spaced apart, here, south of Margesson's house.'
Tweed drew two small oblongs where Beaurain's fingers had indicated. He looked up at Paula.
'I remember passing these before we met Buchanan again. I thought that, like every other dwelling, they were out of place.'
'In the first one lives a man called Billy Hogarth, like the painter. In the last one resides Martin Hogarth, the brother of Billy. They hate each other. Understandably.'
'What are they like then?'
'Billy is the black sheep. Half the time he's roaring drunk - when he's not driving off somewhere. Then he's sober. Bit of a thug. Ask him the time of the day and he's likely to throw a heavy clock at you.'
'And Martin?'
'English gentleman. Tall, in his fifties. Well-spoken. Good-looking. Polite. Master of chatting and telling you nothing.'
'And these two are brothers? Martin and Billy?'
'They are. And there's more to relationships up there than you might think. Both Martin and Billy - wait for it - are cousins of Drew Franklin, the columnist.'
'They are?' Tweed was taken aback. 'Do they communicate with each other? I'd have thought it likely.'
'Not according to Martin when I asked that same question. His reply, mind you, was vague as usual. He said, "We all live our own lives. Haven't you heard that old saying -'the bloodiest battlefield is the family arena'.'"
'Doesn't tell us much.'
'Which seems to be Martin's way of conducting a conversation. He'll chat for ages, but give you no information at all.'
'Talking about relationships,' Paula began, 'maybe we ought to tell Jules about our strange visitor
this morning. Eva Brand.'
Tweed then gave Beaurain a full report of everything Eva had said - including the fact that she was a niece of Drew Franklin. When he had concluded, Tweed took out of his top drawer the drawing in ink of the cathedral the motor-cyclist had delivered. Beaurain studied it for a moment, threw it back on Tweed's desk.
'St Paul's Cathedral.'
'Exactly,' Tweed replied. 'Could it be significant?'
'Decoy,' Beaurain said dismissively.
7
'Is that Ali?' asked the voice on the phone.
Spoken in English, it was impossible to tell whether the caller was a man or a woman. The use of a voice-distorter made the speaker impossible to identify.
'It is Ali from Finsbury Park,' the man inside the public phone-box replied.
'Abdullah speaking. Is the consignment on its way. All five of the transporters.'
'They are coming. On schedule. They arrive at their destination at eight o'clock tonight.'
'I will call again, using the other number you gave, at seven . . .'
Ali left the phone-box quickly. Located in a carefully chosen quiet area of London, it was rarely used, a fact confirmed by constant observation.
The transporters referred to were milk wagons, each driving south on a different road, the route they used every day at this time. Innocent enough cargoes, on this occasion they carried more than milk.
At the bottom of each load was a larger container, swathed thickly in waterproof cloth. There was also a thick cable wrapped round the container very securely. The end of the cable had a handle attached to a strong hook concealed just below the surface of the milk at the rear of the vehicle.
Later, arriving at a farm with a large barn, purchased weeks before, they would drive in. Once inside the barn the wagon would be opened, a gloved hand would feel for the handle, grasp it, hauling the metal container to the surface. Inside the barn it would be transferred to a small van with the words Fresh Fruit inscribed on its outer bodywork. All five vans, refrigerated, had also been purchased weeks before. To bolster the supplier's confidence, a cheque on a London bank had been paid in advance. It was the supplier's understanding that a new company was entering the business of providing fruit to larger supermarkets at highly competitive prices.
The organizer of the operation, who used the name Abdullah, was confident that if the milk wagons were found, eventually, it would be too late. The spectacular and catastrophic attack would have occurred. Abdullah had no doubt the casualties would run into thousands, the dead casualties.
Inside each concealed container was a new weapon, the warhead armed with an explosive of devastating power.
8
When Beaurain left Park Crescent both Tweed and Paula escorted him downstairs. At the bottom he paused, spoke very quietly to them so George, the guard, could not hear what he was saying.
'Is there somewhere I could have a private word with both of you?'
'Visitors' room,' said Tweed, crossing the hall and opening a door into a barely furnished room. He closed the door as Beaurain looked round with a cynical smile.
'Don't make your visitors very comfortable, do you? Wooden table, hard-backed chairs, nothing to read.'
'There are visitors I feel I should see but don't want them to linger. What is it, Jules?'
'I want you to know that I'm flying to Brussels - there and back in a day. I have made an appointment to see the top Director of the Banque de Bruxelles et Liege. The place where you told me a dubious lawyer in London sends the rent money collected from Carpford. I want him to tell me where it is forwarded to - I'm convinced it doesn't just sit in Brussels.'
'But,' Paula objected, 'you did say Belgian banks are even more security-conscious than Swiss banks.'
'True,' said Beaurain. 'Clever girl. Luckily I know this man and I don't think he is aware I am no longer Commissioner of Police. It was kept quiet, my resignation - maybe because I am popular with the people for putting certain corrupt fat cats behind bars. I know certain illegalities the man I am going to see has engaged in. Blackmail is a powerful weapon.'
'You're wicked,' Paula said with a smile. 'One more thing. I was going to ask you if you know what lies behind that tall brick wall extending from Victor Warner's property. It's pure curiosity, I admit.'
'I imagine it's security,' Beaurain replied. 'Remember what his position is. As for behind it, the ground slopes down steeply and there's a lime pit and an old abandoned quarry.'
'How are you for time?' Tweed enquired.
'I must leave at once or I'll miss my flight. The bad news is I'll be back.'
He hugged Paula, shook Tweed's hand, opened the door and before they could leave the room he was gone.
'I'm going back to Carpford when I can,' Paula said as they climbed the stairs. 'I want to talk to those brothers -Billy and Martin. Something odd about them.'
'Then you won't go on your own. If I'm tied up, Newman can come with you.'
Newman looked up as they came in. He was grinning sardonically. He spoke to Paula.
'I think you've made a conquest. Jules has really taken a fancy to you.'
'Don't be so stupid,' she snapped. Sitting at her desk she glared at him. 'Instead of making foolish remarks you might as well help me. When I can I'm going back to Carpford. To see those two brothers, Martin and Billy. While I'm up there I'd also like to call on Drew Franklin, your favourite columnist. But when is he there?'
'My favourite creep,' Newman told her. 'He'll be there tomorrow evening. I know he likes to hide himself away when he's typing his column. You'd better watch it. He has a reputation for being a professional ladies' man.'
'That might help me to get him talking,' she teased Newman. 'You think I'm his type?'
'He'll either tell you to go to hell or flatter the life out of you. So you won't know whether you're coming or going.'
'In case you didn't realize it, I have had experience fending off numerous predatory males. I'll cope.'
'If I can, could I come with you? Unless you have Tweed by your side.'
'Thanks. I'll bear it in mind.'
'And,' Newman warned, 'those Hogarth brothers -strange name - don't sound like the sort you'd ask to dinner. Especially Billy.'
Tweed jumped up, began pacing as he gave orders to Monica. 'I've a load of work for you. I want dossiers compiling on all those people who live up at Carpford. Where they came from, their associates, as far as possible. Also a dossier on Victor Warner, the Minister. That will have to be dealt with delicately. Finally, one on Eva Brand. You've got her address, Paula.'
'Yes, she lives not far away from me in Fulham. Surely you don't suspect her of something?'
'I'm not trusting anyone. Eva came charging in here with her drawing of St Paul's. Can't imagine what that has to do with Warner's apparent interest in a Colombian drug cartel. Check her out. I'm also intrigued about the circle of relationships in that village. The Hogarths are brothers, but they're also cousins of Drew Franklin. On top of that Eva Brand is a niece of Franklin's. Too much coincidence. You know I don't believe in coincidences.' He extracted from a drawer his detailed plan of Carpford and its inhabitants, handed it to Paula. 'I'd like you to check that and show the position of Black Wood. I'm not sure how far away it was.'
'Pretty close. I'll draw it in for you.'
'Tweed,' Monica called out after answering the phone. 'I have Pete Nield on the line for you . . .'
'Pete, how are you getting on. Haven't lost her, have you?' he joked.
'As if we would. It's a bit odd. She first took a cab to the Ministry of Security. Was inside fifteen minutes. Then she comes out, catches another cab and goes into the maze of streets near Covent Garden. The cab waits while she walks out of sight of it and enters Monk's Alley, crouching to slip under the crime scene tape. She uses a torch - it's dark by now - and appears to be looking for something on the ground. When she comes out she's holding a Beretta automatic in her right hand which she slips inside her coat presumably so
the cab driver waiting for her a distance back won't see it . . .'
'Hang on, Pete. How could you know it was a Beretta? You wouldn't be just behind her, I assume.'
'I used my monocular with the night glass lens attached to it. She gets inside the cab and it drops her at an address in Fulham . . .'
'Wait a second.' Tweed gestured for Monica to give him the slip of paper with Eva's address Paula had taken to her earlier. 'Now, what address?'
