by Colin Forbes
'It's Warner asserting a little authority, trying to show he still counts,' she remarked.
Tweed didn't reply. The traffic was about to get moving again. Newman leaned forward, called out to Beaurain.
'I'll navigate from here, get you to St Paul's.' 'When I can I go up Ludgate Hill. I did study the map,' the Belgian said quietly.
Paula twisted round again, gave Newman a certain look. He raised both hands in a gesture of resignation.
'I do realize I have become surplus to requirements.'
When they approached St Paul's, Tweed counted six men in the camel-hair overcoats. Three at the top of the steps, watching visitors as they entered. Three more apparently drifting round in the street below. He grunted.
'He's probably got half-a-dozen inside the place. So he had plenty to patrol the Embankment. You were right, Paula. He's demonstrating he is still Minister. Might as well get back to Park Crescent, Jules. Wonder what's waiting for us there?'
Martin Hogarth was waiting for them. George told Tweed he had put him in the waiting-room, that he had protested fiercely about being locked in.
'I would like to arrive back once and find no one waiting for me,' Tweed remarked. 'Give us a few minutes to settle in, then send him up. But escort him like an unwanted guest, which he is . . .'
Tweed had just settled himself behind his desk. Marler was leaning against a wall. Pete Nield was seated in one of the armchairs. Beaurain sat in a hard chair in front of Paula's desk. The door opened and George ushered in their visitor.
Martin Hogarth stormed in, his face very red. He glared round at everyone, then plonked himself in the other armchair in front of Tweed's desk, without being asked.
'Where have you got my brother Billy imprisoned?' he yelled.
'Calm down,' Tweed said, clasping his hands together.
His suggestion only added petrol to the flames. Martin had trouble getting the words out. Then he shouted.
'You have kidnapped him. I'll inform the police, get myself a lawyer.'
'How did you find this address?' Tweed asked quietly.
'I've a friend who knows the kidnap business. He said you ran a business negotiating the release of rich people who had been grabbed. Gave me this address. And I thought you were SIS. But you have a bloody plate outside -General & Cumbria Assurance. The Minister, whom by the way, I happen to know, will be interested to hear you impersonated the SIS.'
'You could always complain to him. His Ministry is in Whitehall. Martin, why are you so worked up? I'm sure you have not yet told us your real motive.'
'What ... do you mean?' Martin's mood had changed. He was now on the defensive. 'Real motive,' he sneered.
'What is it?' Tweed leaned forward. 'Better tell me now.'
'Tell you what?'
The change in Martin's mood under pressure from Tweed was startling. The raging accuser had become a frightened man. Unsure of how to handle the situation. Tweed gave him no time to recover.
'Your real motive. Money, isn't it?'
'Money . . .'
'Collecting the huge sums from Carpford sent abroad -then returned here.'
'Huge sums . . .'
'Thousands of pounds. So bulky they may have to convert them into Swiss francs. The Swiss have one-thousand-franc banknotes. Pecksniff was the link - he checked them when you brought the huge sums to him.'
'How did you . . .'
'How did I know?' Tweed finished for him. 'I have a lot of professionals digging up information, interrogating people. Including Pecksniff.'
'I want to leave,' Martin protested feebly.
Newman stood behind him, looming over Martin. His tone was savage.
'You can answer Tweed - or you can leave here. In handcuffs when Superintendent Buchanan and his men come to pick you up. They are not so gentle at the Yard as we are. So answer Tweed's question or I'll bloody well call the Yard now.'
'Pecksniff was working on behalf of al-Qa'eda when he arranged for you to fly abroad to pick up the money,' Tweed snapped.
'I had no idea Pecksniff was working for them . . ,'
He had slipped up badly. First, he had not asked who Pecksniff was when Tweed used the name. Second, he had now admitted he had had dealings with the Dickensian solicitor. Paula was fascinated by the way Tweed had, with flashes of inspiration, led Martin into the trap. Monica mouthed the word 'coffee' and pointed at Martin's back. Tweed shook his head. Nothing must disturb the mood.
'Well, now you know he was working for them,' Tweed continued. 'So you might as well tell us the huge amounts you brought over from the Bahamas trips you made.'
'Bahamas . . .'
'Get on with it, for heaven's sake. I'm losing patience.'
The phone rang. Monica answered, beckoned to Newman, who went to her desk. He kept his voice low.
'Newman here. Who might this be?'
'Recognize your voice. Rick Pendleton here, your friendly bank director in the Bahamas. Just got back from a great holiday. Mexico. What's your query?'
'I desperately need to know who has collected the money sent to you from Aruba. The New Age Development Corp. I know you don't like revealing details of accounts. Keep this under your hat. London is facing an imminent catastrophic attack from al-Qa'eda. That New Age money financed it. Who was the courier who collected the money - maybe made several trips?'
'Jesus! Hang on while I check. I remember the guy. The sums were so large it came over to me. Hold the line . . .'
The door opened and Marler strolled in. Tweed reacted instantly.
'The Yard reacted very swiftly. This is the gentleman you may be taking away for intensive interrogation.'
Marler caught on immediately. He laid a strong hand on Martin's right shoulder.
'I'll cuff you when we're ready to leave.'
Martin looked up, stared into Marler's face, wearing its bleakest expression.
'You still there, Bob?' Pendleton's voice, speaking quietly, came back on Newman's line. 'Good. Three visits by a Martin Hogarth. October 15th 2001, November 20th 2001, January 10th 2002. Amounts drawn in sequence. £250,000. £750,000. One mil. Total, two million. All converted into Swiss francs. I wish you all luck in bringing down the bastards . . .'
Newman rewrote the figures he had scribbled down on a pad he'd been given by Monica. Tweed would now have no trouble in reading the data. The phone rang again, Monica answered, handed the phone to Newman.
'Newman here. Who is it?'
'Your friendly bank director again. Sorry, but I double-checked, found two sheets had stuck together. Third and last amount given to Martin Hogarth should be four mil. So total is now five million. He had the authorized documents from Gerald Hanover.'
'Any idea where that guy is?'
'No. We should worry. With commission like that. Adios.''
Newman quickly changed the two figures, underlining total is five million pounds, converted into Swiss francs. Then he beckoned to Tweed.
'Don't move an eyelash,' Tweed warned.
Marler again rested a hand on Martin's shoulder. Tweed took the sheet, raised his eyebrows. He memorized the data in a few seconds, folded the sheet and went back to his desk.
'That was Superintendent Buchanan,' Newman called out loudly. 'He's getting impatient to see the prisoner.'
Seated back behind his desk, Tweed studied the man opposite for a short time. Martin Hogarth was a broken man. His face had lost what little colour it had had when he stormed into the office. His hands were twisting, couldn't keep them still.
'Pecksniff checked each tranche of money in front of you,' he began. 'Right?'
'Yes . . .' Martin was croaking hoarsely. 'He unlocked the small case I gave him after I'd given him the key. Then he took out the Swiss banknotes stack by stack, counted them aloud. Now, I'd originally answered Pecksniff's first call to Carpford inviting me to visit his office . . .'
'You made three trips to New York. Each time you had a first-class return ticket to the Bahamas. I imagine that way you av
oided the long slog through customs and passport control. You simply moved to transfer, caught the flight to the Bahamas.'
'Yes.' Martin looked taken aback. 'How do you know that?'
'I'm asking the questions. How much money? On each trip?'
'£250,000 first trip. £750,00 second trip. Four million pounds on the last one. Altogether five million pounds, all converted into Swiss francs.'
'You must have had a bad time arriving back at Heathrow.'
'I was careful to be about two-thirds the way along the queue. Each time. All three aircraft were crowded. When I reached the counter I plonked down the smaller case with the key on top. Then I quickly hauled up a huge case full of rubbish presents. They ignored the small case, then went through the big job as though looking for drugs. It worked on each trip.'
'And Mr Pecksniff paid you how much for your trouble?'
'Do I have to tell you?'
'You do.'
'Fifty thousand pounds in Swiss francs. I'm not a rich man . . .'
'Of course you're not. But I'm sure you've got a lot more. You have a Rolex on your wrist, a diamond pin in your tie. Get to hell out of here.'
'What?'
'He's telling you that you can go now,' Paula called out.
As soon as the door closed on Martin's frantic departure Tweed nodded to Marler.
'Follow him. Where he goes. Anyone he contacts.'
'I'm on my way. Keep in touch with reports on my mobile.'
* * *
'Is that Ali?'
'Yes, it is.'
Ali had one hand on the loose phone-box door, which the wind kept blowing open.
'Abdullah here. You have a photo of Martin Hogarth, along with the others photographed at Carpford?'
'I have. In my pocket.'
'Send your best man immediately to SIS HQ at Park Crescent. Martin Hogarth has just left the building.'
'I have a good man watching that place.'
'Then tell him to kill Martin Hogarth. Urgently . . .'
33
Tweed sat behind his desk, tapping his pen. Paula knew he was bothered by something. When he continued tapping the pen, gazing at the closed blind which masked the distant view of Regent's Park, she felt sure.
'What's disturbing you?' she asked.
'I'm thinking of phoning the Minister and demanding to know why there are no Special Branch men on the Embankment.'
'Don't! You were right before. You decided not to arouse any resentment. Let sleeping dogs lie.'
'I suppose you are right. I won't call him.'
Beaurain was pacing the office, restless, while Newman sat at ease, reading the Daily Nation. Beaurain put on his coat and Tweed looked up.
'Going somewhere?'
'I feel it would be wiser if we checked that Embankment again. I can tell you're in two minds whether to contact Warner or not. You'd look silly if there are camel-hair coats patrolling now.'
'I'll come with you,' said Paula.
'Restless people,' Tweed commented.
'Yes,' snapped Paula, 'we're all restless, expecting something terrible to happen and no idea what it is, where it will take place. Jules, let's get out of this claustrophobic atmosphere.'
It had stopped drizzling and was icily cold as they reached her car. Beaurain asked if he could drive again and she agreed. He headed straight down Whitehall for Westminster Bridge. Traffic was still very heavy but he drove with great skill, slipping through gaps.
As he turned left along the Embankment he noticed cars were still slow-moving on the bridge. He turned to Paula with a smile, nodding towards the bridge.
'Does it go on like this much longer?'
'It can start in the late afternoon with people trying to beat the rush. Then it can go on until nearly eight. It gets worse day by day.'
'Who would be a commuter?'
'Not me.'
Glancing at him, she saw his penetrating gaze was focused on the Embankment walk by the river. She started studying the same area. They had driven a short distance when she let out a gasp.
'Look. That's Martin Hogarth walking along the Embankment, away from us. I recognize his walk, his clothes. So where the devil is Marler? He's suppose to be following him.'
'If you can see Marler he's doing a bad job. He'll be nearby. Marler impresses me.'
'Don't see him anywhere . . .'
A dozen yards behind Hogarth a businessman was walking in the same direction. He wore the conventional City outfit. A black jacket and black trousers. His head was protected with a black hat and he was carrying a bulky briefcase.
'That's the "uniform" the City gent wears these days,' Paula explained to Beaurain. 'Black suit, which I think looks so dreary, and the fat briefcase to emphasize how important and busy he is. Hundreds of them dress just like that. At one time they wore a variety of smart suits, now this ghastly outfit.'
A large barge was proceeding upriver. It was laden almost to the gunwales with powdered black coal. A distance behind it was another big barge, also carrying coal. Beaurain stared at them as Paula enlightened him.
'My guess is they're headed for that new power station the lady with Pooh told us about. The tide is coming in but it will rise much higher during the next two days.'
'First I've seen since leaving Belgium. They ply the river near Liege. Much smaller jobs than those.'
'Still no sign of camel-hair coat types,' she said. 'That fool of a Minister is just asserting his authority.'
'Hogarth is still plodding along the promenade,' said the Belgian, glancing in his rear.-view mirror. 'Wonder where he's going? It's a cold night to be out.'
'Marler will find out,' she said confidently.
'Do you know how to get us to the East End? I'm looking for a pub where the locals gather.'
'I'll guide you.'
She would like to have asked what Beaurain had in mind but she desisted from speaking. He always seemed to know what he was doing.
Marler, the businessman, was still following Hogarth. Earlier his quarry had gone into a pub for a drink. Marler had slipped into the pub's cloakroom, locking himself in a cubicle. Opening the briefcase, he had taken out the crease-free black suit. Marler could change in less than a minute. Stuffing the clothes he'd been wearing into the briefcase, he walked back into the crowded pub, ordered a beer. Hogarth was still drinking further down the bar. When Hogarth left, heading for the embankment, Marler, the businessman, walking in a different way from his usual stride, took up a position twenty yards behind him, his eyes everywhere.
Halfway along the embankment Hogarth crossed the road when the lights were in his favour. On the far side he plunged uphill into a maze of quiet streets. Marler crossed before the green light changed at the pedestrian crossing.
After the muted roar of the traffic it was very silent and dark. Very few street lights, and those there were at long intervals. A walk in the shadows up the narrow climbing street. Heading for the Strand, Marler decided. He transferred his briefcase to his left hand. Something about this area away from the world he didn't like. He walked faster, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound as he got closer to Hogarth.
His quarry turned another corner, slowing down as he went on up the steep hill. Marler heard a vehicle crawling up the street behind him. He dodged up some steps into an entrance alcove. He waited.
A cab crept round the corner. No light up, showing he could not take a fare. No passenger in the back. The window on the far side from the driver open. Marler couldn't see the number-plate but felt sure it was the same cab he'd passed earlier, parked just beyond the end of Park Crescent.
The driver had his cabbie's cap pulled well down, increased speed a little. Marler ran after it. Round the corner Hogarth was still plodding uphill. Marler arrived as the cab stopped alongside Hogarth. Hogarth had paused, tired by his exertions.
Marler raised the Walther he held in his right hand. The cab driver was aiming a gun point-blank at Hogarth. Marler fired one shot. The driver sagged, his hand lo
sing his grip on his gun. Hogarth, who had looked at the driver when he stopped, was terrified.
'You!' he said, recognizing Marler.
'Keep quiet. Sit on those steps.'
'He was going to . . .'
'Shut up, for God's sake. Sit!'
