Deadlock

by Colin Forbes

  'Instant detonation if the woman living there had picked it up?'

  'Oh, absolutely. She'd have been blown -into a million pieces. Bit of a bore, the time we took - but it had been tricked out with all kinds of gadgets. You did say Special Branch?'

  Silently Tweed handed over his folder. Nicholls examined the document very carefully this time. He compared the photo with its subject, then handed back the folder.

  'What was so special about that bomb that made you double-check my identity?'

  'You want the details?' Nicholls took a deep drag on the cigarette.

  The lot, please.'

  'First, it had a plate of steel lined with lead facing towards the waterfront. That would create implosion - most of the blast would have gone into and up the house.'

  The harbour would have suffered?'

  'Not a chance. Second - and this is particularly confidential-it was not the work of any kind of terrorist. Absolutely not.'

  'How do you know that?'

  The new and highly sophisticated mechanism. Perfected no more than a year ago. Of course, normally the explosive wouldn't be TNI - but it was just right for taking out that house. The one item which could be improved - in my opinion - is the timer . . .'

  Nicholls sported a small trim moustache. He fingered it with the nail of his index finger. Apart from the cigarette, Tweed could detect no trace of the enormous tension the officer must have laboured under. The professional had taken over and his tone was full of enthusiasm as he went on.

  'Devilish clever device though. Really a weapon of war - for use by saboteurs on major naval targets when the balloon goes up.'

  'It sounds pretty heavy - all that steel and lead,' commented Tweed. 'Surely no plastic bag would hold it?'

  'Very cunning, these johnnies. Inside that plastic bag was a smaller one. Made of reinforced leather - with a carrying handle. You do have a point. No one could have carried it far. Probably transported by car. Maybe they parked it a few yards back from the target house, then carted it the rest of the way.'

  'Or brought it in by boat. The deep-water channel is opposite that house, and I noticed a metal ladder attached to the sea wall.'

  'That's something I didn't think of. Yes, it could be brought in that way. This is going to create a stink in high places.'

  'Why?'

  'Well, you mentioned luck - and we were lucky. We would have been plastered all over Blakeney but for Naval Intelligence. They smuggled a sample to us a few months ago. The lab boys took it apart - under the guidance of a naval commander - so we knew what we were doing.'

  'Does this naval commander have a name?'

  'Well . . .' Nicholls chewed his lower lip, then smiled. 'Seeing as you chappies are concerned with the internal security of the State I suppose it is your business. Though it foxes me why the device was used here. It's main purpose is use as a sea-mine. Commander Bellenger is your man.

  My job now is to get the shell - complete with mechanism - back to Admiralty. Anything more?'

  'This sounds something entirely new. You said it couldn't be any kind of terrorist. Where was the blasted thing made?'

  'Moscow, old boy. Compliments of the Soviet Union.'

  5

  The bad news came in a telephone call. It so often did, Tweed thought.

  Blakeney had returned to normal. Rope barriers had vanished, as had the uniformed police. The Lakenheath Bomb Squad team came and went, relieved that someone else had done the dirty work. The coaster on the front had resumed unloading its soya bean meal.

  Tweed stood staring out of the front room window. Low tide. Masted boats were scattered along the creek banks, heeled over in the mud at drunken angles. An elderly man, well-wrapped against the brisk wind, wearing a deerstalker hat with field glasses looped from his neck, walked along the front. Birdwatcher.

  'Paula,' Tweed began, 'if you still want the job with me it's available . . .'

  'Great,' she said coolly. 'I'll start packing. And I'll call the buyer of my pottery business to clinch the deal . . .'

  'Why not delay that?' he warned. 'You'll join on six months' probation. It's the regulation . . .'

  'I'll take my chances. I've built that business as far as I want to. I've thought up God knows how many designs for pots for the Californian market. There's nothing ahead but more and more expansion. I want something new - a fresh challenge.'

  'Monica might be a problem,' he warned again. 'She could resent the arrival of a younger woman. She's been with me forever.'

  'I've talked with her on the phone. She sounds nice. That's my problem - and I'm confident I can handle it.'

  'And this house?'

  'I'm keeping it on. Somewhere quiet to visit when I can . . .'

  The phone rang. 'That will be my buyer,' she continued. 'I gather he's keen as mustard. The profits for the past three years are very good. And don't forget - we have to visit Mrs Massingham at Cockley Cley, get all the gossip about Cockley Ford for you . . .'

  She was in the narrow hall, lifting the phone. Tweed stood watching the wasteland, thinking why he'd decided to employ her. Two main reasons. One, the calm, controlled way she'd reacted to the bomb and the later period of waiting. Two, and it was a very secondary consideration - had to be - he liked her.

  'It's for you,' she called out. 'Monica. Says it's urgent.'

  'Blast!'

  'I hoped I was safe here,' were his opening words when he took the call.

  'I'm frightfully sorry . . .'Monica sounded nervous,'But you did say you were going to Paula's. There's a crisis, Major, over a new insurance contract. They're running round in circles since they found you'd gone.'

  'Who are "they"?'

  Top management. And Howard is frantic.'

  Monica knew she was talking on an open line. Translation: a summons from the PM, no less. Howard in a dither. Something very serious.

  'All right.' He sighed audibly. 'I'll be back by nightfall. It was a bloody short holiday.'

  'You grumbled enough about going,' she said waspishly.

  'I'll be back,' he repeated. 'With a new recruit.'

  He put down the receiver before she could ask about that - and immediately felt guilty. Monica was only doing her job. He ran upstairs where Paula was packing swiftly in her bedroom.

  'A major crisis back at the ranch. We have to be at Park Crescent by nightfall. Looks as though you're going straight in at the deep end.'

  'Best way to learn to swim,' she replied, deftly folding more clothes, laying them neatly in the case. 'That would give us time to call in at Cockley Cley, wouldn't it?'

  'I suppose I'd better just check. It was a weird business - and it could just be linked with the bomb.'

  'Don't follow . . .'

  'The Porsche driver took your picture. Dough-face carried a photo of you when he was tracking down where you lived. So, there's your link.'

  Cockley Cley was almost the twin of Cockley Ford. The same grassy green shaped like a triangle, the same huddle of old cottages, the same approach up a long narrow road. But no gate, no inn, no stream.

  Tweed let Paula do the talking while he studied Mrs Massingham. Must be close to eighty, a tall, thin woman with grey hair and the face of a golden eagle. Her legs were thin as a couple of sticks but she had a commanding presence, a clear mind. He wasn't surprised to hear she'd been a senior Civil Servant, a Principal.

  'Of course,' Mrs Massingham continued, 'there have been rumours that Satanism is practised at Cockley Ford. Don't believe a word of it myself - but the locals are superstitious. And the papers do say witchcraft is on the increase. More tea, Mr Tweed? It is Earl Grey.'

  'Thank you, yes,' replied Tweed, who hated Earl Grey.

  Mrs Massingham, sitting very erect in a chintz-covered armchair, prattled on. She didn't like Dr Portch. He had arrived only eighteen months ago. Yes, she had heard of the outbreak of the disease which had killed six villagers. Peculiar, she thought. No, she didn't know where Portch had come from. He was rarely seen. Come t
o that, the villagers of Cockley Ford were rarely seen. Portch had on one occasion organized a holiday for most of the villagers in the West Indies somewhere.

  'Expensive,' Tweed commented.

  Mrs Massingham agreed, remarking that Voodoo was practised in the islands. The natives, of course, were simple-minded-even more so than the local villagers. And then there was the private zoo Portch had installed. Cages full of wild cats and cobras. It all discouraged outsiders from going anywhere near the place.

  'We'd better be going.' Tweed stood up. 'I'm Chief Claims Investigator for an insurance company. We've had a belated claim on the life of one of the villagers who died at Cockley Ford,' he explained. 'Can't give you the name. Claimant has just returned from a long tour abroad. I have to check.'

  'Oh, I did wonder.' A twinkle appeared in the eagle eyes. 'I mean, what you did.'

  'Dr Portch seems to run Cockley Ford like his private estate,' Tweed ventured.

  'Yes, I suppose he does. I'd never looked at it like that before.' A frown crinkled her high forehead. 'Very odd . . .'

  They were driving through the rolling hillsides of Bedfordshire, heading for Woburn. Tweed was behind the wheel. Paula sat beside him, drawing in her sketch-book - content, Tweed thought, not to keep up a running streak of chatter. Which suited him as he sorted things out in his mind.

  He brought up the subject over lunch at the Bedford Arms in Woburn. They were the only diners, which made it an ideal moment and place.

  'I'd better tell you the form. I phoned a friend of mine, Bob Newman, while you were finishing your tidying up ...'

  'Robert Newman? The foreign correspondent? Writer of that blockbusting bestseller book, Kruger: The Computer That Failed?'

  'The same. That book made him financially independent. Now he works freelance, just takes on the jobs that interest him. He has a flat in Beresforde Road, South Ken. He's agreed you can stay there for a few days until we get you fixed up with living quarters.'

  'Won't I be a damn nuisance to him?'

  'He won't be there. I want Cockley Ford investigated. I can't do that now something else big has come up. Bob has agreed to do the job for me. You may as well know he's been vetted like yourself years ago.'

  'Might it not be dangerous for him? If the bomb is in some way linked with that village as you wondered?'

  Tweed smiled. 'He can cope. He's an ex-SAS man. He survived the full course when he was writing a series of articles on how they operate. But I'm still sending one of my men with him - which is something he doesn't know yet.'

  'Your expression suggests he won't like that.'

  'Bang on target. He's the lone wolf type.'

  'Is that why,' she enquired, 'we're going to reach London hours before nightfall as you told Monica?'

  'Bang on target. Again. Things to arrange before we arrive at Park Crescent. First port of call after lunch, Newman's flat.'

  'Forget your phone call,' Newman said. 'Go over it again for me.'

  They were sitting in the very large sitting room of Newman's flat where bay windows looked out on to St Mark's Church. The ceiling of the Victorian room was way above their heads and the original coving of interwoven bunches of grapes had been left in place by the developer.

  Newman, a well-built, sandy-haired man in his early forties, lit a cigarette as he watched Tweed who sat on the other sofa. His blue eyes had a hint of humour but the strong mouth and jaw-line were clenched and unyielding. Newman, Tweed, reflected, was a much harder man since his experience behind the lines in East Germany.

  Paula was unpacking her case in the large bedroom at the back, deliberately taking her time so the two men could talk alone. Tweed took no more than five minutes to tell him about his experiences at Cockley Ford and Blakeney. As he sipped at the coffee Paula had made for them Newman stood up and began strolling round the spacious room.

  'It doesn't add up,' he decided. 'It's a mystery without any key. The two separate incidents do link up. The photo Dough-face peddled round Blakeney to pinpoint Paula's address had to come from the cine-film the Porsche driver took. And you saw a red Porsche which must have come from Cockley Ford the night you arrived. Paula saw Foley come off that coaster and drive off in a Porsche, later turning off up to the village. OK?'

  'Agreed so far.'

  'That means an American was involved in the planting of the bomb on Paula's doorstep. But this Nicholls character later tells you the bomb is of Russian origin. And a new device perfected recently. The Kremlin isn't going to be handing out a thing like that to anyone. But no one. OK?'

  'Still with you.'

  'So, it doesn't add up - any of it,' Newman repeated. 'Why would the Soviets cooperate with the Americans, using their latest secret development - weapon of war, Nicholls said - to kill a girl who isn't - or wasn't at that moment - even a member of the British Secret Service?'

  'Makes no sense,' Tweed agreed again.

  'It gets more mysterious. If Paula had been on your staff why would the Kremlin join hands with Washington to do this? They wouldn't is the answer. So, what the hell is going on?'

  'That's what I want you to find out . . .'

  'Thanks a bundle. Incidentally, the name Portch rings a bell. Something in a paper. About eighteen months ago. Tucked away on a back page . . .'

  'Eighteen months ago is when Portch moved to Norfolk from God knows where according to old Mrs Massingham

  - and she's a lady with all her marbles where they should be.'

  'Before I head for Norfolk I'll go sweat it out in the Reading Room at the British Museum, find that item.'

  'Ball's in your court,'Tweed stood up.'I'm grateful . . .'

  'I'm intrigued . . .'

  'What I was going to say,' Tweed went on casually, 'was I want you to take one of my people with you . . .'

  'Not on. I work on my own. You know that.'

  The two men faced each other like terriers bracing up for a dog fight. Tweed compressed his lips. Newman, wearing a polo-necked sweater and well-creased grey slacks, scowled and shook his head.

  'It's essential,' Tweed insisted. 'The groundwork is laid. I told them a couple of SAS men were coming looking for me - perfect cover for you to penetrate that strange village.'

  'And who, may I ask, did you have in mind?'

  'Harry Butler,' Tweed said promptly. 'You've been with the SAS. Harry is built like one of them. You both talk the same language. You'll lead the team. You know Harry

  - he'll follow that lead. He's cool, resourceful, a good man to go into the jungle with. Unless you don't trust him,' he added artfully.

  'Crap! Harry's OK in a tight corner. And now you're being wily. Give me one good reason why I should agree.'

  'The bomb. Made in Russia. That concerns my outfit. It concerns me. And I'm up to my neck in God knows what. I don't even know what this new crisis is all about - but it's something pretty big for them to drag me back off the first holiday I've had in years. I need your help, Bob.'

  'That's better.' Newman grinned and folded his arms. 'I'm going in. For one reason only.'

  'Which is?'

  'I smell something pretty strange and sinister.'

  6

  The next few hours passed in a flash for Tweed. Everything came at him at once. He became very calm and absorbed a tremendous amount of data. It started the moment he walked into his office at Park Crescent. He'd left Paula at Newman's flat.

  'Best you arrive later when things have cooled. I'll call you . . .'

  Howard was waiting in his office with Monica, striding round the room, unable to keep still. An expression of relief crossed his face as Tweed came in.

  'Thank God you've got here. The world has exploded . . .'

  'I didn't hear the bang. If I could just take off my raincoat.' He walked to the other side of his desk and sat down, clasped his hands in his lap. 'I'm ready.'

  'Reports are filtering in from all over the continent that some great terrorist outrage is planned.'

  'Anti-Terrorist Squad,'
Tweed said. 'Their job . . .'

  'The PM doesn't think so in this case,' Monica intervened before Howard could resume his torrent of words. 'You have to go and meet her at 5 p.m. if you were back. I'll call and confirm you can make it.' She picked up her phone.

  'Fill me in then,' Tweed suggested. 'Don't understand this at all. Why us?'

  'Because of who it isn't,' Howard explained. 'It's not the IRA. It's not the Shi-ite fanatics. It's not the Red Army Faction. All our contacts confirm this . . .'

  'Baader-Meinhof relic?' Tweed queried.

  'Not them. That's what I'm trying to get into your head. It is not any of the known groups. No one can pinpoint a single clue. The Paris lot are mystified. So is Bonn . . .'

  'Then what's all the fuss about?'

  'The Russians are worried, too. And our Yankee cousins. The Deputy Director of the CIA is talking about flying over here. God help us. You'll see him, of course?'

  'You never did like Cord Dillon.' Tweed smiled amiably.

  'Who does? The man's impossible. Can't imagine how he ever got the job . . .'

  'Because he's efficient, skilled, never gives up. Like a dog with a bone. The aggressiveness you take in your stride . . .'

  'You take it in your stride,' Howard interjected, determined to avoid the American at all costs. He took out his display handkerchief, flicked something off his razor-creased trouser leg, carefully refolding the handkerchief before tucking it back in his breast pocket.

  'We have a new addition to the staff,' Tweed remarked. He chose this moment when he was not alone with Monica. 'She will be along here later this evening. Paula Grey. As you know, her vetting was top-flight.'

  'Splendid!' Howard showed unusual enthusiasm. 'A most welcome addition to our little family.' Tweed winced inwardly at the patronizing phrase as Howard continued. 'I know her pretty well - she could do her first term at school with me. I need someone extra.'