by Colin Forbes
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?'
It was the same address Eva had written, plus her phone number, on the piece of paper she had handed to Paula before leaving.
'That's where she lives,' Tweed told Pete. 'What on earth is she up to now?'
'Getting ready to go out tonight would be my guess. The bathroom window is all steamed up.'
'Right. This is what you do. Stay there out of sight. I say that because I'm getting the impression she's pretty smart. She's having dinner with Paula at the Ivy. Follow her, then wait outside the restaurant. One of you had best grab some sandwiches and get that flask you always carry filled with tea. When she goes inside with Paula wait outside for them to come out. Something might happen.'
'Understood. We'll be ready for a fracas.'
Tweed began pacing up and down his office again, a sign Paula recognized that the momentum was building up. He was about to issue another order when Marler strolled in, wearing a camel-hair coat as he went to lean against a wall. Tweed stared at the coat.
'In that garb you could be mistaken for Special Branch.'
'Which is the general idea. I've been talking to some of Mr Special Branch's informants. Way below the calibre of mine.'
'Well, get on with it,' Tweed snapped. 'Anything to report?'
'The mugs all tell the same tale. Rumours that top people from the Colombian cartel have arrived in London. They go vague when I ask where I can find them.'
'Warner has Colombia on the brain.'
'Agreed. But I also had a chat with a woman, Carla, who is my favourite informant. Wants to join our outfit, which is why she's working for me. She's clever. Well educated, she can dress like a tart and talk the lingo so a Cockney would think she was from the East End.' He paused to light a cigarette while Tweed waited impatiently. 'Carla,' Marler continued, 'has heard a strong rumour that London is fac
ing its own September 11 – a monstrous attack. She says the killers have slipped into the country, Saudis and a group from Algeria. No clue as to the form the attack will take or where or when, but soon.'
'You believe her?' Tweed pressed.
'Carla's never been wrong before. She was in that Soho joint, Belles, which we have reason to know. She has languages, including French and Arabic. She lingered at the bar not far from a table where three Arabs in white turbans were talking…'
'Not black turbans?' Tweed checked.
'I thought I spoke clearly. Black would suggest something else now. Maybe they weren't keen to advertise. She caught a few words. "The equipment is on its way. It has already left the farm." That was all she could hear.'
'You have a visitor,' Monica called out after talking on her phone. 'You'll be pleased. Waiting downstairs is Jasper Duller, Chief of Special Branch, together with a partner.'
'Buller, the Bull, as his staff nickname him. A brute who terrifies everyone working for him. Should be fun.'
Tweed returned to his desk. He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He glared at Monica as he was speaking.
'Tell Buller he can come up to see me on his own while his partner waits in the visitors' room. Actually, tell George, who won't stand any nonsense. If Buller doesn't like my suggestion he can go jump in the Thames.'
Newman got up from his chair and perched on Paula's desk. 'I met Buller recently. He's as thick as five planks.'
'He's on his way up,' Monica reported after a few minutes. 'On his own. I could hear him swearing at George who just kept repeating your instruction word for word.'
As Tweed expected, Buller was wearing a camel-hair coat when he stormed into the room. About five feet eight tall, he was very heavily built and had a large head. His hair was cut to a stubble and the face below it suggested aggression. Under thick brows the eyes were dark, hostile and flickered about, checking everyone in the room. In his forties, he had the broken nose of a prize-fighter, a tight-lipped mouth, a determined jaw and the air of a man who expected instant obedience.
'I won't stand for this,' he bellowed, 'shoving my partner in a bare room and locking the door on him.'
'Then try sitting down,' Tweed suggested amiably. 'It is normal to phone for an appointment first.'
'Blow that for a lark,' Buller growled and sagged into an armchair. 'You don't seem to know who you're talking to.'
'It is Jasper Buller, I presume,' Tweed said genially.
'It is the Chief of Special Branch.' His tone was a snarl.
'Now, I need to know what you and that young lady…'He turned to look at Paula and his expression briefly became cordial as she stared back '… were doing ferreting around up at Carpford.'
'Why?' Tweed enquired. 'You think the place is populated with Colombian cartel barons?'
'Mr Tweed.' Buller leaned forward, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. 'I would much appreciate it if we could talk in private. Please.'
Tweed called to Monica to ask if Howard's office was available. She told him it was, that Howard was not expected back for at least an hour.
Tweed stood up, went to the door, followed by Buller. He led the way upstairs to Howard's spacious office. He knew Howard was always careful to lock away any important documents when he was absent. They walked inside and sat down.
'I appreciate this,' Buller repeated. His whole manner had changed and he spoke politely with a warm smile. 'I think you should know that I visit the mosque in Finsbury Park, the one which is notorious.'
'I'm surprised they let you in.'
'Ah!' Buller smiled warmly again. 'I go dressed as an Arab. That is just between you and me. The Minister, Warner, has no idea I'm doing this. I know he wouldn't approve. He has Colombia and a drug cartel on the brain. I suspect that a number of Taliban have been smuggled into this country.'
'You have evidence of this infiltration?'
'Unfortunately, no. But I've seen several Arabs who have the appearance of having arrived very recently. In the end, it may come down to you and me. Not,' he added hastily, 'that I'm asking for cooperation. But I will attempt to keep you informed when I do have something solid. Now, I had better go.'
'Thank you for being so frank. Yes, do keep in touch…'
Tweed ran back down the stairs while Buller lumbered behind, heading for the exit. Tweed carefully closed his office door. He spoke rapidly to Marler, standing close to him.
'Buller is just leaving. He may separate from his partner. The man to follow is Buller – where he goes, anyone he contacts.'
'I'm on my way.' Marler grabbed his coat and was heading for the door. He called back over his shoulder. 'I have one of those small cameras, non-flash, which the boffins in the basement invented. Hold it in the palm of one hand.'
'Marler!' Tweed called out. 'Be careful. You could be walking into a cauldron…'
9
Inside the huge barn next to Oldhurst Farm in Berkshire the third milk wagon had eased its way inside. The English driver stepped down from his cab. He flexed his fingers, stiff with driving the large vehicle. He walked over to the leader he knew as Adam, who stood on a large sheet of canvas spread out over the floor.
'OK, mate. Another load of drugs delivered. What is it? Cocaine? And I'll take that two thousand quid you're holding in your paw.'
He was aware there were other men behind him but his eyes were on the fat wad of banknotes Adam was holding.
Adam was a small man, neatly dressed in English clothes. His skin was brownish, a tan from spending several months in the Seychelles. He spoke perfect English.
'By the mercy of Allah you have done well,' the little man said with a twisted smile.
'Allah!' The driver was appalled. 'You're a bunch of flaming Arabs. You…'
It was the last word he ever spoke, as a man behind him drove a wide-bladed knife into his back between the ribs. He twisted the knife, withdrew it, stabbed again and again as the driver, already dead, slumped on to the canvas.
No need to issue any orders. Several men with dark complexions stripped his clothes of all identification. They wrapped the corpse inside the canvas, rolled it up, then secured it with heavy chains. Three of them carried the rolled canvas out of a back door and across a field. It was dumped into a large septic tank, where it sank to join the two other bodies of English drivers dumped earlier.
Inside the barn other Arabs dressed in English clothes had already unrolled another large sheet of canvas, ready for when the fourth English driver arrived with his milk wagon. 'Abdullah' had planned very carefully.
The neat little man, Adam, whose real name was Ali, now gave fresh orders. The milk wagon was opened and an exceptionally strong Arab was lowered inside on a rope ladder. Equipped with gloves, he felt round below the surface, located the hook, then the cable wrapped round the container resting at the bottom of the wagon. It took him all his strength to haul up the container, its wrappings dripping milk.
He hauled it over the side where other hands waited to grasp it and laid it on the ground. The bloodstained knife which had murdered the English driver was used to cut through the layers of wrapping, exposing a metal container. At this point Ali took over.
Unlocking a huge padlock, he lifted the lid. He warned his helpers in savage language to be careful. A curiously shaped weapon was gently laid on the floor. Perched on a strong-legged base was a huge shell-shaped object, the warhead already in position in its nose.
Ali repeated for the umpteenth time the instructions he had given earlier.
'It is harmless now. When it reaches its destination, with the weapons in their different positions, I will give the order to press the orange button. Then the weapon is active, but still harmless.' He pointed, at the button. 'At the moment when the stupendous attack is launched you press the red button.' He pointed to another button embedded in a shallow hole. 'Then London is devastated, praise be to Allah.'
None of the Arabs listening had any idea of the des
tination the weapons would be taken to. The master planner had hired the drivers of the milk wagons by contacting men on the verge of release from prison for comparatively non-violent offences. They had been told they would, for the sum of two thousand pounds, have to drive certain vehicles transporting drugs.
They had also been told the original drivers of the milk wagons would be tied up when a truck, slewed across a quiet road, stopped them. What Ali had not told them was that the original drivers would have their throats slit, their bodies weighted and cast into convenient marshes en route. The master planner had also anticipated that in due course the companies owning the milk wagons would report their disappearance. But who would see anything sinister in the hijacking of five milk wagons?
Certainly not the police – or not until havoc had been created in London and thousands of bodies had been blown to bits.
10
It was two hours later and darkness had fallen. Earlier Monica and Paula had fetched lunches from a nearby deli for Tweed, Newman and themselves. When Newman had finished his meal Tweed had started pacing again. Paula watched him as he frowned. The momentum was building up again. He stopped by Newman, seated in an armchair.
'Bob, I want you to get moving. You know someone at the Daily Nation, someone you can trust?'
'I've several pals there. The most close-mouthed one is Ed Jenner, sub-editor. Why?'
'I want you to find out every little thing you can about Drew Franklin – where he lives in London, how much time he spends in his office at the paper, any rumours about new girlfriends. Every morsel.'
