Cell tac-20

by Colin Forbes

  'Where are our jeeps?'

  Sarge made a sound which could have been a chuckle. He pointed down to the side of the pavement.

  'You've walked past them several times. They're under all those branches piled against the embankment wall. Now, we must start work.'

  'What was that we have been doing?' Paula asked.

  'Initial preparation.'

  A semaphore light began flashing from the other side of the river. Sarge stared intently. Then he produced from a satchel over his shoulder a signalling lamp., flashed back a reply.

  'What was that?' Tweed asked.

  'Buchanan. Asking if all goes well. I replied all is going well, all will go well…'

  The convoy of four-wheel drives reversed, except that Newman raced past them to take the lead, knowing the route. Now they had four more bridges, some way upriver, to locate and furnish firing-points already mapped out by Sarge.

  He must have spent most of the night deciding on the best location, thought Paula. Yet he's moving round like a man who has had eight hours' sleep.

  Again and again the SAS units appeared from nowhere when they reached a fresh firing-point. More and more weapons were stockpiled for both groups. At one point Newman approached Sarge to ask him a question he had forgotten.

  'At the plinth between Waterloo and Westminster bridges I noticed we were overlooked by office buildings. Surely we would be seen by people inside?'

  'No.' It was Beaurain who answered. 'Buchanan had every building evacuated. Reason given, danger of major gas explosion. They were gone – if any tried to enter -long before we arrived. Including security and cleaning people.'

  Paula found herself acting like an automaton. Carrying a load of weaponry, running back to Marler's vehicle which seemed stuffed with endless weapons. She was surprised at the rate Tweed kept up, showing no signs of fatigue. Then she remembered that these days he took to walking the two miles to and from his flat to Park Crescent. He looked remarkably fit.

  They did not proceed with the vehicle convoy to Albert Bridge. As on the journey out, early in the morning only one vehicle made its way there. Newman again drove with Paula by his side. In the rear seats Tweed sat next to Beaurain.

  As they approached the area Paula was once more struck by the eerie atmosphere. No traffic. No people. Nothing moving on the river. As though London had been frozen into a strange ice age. She pointed to the apartment buildings and houses close to the river.

  'Anyone at home?'

  'No one,' Tweed told her. 'Buchanan has evacuated everyone who might be within range of what is going to happen. A few argued but he didn't take any notice. Same explanation. A huge gas explosion feared.'

  Newman stopped the car when they were close to the bridge. Paula stared in puzzlement. She was tired and couldn't grasp what might have happened.

  'There are cars all along the far side of the bridge. Why?'

  'It's wrecks obtained from a car crusher firm. Brought out on huge transporters. So the first bridge al-Qa'eda see will look normal.',

  'I'd like to take a few photos. It's a beautiful bridge…'

  They waited while she got out, aimed her camera. Lighting was perfect. She took twelve pictures. Then stood gazing at what wouldn't be there in a few hours. She felt sad. Returning to the car she smiled, thanked them. They headed back for Park Crescent, Newman trying to find a way through alley-like streets.

  During the complex drive back to Park Crescent Paula sat with a serious expression. She was unusually silent. Before getting back into the car she had glanced at the serene view downriver. Supposing al-Qa'eda succeeded? Destroyed all the target bridges? London would be severed in two. As in the time long ago of Roman occupation. Worse – the Romans had spanned the river efficiently. Behind her Beaurain leaned forward, as though sensing her fears. He squeezed her shoulder.

  'Stop worrying, Paula. We shall pull it off.'

  45

  At Carpford Margesson, wearing a suit, drove the four-wheel-drive he had kept concealed in a shed. The suit was necessary. Dressed in his robes, it would have been dangerous driving.

  Skilfully, after leaving the village, he sped down the curving road. There was a wind, which rustled his beard. Above, the sun shone down out of a duck-egg-blue sky. His extraordinary face had a determined expression.

  Anxious to reach his destination, he spun round curves at speed. He roared up the sunken tunnel with Black Wood above him on either side. Reaching the triangle he swung down towards the main road leading to London.

  Inside a holster strapped under his jacket he carried a pistol, fully loaded. He had no illusions as to the jungle the world had become. At one deserted point he raised his voice, called out.

  'Allah be praised.'

  His tone of voice had a peculiar inflection.

  Peregrine Palfry, faultlessly dressed, walked down Whitehall. He wondered why it was so deserted. No traffic. No people. He had even had to identify himself at a police checkpoint before he could enter Whitehall.

  He was mystified and very worried. In one hand he carried the obligatory briefcase, part of the uniform. The other hand grasped a tightly rolled umbrella. Ridiculous considering the clear blue sky, the sun shining down on him.

  He checked his watch. It was all a matter of timing. He ran up the steps to the Ministry, jammed his thumb into the bell. He was taken aback when, instead of the usual guard, a uniformed policeman opened the door. Furious, he had to show identification before the policeman would let him enter. This really was too much. He was personal assistant to the Minister. He glared.

  'What on earth is going on?'

  'Danger of major gas explosion, sir. Could bring down whole buildings.'

  Palfry hurried up to the Minister's office. He wouldn't be there. A full meeting of the Cabinet was in session. He had to find out what was really going on.

  Drew Franklin, wearing a white polo-necked sweater and white, perfectly creased slacks, left his office at the Daily Nation. Erect as a military officer, he walked into the editor's office without bothering to knock.

  The editor looked up, frowning, then saw who it was. He smiled. Drew was one of their major assets, a reason why their daily sales kept climbing. Drew was also prickly and had to be handled with care. He opened his mouth, but Drew spoke first in his upper-crust, barking voice.

  'You have to hold the front page for tomorrow,' he ordered. 'It will be fully occupied by a major story I shall be writing. Do make sure those clots downstairs understand.'

  Saying which, he left the room before the editor could reply. The editor rubbed his eyes, picked up the phone and passed the news downstairs. He refused to explain the reason for this unprecedented decision. He felt better when he'd put down the phone. Had to be careful. Drew could be back asking if he had carried out the instruction.

  ***

  The Cabinet meeting was coming to an end. Victor Warner was looking pleased, self-satisfied. They had approved the new mandate the PM had personally composed. No option really. The PM was presiding at the meeting. A copy of the mandate was already on its way to Park Crescent by motor-cycle courier.

  A spanner in the works at a critical moment. He only wished he could be present when Tweed received his copy.

  Inside the Minister's penthouse, Mrs Carson was irritated beyond endurance. Eva Brand, seated at her desk in Warner's study, was checking her watch yet again. She must have checked the time five times in the last hour.

  'Mrs Carson,' Eva snapped. 'First, you have no right to be in here without permission. Second, if you had to deal with this heap of papers by a deadline you would worry about time.'

  'But you keep on checking your watch,' Mrs Carson complained, repeating what she had said when she'd entered.

  'The needle has got stuck in the track,' Eva retorted. 'You have said that once already. Now, tomorrow morning the Minister is holding a special meeting at Carpford. I have a lot to accomplish. May I, therefore, suggest you leave this room?'

  'I am the houseke
eper,' Mrs Carson replied, drawing herself up.

  'Then go and keep house in the kitchen. Or the toilet for all I care. But get out of this study and stay out.' Her voice was hard. So was her expression. 'And close the door behind you. Quietly, please.'

  'Well, I never

  'No, you probably never did. Just go. Now!'

  At this stage in her life the last thing Eva was prepared to put up with was impertinence from a housekeeper. As the door closed quietly she checked her watch once more.

  ***

  It was a blockbuster. Tweed, together with Paula, Beaurain and Newman, had just settled in the office when Howard walked in. Moving slowly, he looked very unhappy. In his right hand he held a sheet of paper. Paula stared. Never before had she seen the Director look embarrassed.

  'Sorry to intrude,' Howard began. 'I thought you ought to know right away, Tweed. The PM has revoked his previous order placing you in supreme command of the operation. This has just arrived by courier.'

  For a short time there was silence. Then there were groans. Someone, under their breath, but clear enough for all to hear, questioned the legitimacy of the PM's birth.

  Only Tweed remained undisturbed, his face without expression. He held out his hand to Howard who handed him the document. Tweed scanned it swiftly, then read it out aloud.

  From now on I would appreciate dose collaboration between the SIS and the Ministry of Security. Whenever this may be necessary to facilitate the success of the operation. As and when Mr Tweed may consider it will ensure success.

  Tweed looked up. It was signed by the PM himself. Below it detailed copies to the Home Secretary, the Deputy Commissioner of Scotland Yard, Superintendent Buchanan of Scotland Yard. Nothing more.

  'It will be a disaster,' Newman burst out. 'A complete and terrible disaster.'

  'I don't think so at all,' Tweed told him. 'You haven't noticed something is missing.',

  'What is that?' Howard asked.

  'No copy to me, listed at the foot of the document. This is a photocopy, doubtless sent by Victor Warner. The PM is simply soothing fevered brows. In no way does it change my original status.'

  'Thank God,' said Howard. 'Sorry, I missed that omission.'

  The phone rang. Monica called over to Tweed.

  'Victor Warner is on the line to speak to you.'

  Tweed switched on the new speak-box Monica had installed. He disliked it but had thanked her fulsomely. Now everyone would hear the ensuing conversation. He also pressed the record button.

  'Yes, Minister.'

  'That's Tweed, isn't it? I recognize the dulcet tones,' the voice sneered.

  'What is it?'

  'I have heard rumours – which I believe to be accurate -that a meeting was held in your office to which I was not invited.'

  'That's right. You were not invited,' Tweed replied.

  'Do you realize the Prime Minister has ordered the closest collaboration between all security services on the dreadful situation facing us?'

  'Read the communication again, Warner. It does say, "As and when Mr Tweed may consider it will ensure success." So any decision is for me to take, as in the original mandate. You really should read communications from the PM more carefully.'

  'Tweed! I consider you are exceeding your powers…'

  'Then go on considering it. I am fully occupied dealing with the crisis…'

  He switched off. Hand-clapping and cheers broke out. Tweed glared.

  'That will be enough of that. We have wasted four minutes over nothing at all.' He turned to Howard. 'Thank you for keeping me up to date. I fear Warner is losing his nerve.'

  'Thank you, Tweed.' Howard came forward and gripped him on the shoulder. 'You know I have the fullest confidence in you.' He turned to the others. 'In all of you.' Then he left.

  Paula had often admired the way Tweed in a crisis never forgot a detail. He demonstrated this quality now. Handing the photocopy of the PM's latest communication to Monica, he spoke quickly.

  'Better keep that. File it under junk mail. Now I'd like to know what has happened to Billy Hogarth. I imagine Harry and Pete brought him back here before we left for the Embankment.'

  'Yes, they did. He's downstairs.'

  'Not in the basement, I hope?'

  'Of course not. He's in the visitors' room. The door locked and George just outside.'

  'Not a very comfortable.'place for him to be.'

  'It is now!' Monica was indignant. 'I got some of the men in the basement to carry up the bed. I made it up with new sheets and blankets and pillows. I covered that bleak table with a thick tablecloth so he can eat there. He has a whole crop of paperback thrillers. I popped in to see him after I'd given him breakfast just before you got back. He was in bed, perched up against a pillow. He had a paperback in his lap and had fallen asleep. I think he needs a lot of sleep. Satisfied?'

  'Bless you!' Tweed threw up his hands in apology. 'You are an angel. I should have guessed.'

  'Yes, you should have,' she retorted, still irked.

  'I'll go down and see him when I can. When he's awake. He can use the shower upstairs when he wants to.'

  'I should hope so,' she replied, staring at her word-processor.

  'What happened to Pete and Harry when we got back?' Tweed wondered.

  'Went down to the basement to get some kip on camp beds,' Marler told him.

  'Anyone else who needs sleep?' Tweed enquired quietly. He pointed to Newman who had sagged in the armchair, eyes shut.

  'Not me,' Beaurain said also quietly when Tweed looked at him. 'I can go a long time without it. If I close my eyes now it will just fog my brain.'

  'Give me something to do,' Marler suggested.

  'What you did before. Track down Eva Brand anonymously as you did last time. Then watch her and track her if she goes somewhere. I need to know who, if anyone, she contacts.'

  'I'm on my way…'

  When he had left, Paula came across to Tweed's desk, sat in the armchair opposite Newman. She began whispering when Newman opened his eyes.

  'You can talk normally. A few minutes' kip and I'm a new man.'

  'You do seem interested in keeping an eye on Eva,' Paula said. 'Could I see that photo Nield took when he went to the Finsbury Park mosque? Seems a year ago.'

  She studied the photo inside a plastic evidence' envelope Tweed handed her. She turned the photo this way and that, examining the picture of a tallish figure tilted sideways as it walked. Wearing Arab clothes.

  'I do know who this is.' She pursed her lips in annoyance. I just can't put my finger on it. Maddening.'

  She gave him back the envelope as the phone rang again. Monica said a visitor alleging Tweed knew him was waiting. Tweed checked his watch. Midday. As usual Sarge was on time. Tweed asked Monica and Paula if they would mind leaving them alone. Newman could stay, along with Beaurain.

  46

  The meeting with Sarge did not take long. Neither Tweed nor the SAS man believed in wasting words or time. Sarge listened while Tweed outlined the defence plan as he understood it. He had only one comment to make when Tweed concluded.

  'I think we both know that no battle ever goes according to plan.'

  'I anticipate the unexpected,' Tweed agreed.

  As Tweed stood up, escorted him to the door, Sarge turned and shook hands. His grip was firm and above the scarf his eyes stared into his host's. Tweed knew what he was doing. He was shaking hands for what might be the last time – in case either one or both did not survive.

  'Now,' remarked Tweed when Sarge had gone, 'I wish I knew the identity of the leader. Who really is Abdullah?'

  'Abdullah?' Paula queried.

  'I had a brief phone call a while ago. Informing me the head of al-Qa'eda was Abdullah. The voice of the caller was using a distorter so I couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman.'

  'And you believed the caller?'

  'Yes. Now I must go down and see how Billy Hogarth is getting on. Later we all leave here on motor-bikes. Harry has hir
ed several extra. We must take up our first firing position at dusk, being in place by dark.

  'One more sad aspect.' He turned before opening the door. 'I took up the fate of Proctor, the guard at Dick's wharf, held prisoner. As you heard me do so. Sarge was emphatic, was he not, that we cannot risk alerting the al-Qa'eda cell before they attack. I had already come to the same decision.'

  'That really is awful,' Paula said. 'His wife has been saved but he will die.'

  'Finally,' Tweed told them before leaving, 'the Minister has invited me to meet him at his house in Carpford tomorrow morning at ten o'clock for what he ghoulishly describes as an inquest.' He extracted an envelope from his pocket. 'This, sent by courier, is what Monica handed me before she left the office. I shall accept and be there.'

  'By yourself, you mean?' Paula asked.

  'No. The invitation names only me, but I'm sure others will be there. Palfry for one. Also Superintendent Buchanan. So my whole team will come with me, whether they are welcome or not. You'd better get dressed hadn't you, for what is to come…'

  The phone rang. Tweed paused, then picked it up. He listened, ended the call, looked at Paula and Beaurain.

  'Something unexpected. A Mr Margesson has arrived downstairs. From the description it is our Margesson from Carpford…'

  He gave them a little salute and went downstairs. Paula stared at Newman.

  'What on earth is going on?'

  Marler, Harry and Pete arrived in the office, loaded down with clothing. Black outfits with the large white SIS on the backs. Marler had even found an outfit which perfectly fitted the tall Beaurain.

  Paula had donned hers before the others. She stood in front of a tall mirror attached to the wall, pulled down the jacket, studied the result quickly. The outfit was black leather. It had a psychological effect on her. Now she couldn't wait to reach the Embankment. She then slipped on one of the green oilskins which concealed what she wore underneath.

  'You looked very come-hitherish in black leather,' Newman teased her.