Part 1 (2/2)

'You could say that. Tell you about it when I get my heard screwed on again.'

'You've met Monica:'

Dillon twisted round to look at the small middle-aged woman who kept her grey hair tied up in a bun. Tweed's close a.s.sistant for many years, she sat behind her desk which supported several telephones, a fax, a word processor.

'Guess I should remember you, Monica, by now. Can't understand why you- go on working for this monster.'

'Coffee?' Monica suggested, standing up. 'How do you like it these days?'

'Black as sin.' Dillon grunted. 'And there's plenty of that comin' into town here from the States.'

'What kind of sin is that?' queried Bob Newman.

The world-famous foreign correspondent, in his forties, had fair hair, a wry smile on his strong face. Also clean-shaven, five feet ten tall, he was well built and women found him engaging - an advantage he exploited only spasmodically. Fully vetted, he had worked with Tweed in a number of dangerous situations.

'Hi, Bob. Been a long time.' Dillon paused. 'The sin is a wolf pack of professional thugs infiltrating this country by devious routes. Top guns.'

'Give me a devious route.'

'The one they like is fly to Paris from Was.h.i.+ngton. Then come in here by Eurostar by rail.'

'Why that route?'

'I guess they figure there's less of a check arriving by train. They dress as Brits - the contemporary businessman's uniform. A suit as black as night, a flash tie. They really worked this one out. Suits in different sizes bought here, flown to the States. They carry American diplomatic pa.s.sports.'

'Here's your coffee,' said Monica, who had returned with a tray.

'Thanks. This I really need.'

'While you're drinking it maybe I could tell Tweed and Bob how we came to meet this evening,' Paula suggested.

She did, after Dillon had nodded his agreement. Paula had a gift for describing complex events tersely. Tweed watched her as she sat behind her desk, hands clasped in her lap. She was matter-of-fact.

'It was a million-to-one chance that I came out of Brown's when I did,' she concluded. 'I'd met my informant, then waited ten minutes to give the informant time to get clear without risk of our being seen together.'

'I think, Cord, we'd better get you out of London,' suggested Tweed. 'Right away. Bob, could you drive Cord down to the Bunker in Kent? You left your luggage downstairs, I presume, Cord?'

'Left it on the carousel at Heathrow. Decided I'd better get a cab out to Brown's fast. I remembered you use the hotel a lot. I was going to phone you from there. Didn't want to risk leading the people after me here. To h.e.l.l with my case back at the airport.'

'Any personal identification on the ease - or inside it?' Tweed persisted.

'No. The label only gives the flight number and destination. Not a thing inside.'

'Then we'd better get moving down to Kent,' Newman said, standing up. 'We'll go in my Merc.'

'Not so fast. Wait.' Tweed took a pair of powerful night gla.s.ses out of a drawer, went towards the large window masked by drawn curtains. 'Monica, switch out the lights, please.'

With the room in darkness he opened a gap in the curtains, focused the gla.s.ses. His action had created an air of tension. No one moved but Paula was close enough to peer over his shoulder. The large office overlooking Regent's Park in the distance was full of an ominous silence.

'Did you get the registration number of that Cadillac?' Tweed asked.

'Of course.'

She recited it from memory. Tweed called over Newman, handed him the gla.s.ses. Then he quietly walked back and sat behind his desk before he spoke.

'The same Cadillac is parked on the main road at the right-hand entrance to Park Crescent. Four men inside. Obviously watching this building.

'I'll go out and move them. They're illegally parked,' Newman announced after checking through the gla.s.ses.

'You can't,' Tweed informed him. 'Paula, have you checked the car too?'

'Yes, it's the same one.'

She handed the gla.s.ses back to Tweed, having first carefully closed the curtains. Monica put on the lights again. Everyone stared at each other and Dillon then spoke.

'We're trapped.'

'I'm going out to move the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,' Newman insisted.

'You can't,' Tweed repeated. 'That Cadillac has diplomatic plates.'

'And the rats inside will all have diplomatic pa.s.sports,' Dillon told them. 'Before I left Was.h.i.+ngton I heard the staff at the Grosvenor Square Emba.s.sy had been increased by two hundred. All with diplomatic pa.s.sports.'

'You still want Cord taken to the Bunker?' Newman demanded.

'Yes. As soon as possible.'

'Then we'll leave now. We'll alter your appearance.' Standing up, Newman studied the American. 'We're about the same build - you can wear my trench coat. That camel-hair is a giveaway.'

'And Marler's beret is in the cupboard,' chimed in Paula as she fetched it. 'The fit may be a bit tight but it will do the trick.'

'And,' Tweed suggested, 'walk more slowly, Cord. Not your usual stride. Take shorter steps. Body language identifies anyone.

'I'll put your executive case inside a canvas holder,' Monica decided.'And I'll carry it,' said Newman.

'Harry,' instructed Tweed over his phone. 'A small immediate problem. We're smuggling someone out of the building into Newman's car. A white Cadillac with gunmen is parked on the main road. I don't think they'll risk opening fire on our visitor - although they did just that in Albemarle Street.'

'I'll wait outside with a smoke bomb.'

'Only use it if you have to. They're on their way down.'

'They'll shoot me if they can,' Dillon said over his shoulder at the doorway. 'And I have things to tell you...'

'Tell Bob on your way to the Bunker. He'll relay what you say to me. If necessary, I can call you down there on a safe phone. Go!'

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