Tweed looked at Guy Dalby who so far had not contributed a word. A reserved man of forty-four, chief of the Mediterranean sector, he had a compact frame and his dark brown hair looped over his forehead in a cat-lick. He spoke now, terse and to the point.
`What do you think was the motive behind Fergusson's murder?'
`No idea. That's what I'm going to find out…'
Tweed rose from the table, pushed his chair under it and made the announcement in a casual tone.
`Before you go about your normal duties I'd like to see each of you in my office later this morning. Separately, please.'
It was a faint hope – that in private conversation he might notice something about one of them which seemed out of place. A very faint hope indeed.
Two
Bob Newman flew into Heathrow aboard Flight AF 808 from Paris. He liked the Airbus – you had plenty of space. The stewardess watched him as he unfastened his safety belt. She wouldn't have minded going all the way with the Englishman.
In his early forties, she guessed. An easy manner, a strong face but the eyes and the mouth hinted at a sense of humour. He would, she was sure, have been fun. He nodded to her as he left the aircraft and walked up the narrow corridor towards Arrivals.
It felt strange – setting foot in England again for the first time in a year. The memory of his late wife, Alexis – killed by the Russians in Estonia, a faraway nowhere place on the Baltic – flooded back. The pleasant side of a marriage which had gone sour, which had been on the verge of the final break-up, filled his thoughts as he went through Passport Control.
The seated official looked at him twice. He had been recognized. Well, he was used to that. You couldn't become one of the most successful foreign correspondents in the world with your photo plastered across God knew how many papers and not expect recognition. Something he could do without.
Settled inside a taxi on his way to his flat at Chasemore House in South Ken, Newman's relaxed expression changed. He gazed out of the window grimly. A wasted year of his life, drifting round Europe, never able to settle anywhere for long, refusing to take on any of the many assignments offered.
So why had he taken on this weird job of acting as bodyguard – for God's sake! – to Tweed? Because it might give him a chance to do damage to the other side? Newman didn't ever delude himself – it was because the offer gave him a purpose in life.
He didn't like the fact that he would be carrying a gun. A crack shot – the SAS had seen to that – Newman had never shot a man in his life. Not yet, he thought bleakly.
Also the job intrigued him. He liked Tweed, admired him as a real pro. He'd worked with him before more than once. Why, he wondered, had Tweed himself accepted the idea of protection? It was out of character. As the cab carried him closer to his flat, all that Newman knew of what lay before him was they were going to Hamburg. Had something happened there already? Well, he'd find out soon enough.
Three
`What did you think of their reactions, Monica?' Tweed asked.
The two of them were alone in his Park Crescent office at the HQ of the SIS. Beyond the net-curtained windows was a view across towards Regent's Park. Tweed stared at the view, not seeing the sunny day as he sat behind his desk.
`The problem is I don't know any of them well enough. They're all newly-appointed, brought in out of the field to replace the men who held their jobs before. That was a clean sweep you made. How did Howard take your pushing out the Old Guard?'
`Not happily, of course. A couple of them were drinking companions at that toffee-nosed club of his. But the PM gave me only two options. Take on Howard's job – or bring in a younger team. She thinks it's time a younger generation took over at sector chief level. And I chose them. The trouble is I made a major error of judgement – to say the least – with one of them. Which one is the draconian question…'
`I'd hoped you would replace Howard himself…'
`I've already told you why not.'
Tweed's tone was abrupt, dismissing a topic he didn't want to discuss any further.
`How are you going to start in Hamburg? You haven't anything to use as a lead as far as I can see..
She broke off as the phone rang. Her expression glowed when she heard who was on the line. She handed the receiver to Tweed.
`It's Bob Newman. Calling from his flat. He's just arrived from Paris…'
`That you, Bob?' Tweed's tone was businesslike. 'Look, we won't talk over the phone. Welcome back. Can you get over to see me? Good. Noon will do fine. Mind how you cross the road. You look right first, now you're back from the continent! See you…'
`He sounded a bit remote,' Monica commented. 'Not his usual buoyant jokey self.'
`The main thing is he's agreed to act as chaperon,' Tweed grimaced. 'I love the idea of having a chaperon…'
`Don't forget the PM's instructions. She said Newman must be next to you wherever you go…'
`Do stop nagging…'
`And you didn't tell me how you're going to start off when you get to Hamburg.'
`Visit the hospital where Fergusson died. Apparently he said a few words which made no sense to the doctor. They might make sense to me. Then a few quiet words with Ziggy Palewska.'
`The Polish refugee who settled in Hamburg? What's Ziggy got to do with anything – apart from the unsavoury way he makes his money?'
`That was why Fergusson went to Hamburg – to see Ziggy. He'd sent me a message saying he had urgent and serious news. Now, before you wheel in Hugh Grey, tell me what you know about him.'
Tweed sat back in his chair, clasped his hands in his lap and behind his horn-rimmed glasses he closed his eyes. Monica was used to this exercise. Her chief was using her as a sounding- board to clarify his own thoughts. She spoke from her phenomenal memory without referring to her card index of staff.
`Hugh Grey. Remarried an attractive brunette called Paula six months ago. Just about the time he was appointed sector chief for Central Europe. Under your reorganization that sector includes West Germany, Holland and Belgium. Penetration zones where he runs underground agents are East Germany, Poland and Czechoslovakia. Speaks fluent German, French and can get by in Italian and Spanish. Headquarters, Frankfurt-on-Main.'
`A bit more about his domestic background, please.'
Tweed was motionless, his eyes still closed, his mind concentrated totally on Hugh Grey.
`Paula Brent – that was her maiden name – is twenty-nine. Which makes her ten years younger than Hugh. She has built up a thriving pottery-making business based in King's Lynn. She makes up the designs herself, has a growing export market.
Especially in the States. Very bright girl, Paula. A stunner to look at. Lives a lot of the time at Hugh's farmhouse out on the Wash in Norfolk. The export deals are made over the phone. Then suddenly she's flying off to LA. Getting back to Hugh, he's madly sociable. Throws dinner parties at the farmhouse when he's home on leave. Enough?'
`For now, yes.' As an afterthought Tweed added, 'I do know Paula. Very independent type. The best sort of new businesswoman. And would you ask Hugh to come and see me now? Stay at your desk while we're talking…'
`Only one more question,' Tweed said to Grey, 'and then we can let you get on. Hamburg is your sector. Fergusson was killed in Hamburg. Is something stirring in your part of the world?'
