Tweed paused at a corner, gazing at the huge white modern building facing the central garden. It reared up, solid as a steel wall with windows. A monument to the immense world power it represented. Tweed grunted, mounted the deserted flight of wide steps, pushed his way through a new revolving door. A short walk took him to the reception desk. Behind it an attractive brunette watched him coming warily.
'Ms Mandeville is expecting me. Tweed is the name.' 'You have identification, sir?'
She spoke in a broad American accent. Her voice was nasal, harsh. Tweed took out his wallet, extracted a card which showed him as Chief Investigator, General amp; Cumbria Assurance. She studied it as though it might be forged, which it was.
`I'll let you know when she can see you. Take a seat over there.'
'I'll stay here. I have an appointment now.'
The receptionist made a moue of displeasure. She expected people to do what she said. After speaking on the phone she gestured towards the lift. No attempt to escort him.
'Take the elevator. Floor One. Room Twenty-one. To your left as you get out.'
'Thank you.'
He glanced at an obvious guard in plain clothes. A weapon bulged under his left armpit. Eyes like stones stared at Tweed, who gave him a little wave on his way to the lift. Cosy atmosphere these days at the American Embassy – almost as though they were expecting an attack.
Tweed strolled over to the lift, pressed the button for Floor One. The door opened silently. He stepped inside. The door closed silently, the lift began to ascend. He was struck by the silence of the building. Like a stage setting prepared for his arrival.
The door slid open, again making no sound. He stepped out into a wide corridor, his rubber-soled shoes as soundless as the lift door, then stopped. To his left, further along the corridor, he saw the back of Jefferson Morgenstern, Secretary of State, America's Foreign. Minister. Tweed recognized the small man because he had met him at a party in Washington. Morgenstern was carrying a thick black file.
He was accompanied by two tall men, one on either side of the most powerful man in the American administration. Expecting that at any moment one of the three men would see him, Tweed remained perfectly still. They didn't see him. They appeared too intent on where they were going.
Pausing before a closed door on the right, one of the aides took out a key, unlocked the door and Morgenstern hurried inside. Since they hadn't closed the door Tweed guessed they would be coming out again when they had finished whatever task they were engaged on. He began to walk along the corridor.
Slowing down as he reached the open door, Tweed glanced into the room. A safe like a bank vault set into one wall was open. Morgenstern bent down, slipped the file inside. Tweed walked on. He had already observed the odd numbers were on his left side. He had also noticed the number of the room Morgenstern had entered. Number 16. In addition he had seen the metal plate on the half-open door engraved with one word:
SECURITY.
He quickened his pace. Arriving at Room 21 he raised his hand to knock. Before his knuckles could reach the surface the door opened in his face. The woman he had come to see ushered him inside, closed her door. Tweed was under cover before anyone emerged from Security.
It was as though he had met Sharon Mandeville the day before. Her manner was restrained but easy. Tweed reflected that she looked more like a mature thirty-five than her real age, forty-two. She escorted him to two leather-covered swivel chairs by the side of her massive desk. Behind the desk was another chair but as soon as he was seated she occupied the chair next to him.
'Thank you for coming to see me so quickly,' she said in her soft voice. No trace of an American accent. 'I'm sure you would like some coffee. It's a bitter day.'
'That would be very acceptable.'
'Black, if I remember rightly. No sugar. No milk.' 'You have a remarkable memory.'
'And you're wearing the same suit you wore in Washington. I like a man to look smart.'
'Again, your memory.'
'A woman notices small things…'
As she conversed she was pouring two cups of coffee from a silver pot perched on a silver tray on a side table. Tweed studied her. She had beautiful blonde hair, very thick, arranged in waves and falling so it just touched her shoulders. As in Washington, it was her large greenish eyes which held him. She had a strong chin without spoiling the striking appearance of her pale face. Her forehead was high. Her mouth was wide but the lips were not full.
Five foot six tall, she was slim and was wearing a pale green dress which went well with her intense eyes. It was high at the neck. She crossed her elegant legs, sipped at her coffee, put the cup down and turned to face her visitor.
'What are you doing over here, if I may ask?' said Tweed.
'It's rather confidential. No, don't worry. I will tell you. The first time we met I decided you could be trusted.'
She paused. Her hypnotic eyes held his. She was a very unusual woman, Tweed was thinking. It was not just a matter of beauty, her graceful movements. Any time she walked into a room full of people all the men would stop talking while they gazed at her. She had impact.
'I'm not even sure what my job here is,' she went on. 'I don't know why, but I get on well with the President's wife. She's given me various assignments in the past. I do know that over here I'm supposed to keep an eye on a man called Ed Osborne, the new Deputy Director of the CIA. He's a rough diamond and my main task is to smooth the path for him. Don't let him upset the Brits, is what I was told by the President's wife. I hate that word Brit. Typically American. Osborne will probably try to get in touch with you,' she warned.
'Why would he do that?' Tweed asked innocently. 'He told me you were a friend of his predecessor, Cord Dillon.'
'That's true. What has happened to Dillon?'
'I suppose he's retired. I asked Ed that question myself and all he said was, 'He's gone fishin' ' – which told me a lot.' She paused, took a cigarette from a silver box. Tweed produced a lighter, lit her cigarette.
'Thank you,' she said.
The typical American woman would have said, 'I can do that for myself,' Tweed thought.
'I'm not offering you one because you don't smoke,' she went on.
'You could produce a file on me,' Tweed joked.
She frowned, then half-smiled. 'I told you I remember trivial things.' She used her other hand to push back a wave of hair.
Tweed knew she was a natural blonde. In Washington she had produced two colour photos of herself from her evening bag. One of herself at twelve and the other when she was eighteen. In both photos her thick blonde hair had jumped out at him. She had apologized for showing them to him.
'I don't carry these about with me,' she had explained. 'I want to give them to a man here who is good at framing photos. To remind me I'm getting old.'
'Hardly.'
'Thank you.'
'Why did you ask me over here?' Tweed now asked. 'Is there something I can help you with?'
'Yes, there might be.' Her eyes still gazed at him.
'Dillon apparently told the President's wife you were a key figure over here, that you know a lot of people. Washington is trying to strengthen the bonds between the two countries. I was hoping you'd introduce me to people who matter from time to time.'
Tweed's expression was neutral. He took his time finishing off his coffee, then refused more. He stared round the room. On a side desk was a pile of folders, some with a red tab attached. The furniture was expensive. The windows looked out on to a side street.
'They should give you an office overlooking the square,' he suggested.
'I prefer it back here – on my own. Osborne has an office the size of a tennis court looking out on the square. How is the insurance business? I suppose you are rich?'
'Not really. I certainly couldn't compete with you. Four husbands must have been a roller-coaster ride.'
'Something like that,' she said after a long pause.
