listened, then stood to one side as she threw it wide open. Her other hand found the switch and she was inside, swivelling her Browning in all directions. No one. No sign the intruder had been in here.
She mounted the stairs, stepping over the creaking tread. Pressing an ear against Tweed's bedroom door, she heard the sound of loud snoring. He never snored. Extracting her powerful torch from her coat pocket, she opened the door, swept her beam quickly. Tweed was lying on his back, eyes closed, which was not normal. His breathing was regular, which was reassuring. She aimed the beam over the front part of the bedroom, froze. Perched on a side table a silver candlestick lay on its side, resting on a folded duster – which would have cushioned the sound. One drawer of a chest of drawers was not fully closed.
Paula knew that Tweed was fastidiously neat in his housekeeping. He would never have left the candlestick like that if he had caught it with his arm. He would never have left one of the drawers partially open. She made her way across to the front of the room, turned on a shaded table lamp, turned off her torch, set to work.
Seven drawers, the deepest at the bottom. She began with the top one, opened it, searched carefully through piles of handkerchiefs and scarves. Nothing. The partly closed drawer also contained nothing unusual. It was only when she opened the large drawer at the bottom that she found under a pile of shirts what had been planted.
A large old briefcase, not one of Tweed's, was stuffed full – it bulged. Paula put on latex gloves, lifted out the briefcase, unfastened the catch. She sucked in her breath. Inside was a large transparent envelope containing a meat cleaver, the blade coated with a reddish tinge which she knew was dried blood. Inside a smaller transparent envelope were small pieces of dried flesh, also stained with blood.
She reacted quickly. After rechecking the drawer, she carried the briefcase to the window. She heard a car pull up outside. Scared stiff, she doused the table lamp and peered out. Bob Newman's Range Rover was parked. He was half out of the front door, peering up. She grabbed her torch, switched it on, held it under her chin, then flashed it urgently. He was jumping out of the car as she headed for the stairs.
'I was just passing and Tweed is often up early-' Newman began.
'Someone is trying to frame Tweed for some crime I don't like the look of one little bit,' she interrupted him. 'Evidence is inside this thing…'
She handed him the briefcase, which he took from her without question. He ran back to his car as she closed the door and hurried upstairs, worried in case Tweed had woken, was wondering what was going on. Arriving back in the bedroom she found Tweed still fast asleep. She hurried to the window in time to see Newman was trapped.
Newman shoved the briefcase under his seat as a dark car came round the corner, its lights on full beam focused on him. It stopped, barring his way. A tall man clad in a long black coat ran up to him. Round the left arm of his coat which he perched on Newman's open window was a wide armlet with two words in white embroidered on it: State Security.
'Out of the car. Now! Hands on your shoulders,' he ordered savagely.
His hat was pulled well down over his face, but not low enough to conceal a hooked nose, a thin grim mouth, a V-shaped chin. His other hand was reaching inside the coat.
'Don't do that,' Newman told him, his Smith amp; Wesson aimed point-blank at the thug.
Newman ripped off the armlet. Evidence. He thrust the long barrel of the Smith amp; Wesson through the window and struck the thug hard across the side of the face, probably breaking a cheekbone. The thug screamed, moved back, tripped over the kerb. He fell backwards on to the pavement.
Newman was already backing away from the dark car at speed. He switched to 'drive', rammed his foot down, shot forward. The ram on his vehicle was special steel. It hit the dark car, still stopped partly sideways. The collision was ferocious as the ram smashed into the other car's bonnet, destroying the engine. In his rear-view mirror Newman saw another dark car approaching from behind. He reversed at high speed.
His rear ram, also reinforced steel, hit the new target when it was half-turning into Bexford Street out of a side street. He had more space to do the job this time, therefore more speed. The impact was so violent the second black car was spun round in a half-circle, clearing the entrance to the side street. Newman turned the wheel, sped off.
'I have to get out of London before traffic builds,' he said to himself.
He had already decided where he would head for.
3
The Cabal was assembled in an obscure building down a side street off Whitehall. It comprised three junior ministers with great influence higher up the power chain. The three men worked well together – most of the time. The fact that they were brothers, the offspring of the brilliant and notorious General Macomber, hero of the Gulf War, helped.
'By now Tweed should be out of the picture, reputation smeared forever. It is a first major step in the merger,' remarked Nelson Macomber.
'We should have a report on the operation,' reported Noel Macomber, known as the Planner. 'The scandal will destroy our major opponent.' His lean grim face expressed his satisfaction at the prospect.
The three brothers were a contrast. Nelson was six feet five tall, heavily built, in his forties, his shoulders wide, his striking head large, clean shaven. His eyes were ice blue beneath thick black hair and thick brows. His strong nose was well shaped and below it his wide mouth and jaw suggested energy and determination.
'We should damned well have had confirmation by now,' said Benton, his voice quiet, his thick fingers tapping the table.
The third brother was also well built but shorter than Nelson. He spoke only occasionally, but his reserved manner appealed to women. He was the most cautious of the brothers, taking nothing for granted until it was achieved.
The three men were seated in tapestry-covered chairs at the peculiar table. It was triangular, to stress that none of the three was in charge. The phone rang. Noel's slim-fingered hand grabbed it, listened.
'Are you sure?' he demanded. 'A slip-up? You mean you botched the job. Get back here immediately, you clumsy fool.' He ended the call, gently replacing the phone.
'You spoke too quickly, Nelson,' he said with malicious satisfaction on his spade-shaped face. There was a certain competitiveness between the three brothers. 'Whatever compromising item was delivered to Tweed has been snatched away from his house.'
'Snatched away?' Nelson rumbled. 'Don't take all year to report what happened.'
'Newman arrived and grabbed a briefcase from the Paula Grey woman.'
'Newman again!' Nelson leaned forward. 'That man has become as dangerous as Tweed. What about the troops you sent in two cars?'
'Newman was in a four-wheel-drive built like a tank. He smashed up both cars then took off…'
'They should have pursued him,' Nelson rasped. 'That's what they have been trained for.'
'How could they?' Noel asked with a sneering smile. 'Both cars were put out of action.'
'The war has started, then,' Benton said calmly. 'So what is the next move?'
'When the stick hasn't worked we try the carrot,' Nelson suggested, now as calm as Benton. 'I will visit Tweed and explain the position. I shall ask him to join us in the merger.'
'He'll never agree,' snapped Noel.
'It's all a question of persuasion. I'll explain to him the inevitable and offer him the post of deputy-in-chief. I shall make a point of going to see him this morning. So, you agree, gentlemen?'
'It would be the best tactic at this stage,' Benton commented.
'I do not like moves made on the spur of the moment,' said Noel, the Planner.
'You're not observant either,' Nelson whispered.
He put a finger to his lips, stood up without making a sound, padded towards the closed door leading to the inner offices. The door wasn't completely shut. Open a few inches. He knew he had closed the door before the meeting had started.
Opening the door slowly, he slipped into the next room, a very large space without any of the comfort of the Cabal's HQ. A slim girl, at least five feet nine tall, was crouched over a computer, neatly dressed in black, as if in
