against a wall. Tweed stared at the coat.
'In that garb you could be mistaken for Special Branch.'
'Which is the general idea. I've been talking to some of Mr Special Branch's informants. Way below the calibre of mine.'
'Well, get on with it,' Tweed snapped. 'Anything to report?'
'The mugs all tell the same tale. Rumours that top people from the Colombian cartel have arrived in London. They go vague when I ask where I can find them.'
'Warner has Colombia on the brain.'
'Agreed. But I also had a chat with a woman, Carla, who is my favourite informant. Wants to join our outfit, which is why she's working for me. She's clever. Well educated, she can dress like a tart and talk the lingo so a Cockney would think she was from the East End.' He paused to light a cigarette while Tweed waited impatiently. 'Carla,' Marler continued, 'has heard a strong rumour that London is facing its own September 11 – a monstrous attack. She says the killers have slipped into the country, Saudis and a group from Algeria. No clue as to the form the attack will take or where or when, but soon.'
'You believe her?' Tweed pressed.
'Carla's never been wrong before. She was in that Soho joint, Belles, which we have reason to know. She has languages, including French and Arabic. She lingered at the bar not far from a table where three Arabs in white turbans were talking…'
'Not black turbans?' Tweed checked.
'I thought I spoke clearly. Black would suggest something else now. Maybe they weren't keen to advertise. She caught a few words. 'The equipment is on its way. It has already left the farm.' That was all she could hear.'
'You have a visitor,' Monica called out after talking on her phone. 'You'll be pleased. Waiting downstairs is Jasper Duller, Chief of Special Branch, together with a partner.'
'Buller, the Bull, as his staff nickname him. A brute who terrifies everyone working for him. Should be fun.'
Tweed returned to his desk. He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He glared at Monica as he was speaking.
'Tell Buller he can come up to see me on his own while his partner waits in the visitors' room. Actually, tell George, who won't stand any nonsense. If Buller doesn't like my suggestion he can go jump in the Thames.'
Newman got up from his chair and perched on Paula's desk. 'I met Buller recently. He's as thick as five planks.'
'He's on his way up,' Monica reported after a few minutes. 'On his own. I could hear him swearing at George who just kept repeating your instruction word for word.'
As Tweed expected, Buller was wearing a camel-hair coat when he stormed into the room. About five feet eight tall, he was very heavily built and had a large head. His hair was cut to a stubble and the face below it suggested aggression. Under thick brows the eyes were dark, hostile and flickered about, checking everyone in the room. In his forties, he had the broken nose of a prize-fighter, a tight-lipped mouth, a determined jaw and the air of a man who expected instant obedience.
'I won't stand for this,' he bellowed, 'shoving my partner in a bare room and locking the door on him.'
'Then try sitting down,' Tweed suggested amiably. 'It is normal to phone for an appointment first.'
'Blow that for a lark,' Buller growled and sagged into an armchair. 'You don't seem to know who you're talking to.'
'It is Jasper Buller, I presume,' Tweed said genially.
'It is the Chief of Special Branch.' His tone was a snarl.
'Now, I need to know what you and that young lady…'He turned to look at Paula and his expression briefly became cordial as she stared back '… were doing ferreting around up at Carpford.'
'Why?' Tweed enquired. 'You think the place is populated with Colombian cartel barons?'
'Mr Tweed.' Buller leaned forward, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. 'I would much appreciate it if we could talk in private. Please.'
Tweed called to Monica to ask if Howard's office was available. She told him it was, that Howard was not expected back for at least an hour.
Tweed stood up, went to the door, followed by Buller. He led the way upstairs to Howard's spacious office. He knew Howard was always careful to lock away any important documents when he was absent. They walked inside and sat down.
'I appreciate this,' Buller repeated. His whole manner had changed and he spoke politely with a warm smile. 'I think you should know that I visit the mosque in Finsbury Park, the one which is notorious.'
'I'm surprised they let you in.'
'Ah!' Buller smiled warmly again. 'I go dressed as an Arab. That is just between you and me. The Minister, Warner, has no idea I'm doing this. I know he wouldn't approve. He has Colombia and a drug cartel on the brain. I suspect that a number of Taliban have been smuggled into this country.'
'You have evidence of this infiltration?'
'Unfortunately, no. But I've seen several Arabs who have the appearance of having arrived very recently. In the end, it may come down to you and me. Not,' he added hastily, 'that I'm asking for cooperation. But I will attempt to keep you informed when I do have something solid. Now, I had better go.'
'Thank you for being so frank. Yes, do keep in touch…'
Tweed ran back down the stairs while Buller lumbered behind, heading for the exit. Tweed carefully closed his office door. He spoke rapidly to Marler, standing close to him.
'Buller is just leaving. He may separate from his partner. The man to follow is Buller – where he goes, anyone he contacts.'
'I'm on my way.' Marler grabbed his coat and was heading for the door. He called back over his shoulder. 'I have one of those small cameras, non-flash, which the boffins in the basement invented. Hold it in the palm of one hand.'
'Marler!' Tweed called out. 'Be careful. You could be walking into a cauldron…'
9
Inside the huge barn next to Oldhurst Farm in Berkshire the third milk wagon had eased its way inside. The English driver stepped down from his cab. He flexed his fingers, stiff with driving the large vehicle. He walked over to the leader he knew as Adam, who stood on a large sheet of canvas spread out over the floor.
'OK, mate. Another load of drugs delivered. What is it? Cocaine? And I'll take that two thousand quid you're holding in your paw.'
He was aware there were other men behind him but his eyes were on the fat wad of banknotes Adam was holding.
Adam was a small man, neatly dressed in English clothes. His skin was brownish, a tan from spending several months in the Seychelles. He spoke perfect English.
'By the mercy of Allah you have done well,' the little man said with a twisted smile.
'Allah!' The driver was appalled. 'You're a bunch of flaming Arabs. You…'
It was the last word he ever spoke, as a man behind him drove a wide-bladed knife into his back between the ribs. He twisted the knife, withdrew it, stabbed again and again as the driver, already dead, slumped on to the canvas.
No need to issue any orders. Several men with dark complexions stripped his clothes of all identification. They wrapped the corpse inside the canvas, rolled it up, then secured it with heavy chains. Three of them carried the rolled canvas out of a back door and across a field. It was dumped into a large septic tank, where it sank to join the two other bodies of English drivers dumped earlier.
Inside the barn other Arabs dressed in English clothes had already unrolled another large sheet of canvas, ready for when the fourth English driver arrived with his milk wagon. 'Abdullah' had planned very carefully.
