The neat little man, Adam, whose real name was Ali, now gave fresh orders. The milk wagon was opened and an exceptionally strong Arab was lowered inside on a rope ladder. Equipped with gloves, he felt round below the surface, located the hook, then the cable wrapped round the container resting at the bottom of the wagon. It took him all his strength to haul up the container, its wrappings dripping milk.
He hauled it over the side where other hands waited to grasp it and laid it on the ground. The bloodstained knife which had murdered the English driver was used to cut through the layers of wrapping, exposing a metal container. At this point Ali took over.
Unlocking a huge padlock, he lifted the lid. He warned his helpers in savage language to be careful. A curiously shaped weapon was gently laid on the floor. Perched on a strong-legged base was a huge shell-shaped object, the warhead already in position in its nose.
Ali repeated for the umpteenth time the instructions he had given earlier.
'It is harmless now. When it reaches its destination, with the weapons in their different positions, I will give the order to press the orange button. Then the weapon is active, but still harmless.' He pointed, at the button. 'At the moment when the stupendous attack is launched you press the red button.' He pointed to another button embedded in a shallow hole. 'Then London is devastated, praise be to Allah.'
None of the Arabs listening had any idea of the destination the weapons would be taken to. The master planner had hired the drivers of the milk wagons by contacting men on the verge of release from prison for comparatively non-violent offences. They had been told they would, for the sum of two thousand pounds, have to drive certain vehicles transporting drugs.
They had also been told the original drivers of the milk wagons would be tied up when a truck, slewed across a quiet road, stopped them. What Ali had not told them was that the original drivers would have their throats slit, their bodies weighted and cast into convenient marshes en route. The master planner had also anticipated that in due course the companies owning the milk wagons would report their disappearance. But who would see anything sinister in the hijacking of five milk wagons?
Certainly not the police – or not until havoc had been created in London and thousands of bodies had been blown to bits.
10
It was two hours later and darkness had fallen. Earlier Monica and Paula had fetched lunches from a nearby deli for Tweed, Newman and themselves. When Newman had finished his meal Tweed had started pacing again. Paula watched him as he frowned. The momentum was building up again. He stopped by Newman, seated in an armchair.
'Bob, I want you to get moving. You know someone at the Daily Nation, someone you can trust?'
'I've several pals there. The most close-mouthed one is Ed Jenner, sub-editor. Why?'
'I want you to find out every little thing you can about Drew Franklin – where he lives in London, how much time he spends in his office at the paper, any rumours about new girlfriends. Every morsel.'
'That's easy,' Newman told him. 'And Franklin tucks himself away in a small office well away from Ed Jenner. See you all, some day.. .'
'Why has your attention switched to Franklin?' Paula asked when he had gone.
'Just a thought. I suspect he has great freedom of movement.'
Which tells me nothing, Paula thought. Tweed has got some bee in his bonnet.
Night had come later. Monica had been using the phone non-stop, scribbling on her pad as people told her things.
Tweed was studying his Carpford map again when Monica called across to him.
'I know you didn't ask me to check out Jasper Buller but I've done that among other people. Didn't think you'd mind.'
'Tell me.' Tweed was impressed. His staff knew him so well now they could guess what might be useful to him. 'Fire away…'
Before she could open her mouth Marler walked in with a vague smile. Paula knew he had succeeded in his mission to track Buller. He threw off his coat, lit a cigarette.
'I hit the bull's-eye, following Buller. No pun intended. I follow him to his pad in Pimlico. Then I wait, but not for long. The Bull can move. I've parked among other cars and what emerges from the flat? Buller, wearing Arab dress. Long flowing robe, the lot. He dives into a cab he must have phoned for. Where do you think we go to? The mosque in Finsbury Park. His cab waits round a corner. The Bull shuffles inside the mosque. Not there long. Probably kneels on the rolled-up carpet tucked under one arm, bows three times towards Mecca – that's a guess.'
'Oh, my God, who would have guessed it was Buller,' gasped Paula.
'Wait a little longer, my dear.' Marler squeezed her gently on the shoulder as he continued. 'Now we're off back in his cab to Pimlico. Pays the driver, disappears back into the flat. He's not there long. He comes out again, dives into another cab. This time he's clad in warm holiday clothes, carrying a suitcase. We set off again. Destination? Waterloo. Buller's heading for Eurostar when he swings round, catches me completely by surprise, talks straight at me. 'Bit of a run-around for you, Marler. I want you to give a highly confidential message to Tweed. Tell him I'm on my way to meet a contact at Milan in Italy. I'm tracking the money route financing these hellish Taliban.''
'I'm staggered,' Paula commented.
'A bit more.' Marler took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, handed it to Tweed. 'That's the name and address of his contact in Milan. He said you should have it in case he doesn't come back.'
'I don't like the sound of that,' Newman said grimly.
Tweed was reading the neatly written words on a sheet obviously torn from a notebook. Mario Murano, Via Legessa 290, Milano.
'This opens a new front,' Tweed said quietly. 'Italy.'
'Buller also said he might get the routes they were using, then he had to dash before missing his train. End of the story.'
'As long as it isn't the end of Buller,' Tweed remarked.
'I would never have dreamt all of this,' Paula burst out. 'I thought he was just a stupid bully.'
'Which tells you,' Tweed said half to himself, 'what a complex mixture people – men and women – are. That act of posing as the Bull is remarkable cover.'
'I bet his lordship, Victor Warner, hasn't a clue as to what Buller is really doing,' Paula reflected. 'And no one else inside his organization.'
'Oddly enough,' Tweed told Marler, 'Monica was compiling a dossier on Jasper Buller. On her own initiative.'
'Well,' Monica addressed him, 'I haven't dug up anything like what Marler has told us. Only his address in Pimlico, plus the fact his staff really hate him, and the intriguing fact that he often goes off on his own for hours – despite insisting that employees sent out on a mission must always travel in pairs. Nothing about secret trips to the Finsbury Park mosque. That's the notorious one.'
'I passed the short time he was inside taking photographs of everyone else who went in there,' Marler told them.
He produced his tiny camera, which not only produced negatives but also converted them into prints. Extracting a roll of prints, he dropped it on Paula's desk. She started separating them into individual prints with a pair of scissors, then took them over to Tweed.
'Don't suppose they'll amount to anything,' Marler warned.
Paula went behind Tweed's desk and leant over his shoulder. Tweed checked each print carefully. Just a bunch of Arabs in Muslim garb. Paula reached for one, examined it under the magnifying glass she had brought with her. She half-closed her eyes.
'This figure reminds me of someone. Damned if I know who.'
'Let me see,' Tweed requested.
