He unlinked her arm, took his hands out of his pockets and walked faster. She knew his mind was churning the problem, working out the angles. She waited a few minutes before she posed her next question.
`Secretly, you mean? Without letting anyone know?'
`On the contrary. I'm calling a full meeting of all sector heads to announce the fact. Fergusson's murder is a tragedy. But that comes second to tracking down the fly in the ointment.'
Typical of Tweed to reduce such an appalling prospect to an everyday cliche. Monica was equally appalled at his strategy.
`You're telling them – knowing one of them will pass it on that you're going to Germany?'
`Which is the object of the exercise – to try and find a lead to the identity of who caused the death of Ian Fergusson.'
`Isn't this trip going to be very dangerous?' Monica queried. She was careful to keep the anxiety out of her voice as they wandered back towards Park Crescent. The green of the park spread away on all sides. No scene could have been more peaceful, she thought: such a contrast to what they were talking about.
`So the PM thinks.' Tweed turned down the corners of his mouth. 'You'd think I'd accepted Howard's job the way she clucks over me like her pet hen…'
`Why did you turn down her offer? You'd have run the outfit far better than Howard ever will.'
`Because I had to deceive – almost betray – too many of my staff when I was involved in the Adam Procane business.' He went on speaking quickly as though he found the topic distasteful. 'You won't believe the condition she laid down before she sanctioned my going…'
`Try me…'
`I have to take a bodyguard with me. A bodyguard! I was forced to accept to get permission.'
`Who is coming with you – and I'm jolly glad she did insist…'
`Bob Newman. He's got ideal cover – being a foreign correspondent. He can turn up anywhere and people assume he's after some story. The PM still wanted all background details about him before she consented. I think what did the trick is that he once had SAS training – the complete works – to do a story on them.' Tweed checked his watch. 'He should be landing at Heathrow just about now on his way back from Paris…'
`He disappeared for quite a while after the Helsinki thing. What has he been doing with himself?'
`Brooding, I gather – brooding over his wife's murder by the GRU. Maybe he's had an affair or two. I hope so – but I doubt it. He is in a bitter mood. Sounded cold and remote when I spoke to him over the phone when he reached the Paris Embassy. He accepted the job at once. Which surprised me…'
`Probably the perfect bodyguard…'
`And he will carry a gun, which I don't much like. The PM's idea again. The German people in Bonn have agreed. They're issuing a special weapons permit. Kuhlmann of the Federal Police fixed it. He's worried about the killing of Fergusson. He thinks there's more behind the murder than has come to light. I really wish I was just going on my own. I hate fuss.'
`And now?'
They had left Regent's Park and were waiting to cross the road to Park Crescent, the Georgian scimitar- shaped curve of buildings, one of which houses the SIS HQ.
`Now,' replied Tweed, 'we set up the meeting of sector chiefs…'
Which one?
Tweed sat at the head of the long table in the conference room, looking at his four colleagues – seated two to a side – while they waited for him to open the proceedings of the emergency meeting he had called.
Not a man with less than fifteen years' service. Now he felt he no longer knew them at all. One of these men-friends as well as colleagues he had regarded them – had sent Ian Fergusson to his death in Hamburg. The loyal Scot he could always count on. Tweed felt a sudden revulsion.
One of the waiting faces was a mask. A carefully contrived personality built up over the years to hide his true role. His true purpose in life. Treachery. Which one, he asked himself again?
He cleared his throat and four pairs of eyes watched him.
`Gentlemen,' he began, 'I am leaving for Hamburg. I have taken over personally the investigation into the death of Ian Fergusson.'
He paused, checking their reactions. His tone was matter-of- fact. Like a man discussing a routine piece of business.
`There is more to this affair than has come to light…'
Again he paused, looking at each man in turn. He could detect no clue in their expressions – but that he hadn't expected. It was Hugh Grey who responded first, sector chief for Central Europe.
`Who will be in charge while you're abroad?'
Was there a hopeful note in his question? Grey, thirty-nine, was the youngest. Slim in build, he had recently remarried for the second time and his main residence was a farmhouse in Norfolk. He also had a tiny pied a terre in Chelsea.
Clean shaven, he had darkish hair and a pink baby face. He gave the impression of being a lightweight, a man who could talk a lot and say very little. Very self-assured, ambitious, physically restless, his easy manner concealed an alert brain and a ruthless dedication to his own self-interest. And he had a way with women, a certain type of woman. The opposite sex found him either charming or they detested him.
`Howard,' Tweed replied. 'Due back from Paris tomorrow to take up normal duty…'
`You're travelling alone to Germany?' Erich Lindemann enquired.
`Yes,' Tweed lied promptly.
There, it had started already. The web of deceit with his closest colleagues. Rather like Procane all over again. But this time there was a difference, Tweed reminded himself. He was beginning what could be a long and dangerous search for the odd man out sitting at this very table.
`Is that wise?' Lindemann pressed. 'After what happened to Fergusson?'
Erich Lindemann. Forty-eight. Head of the Scandinavian sector, which included Denmark. Known to the others – behind his back – as The Professor. A thin-faced man who looked older than his years – the dark grey hair also thinning. Dry in appearance and manner, unlike Grey he used words sparingly.
Born in Copenhagen, his mother had died early and his father remarried an Englishwoman. Brought up in Britain since he was ten years old, his accent had not a trace of his Danish origins. He was, Tweed considered, the most cautious of the four men. Only when all the ground work had been laid would he move – then he moved with the speed of light. An austere bachelor, he had been compared by Howard to Field Marshal Montgomery.
`Never tasted a decent claret in his life,' Howard had once summed him up.
`That would help him in his work?' Tweed had enquired. `You know what I mean. Bloody brain-box and cold as ice. Like a grand master of chess, our Erich…'
Harry Masterson shot his cuffs clear of the sleeves of his dark blue business suit and waved a hand as he spoke.
`Presumably while you're checking out Fergusson we all carry on as usual? I'm due to leave for Vienna, as you know. My people get slack if I'm not there to boot their asses.'
`Business as usual,' Tweed agreed. 'You get off to Vienna as planned…'
Masterson. Forty-six. A head of hair as black as coal, neatly brushed with a centre parting. A large head, strong features, a commanding personality. A snappy dresser with a string of girl friends. Divorced by his wife when caught in a position which could hardly be described as a compromise. Impatient, he was the dominating character among the five gathered round the table. Chief of the Balkan sector.
`Good hunting in Hamburg,' he wished Tweed. 'Get the bastard who fixed up poor Ian. You will, of course…'
`We'll have to see,' Tweed said. 'And unless there are some questions I propose closing this brief meeting.'
He glanced at Monica, who sat silent at a small table by the wall, pencil poised over her notebook from which she would later prepare the minutes of the meeting. It was a role she took over when Tweed wanted no distraction. But her main reason for being there this time was quite different.
