Something sinister in the wind. I'll damned well dig out what it is..
`Go to ground, you said. What exactly does that indicate?'
`It indicates what I said. All enemy agents have dived into their burrows like a bunch of flaming rabbits. You can walk down the Karntnerstrasse in Vienna and back up again all day without seeing one suspicious character. That's suspicious in itself. Vienna is the espionage centre of Europe east of Geneva. The place is losing all its character…'
`Slow down, Harry. I've got the picture. What does that picture suggest to you?'
`They're preparing something really nasty, of course. Pull out, lull us into a state of spending our time in the bars. Then, bingo! Launch the operation. Always the same technique. Moscow got into, a rut years ago. I keep telling you that. So what do I have to do to convince you? Take out an ad in The
Times?'
`It could be the new leadership assessing the situation…'
`Assessing my ass! We'd better brace ourselves, Tweed – and you'd better watch your back on that Hamburg jolly. From what I hear the only big feature recently has been the killing of poor Ian Fergusson. Hamburg is what it's all about. Not that Hugh Grey has caught on yet. Too busy dusting off Howard's chair before he plants his poncy behind in it. God, I'd hate to work under him. Come to think of it, I wouldn't…'
`He's got a tricky job,'. Tweed pointed out when he could edge in a word. 'That's the sector where you can't tell one German from another – East or West…'
`So, why didn't one of his feelers warn him Fergusson was on to a one-way trip? I'd have known if he'd been heading for the Balkans.'
`Which is your way of saying you don't much like each other.'
`I hate the guts he doesn't have…'
`On that punch-line maybe we'd better end this chat. You'll never better it,' Tweed assured him.
`You watch your back!'
Masterson, his ruddy complexion flushed beneath the coal- black hair, waved a minatory finger at Tweed, gave Monica his quick salute and was gone. Through the door without opening it was Tweed's impression.
`Isn't he marvellous?' Monica cooed, her own face flushed a pinkish tinge.
`I believe that bit about walking the white line with the champagne bottle now,' Tweed told her. `So, we've seen the lot. Any clue as to which one sent Fergusson into the abyss?'
`Nothing I spotted. Did I miss something?'
The door opened again and Masterson reappeared. He closed it and stood staring at Tweed as he spoke.
`I hope you took me seriously. I meant it. I know what I'm talking about. I'm pretty sociable – and that party at Grey's farm…' He stopped. 'Oh, hell, you've had a bellyful of me.'
Monica made a fuss about being busy when Masterson had left the room for the second time. Tweed watched her as she moved files around and then reached for the phone.
`Hold that call,' he said. 'Now, tell me what all that was about. Some party at Grey's farm out on the Wash. What party?'
`It was a couple of years ago. July 14.' She looked embarrassed but Tweed waited, compelling her to go on. 'Grey had a birthday party. Paula acted as hostess – his wife had pushed off and he and Paula were living together…'
`Get to the point. Who were the guests?'
`The four men who are now sector chiefs. Masterson, Dalby and Lindemann. It was Grey's birthday. He asked them all to come for dinner. They happened to be on leave at the same time. So, it seemed an ideal opportunity.'
She stopped and studied Tweed's expression. He looked amused. 'You're thinking I was one of their main topics of conversation?'
`They might have asked you to join them…'
`Why should they? They were all lower down the ladder – men in from the field and in search of relaxation. I'd have put a real damper on their having a free-and-easy time. They need something to get the tension out of their systems. How is it you remember the date so well?'
`July 14? Bastille Day.'
`Of course. And all this time you've kept quiet – thinking I'd be offended?'
`How was I to know how you'd react? It wasn't a piece of information which affected our work. If it had been, I'd have let you know soon enough.'
`I'm sure you would. Now, let me have the tickets for Hamburg, foreign currency, travellers' cheques, etc.' As she took a folder from a locked drawer he threw the question at her.
`During my recent interviews, did you notice any common link?'
`They've all worked in the field. None of them are desk types who haven't a clue as to what it's all about…'
`True. Go on.'
`That's it,' Monica said, her brow crinkled.
`They all have just one European language in common which they all speak fluently. German.'
`Is that significant?'
`How do I know what is significant? It's early days yet.. The phone rang, Monica answered and spoke briefly, then pulled a wry face.
`Company?'
`Yes. Your favourite person. Howard is on his way up now.'
`I really wouldn't have thought this Hamburg affair required your august presence,' Howard pontificated in his most lordly manner. 'Let Hugh Grey handle it – after all, the incident did occur in his sector.'
`The incident, as you call it, involved the death of one of my top men. A second-hand view isn't good enough.'
`I'd hardly call Hugh second-hand. You make him sound like a used car.' Howard chuckled and glanced at Monica expecting a tribute to his wit.
'I'm catching a Lufthansa flight. It's all arranged. And the PM has sanctioned the trip…'
`Oh, my God!' Howard clapped a theatrical hand to his domed forehead. 'Not another of her bloody directives, I trust?'
`Your trust is misplaced.' Tweed sat back in his chair and stared bleakly at his chief. 'And I suspect Fergusson was on to something big – otherwise, why murder him?'
`Don't let's over-dramatize, old boy.' Howard, six foot tall, wearing a new made-to-measure chalk-stripe suit, perched his behind on the arm of an easy chair. 'We don't know that for sure – from what Hugh has just told me…'
`Hugh knows damn-all. I'm keeping the wraps on this one.'
`Hugh's a good chap,' Howard protested. 'And I heard in Paris from Pierre Loriot the quiet streets are empty. The Russian laddies have all gone home – doubtless to listen to Uncle Mikhail and make their number with him.'
`Pierre said that?' Tweed leaned forward, intrigued by Howard's news. The reference to 'quiet streets' was parlance for the Soviet embassies located in discreet areas. 'That was his report,' Tweed pressed. 'What was his opinion?'
`There has to be a difference?' Howard studied his manicured nails, his plump face smug.
`Well, was there? You tell me.'
`I suppose you could say there was a subtle shade of difference. Pierre did say the pregnant silence – his phrase – worried him. Just his opinion though. Pierre isn't happy without something to worry about. Keeps him late at the office – away from that awful wife in Passy. He'd read the telephone directory rather than go home before ten…'
And so would you, matey, Tweed thought, but didn't say so. It was well-known Howard's relations with his rich wife, Cynthia, had become distant. 'Clear out of sight,' was Monica's comment.
If there's nothing else…' Tweed began.
`Think that's all.' Howard stood erect, straightening his tie. `Sorry about Fergusson, and all that. Goes with
