'The Russians are worried, too. And our Yankee cousins. The Deputy Director of the CIA is talking about flying over here. God help us. You'll see him, of course?'
'You never did like Cord Dillon.' Tweed smiled amiably.
'Who does? The man's impossible. Can't imagine how he ever got the job…'
'Because he's efficient, skilled, never gives up. Like a dog with a bone. The aggressiveness you take in your stride…'
' You take it in your stride,' Howard interjected, determined to avoid the American at all costs. He took out his display handkerchief, flicked something off his razor-creased trouser leg, carefully refolding the handkerchief before tucking it back in his breast pocket.
'We have a new addition to the staff,' Tweed remarked. He chose this moment when he was not alone with Monica. 'She will be along here later this evening. Paula Grey. As you know, her vetting was top-flight.'
'Splendid!' Howard showed unusual enthusiasm. 'A most welcome addition to our little family.' Tweed winced inwardly at the patronizing phrase as Howard continued. 'I know her pretty well – she could do her first term at school with me. I need someone extra.'
'You hardly know her at all,' Tweed told him. He was watching Monica who looked anything but pleased. 'And since I did the spadework I'm attaching her to my office. There's plenty of room in here.'
'If you insist. Sometimes I wonder who's running the outfit. And I could have gone along to see the PM in your absence…'
'Except that the PM specifically asked for Tweed,' Monica said tactlessly, working off her indignation at the news of the new recruit.
The lady always does. You might at least send Paula in to meet the nominal head of the SIS when she arrives.' On this piqued note Howard stalked out of the room.
'Isn't there somewhere else in the building Paula could work?' Monica asked. 'We're very cramped already in here…'
'Cramped!' Tweed stared round at the empty space. 'And you once liked her.'
'Paula in Norfolk is one thing, Paula taking up residence in this office quite another. It will never be the same again – our talks together about work, I mean.'
'She won't be here every minute of the day,' Tweed said irritably. 'And I've taken the decision. I've got enough on my mind without domestic problems. Wouldn't you agree?'
Monica checked her watch. 'Time you left for your appointment at No. Ten. You know how you hate rushing.'
Tweed stood up and silently went to the clothes rack, put on his Burberry. Monica fidgeted with her pen, drawing meaningless lines on her notepad. She spoke in a subdued, conciliatory tone.
'I wonder what all these alarming rumours are about?'
'Maybe I'm about to find out,' said Tweed and walked downstairs.
As arranged over the phone by Tweed before leaving Beresforde Road, Harry Butler arrived at Newman's flat on the dot of 6p.m. To Newman's surprise-and annoyance – he was accompanied by a second man.
'Pete Nield, you know him, of course,' Butler explained. 'Tweed decided on the phone this Cockley Ford is an unknown quantity – that we could do with back-up. Pete's brought his own transport – even managed to find a parking slot half a mile away…'
'The two of us could do this job,' Newman informed him.
'That's what I like,' Nield broke in. 'An enthusiastic reception. An immediate acceptance of the team spirit.' He grinned.
Newman stood in the living room, studying the two men. Butler was about his build and height, in his thirties, clean-shaven and his expression controlled. He wore an old check sports jacket, blue denims, carried a windcheater over his arm. Just the type of gear an SAS man on leave might choose. He used his left hand to smooth his darkish hair, staring straight at Newman.
Pete Nield was a different personality and build. Lighter weight, slim, a few years Butler's junior, he had black hair brushed neatly, a small trim moustache. His clothes were smart; a navy blue suit, striped blue shirt, dark blue polka dot tie. His manner was easy, he moved more quickly than the immobile Butler. Newman had observed previously they worked well together as a team.
'Welcome aboard, gentlemen,' he said, looking at Nield. 'What are you drinking? Then we can get straight to the planning stage.' He indicated a map of East Anglia spread out over the long Regency dining table. 'We're driving up to King's Lynn tonight. I've booked two rooms at The Duke's Head. I'll call them again to reserve one for you, Nield.'
'King's Lynn?' Butler was studying the map as Nield joined him when they'd decided on drinks. 'Excuse me putting my oar in – you're the boss – but wouldn't a hotel in Blakeney be a better operational
HQ?'
'No.' Newman had climbed the two steps into the kitchenette, was pouring drinks. 'That's where the bomb was planted. Whoever left the offering may be watching the place. At King's Lynn we can maintain the traditional low profile…'
'Christ! Why didn't I think of that?' Butler was appalled. 'You make us look like amateurs at our own game.'
'Amateurs is not the word I'd use about you two,' Newman remarked, fetching the drinks. 'Cheers! Here's to a successful partnership. I wonder what we'll find at Cockley Ford?'
'Something's terribly wrong. I can tell…'
Monica, feeling contrite for her earlier behaviour, stared at Tweed as he slowly looped his raincoat over a hanger.
He winked at her, went to his favourite place, the swivel chair behind his desk, sank into it.
'Good job other people can't read me the way you can – I am not supposed to reveal anything by my expression.'
'We have been together a long time. What has happened? Can you talk about it? Want some coffee?'
'Something has happened. I can talk about it – but only to you. It's extremely confidential. Coffee later. The PM has stunned me. I'm not even sure it's a good idea. And Paula is on the way – phoned her from a call- box…'
'What idea?'
'You won't believe it.'
'Try me…'
'The PM,' he said very deliberately, 'wants me to fly to a secret meeting with General Vasili Lysenko, Head of Soviet Military Intelligence, the GRU.'
'My God! You're not serious?'
'She is. Very. Gorbachev has been in touch with her -and he was the one who suggested the meeting.'
'What on earth for?'
'I'm not sure,' Tweed confessed. 'Apparently the Kremlin is worried stiff about the rumours of a gigantic terrorist outrage being planned.'
'Normally they'd welcome it. Their attitude doesn't add up. I don't believe a word of it. And surely the PM doesn't?'
'She was told something in complete confidence by the General Secretary-something she couldn't break her word by telling even me. I get the full details only when I meet Lysenko.'
'And where is this rendezvous? It could be a trap…'
'Hardly.' Tweed turned to stare at the large map of Western Europe attached to the wall. 'The rendezvous is Zurich. The Swiss already know about it. They're busy laying on security at this moment. Security for protection. Security to ensure total secrecy. They're pretty good at that.'
'It's amazing. I thought I'd heard everything. When are you supposed to fly there?'
Tomorrow. That's when Lysenko is flying in direct from Moscow. Any idea of flight times? It has to be Swissair…'
'Starting early, depart Heathrow 8.30, 9.50, then 13.50. I've left out BA flights.'
'Swissair will be more anonymous. I'll travel under the name Johnson. Lysenko is due to touch down at Kloten at three in the afternoon, local Zurich time. I'll catch the 9.50 – get there ahead of him.'
