'Where do you think? Working in Howard's office. He invented some French documents he wanted translated. She's pretty cool about the whole idea…'
'Not to worry. Just get two air tickets to Geneva. One for me, one for Paula.'
'And what's your excuse?' Monica asked frostily. 'Sorry,' she added hastily, 'that must have sounded bitchy…'
'You said that, I didn't.'
'Why do you need her? Sheer curiosity on my part. I suppose I get ticked off again?'
'Not at all. Paula speaks French and German. And Yuri Sabarin, who must speak French to be posted to Geneva, may be susceptible to women.'
Paula came back to the office half an hour later, her expression blank, followed by Howard, who strolled in, staring around. Monica spoke first.
'If you're looking for Tweed he's gone. For the night. Paula,' she went on rapidly, 'you're travelling to Geneva with Tweed tomorrow. Thought I'd warn you – so you could pack a bag.'
'I keep one packed for an emergency departure – just like Tweed. But thanks for the warning. Which flight?'
'Best be ready by eleven tomorrow morning.'
Monica was watching Howard who had slumped into an easy chair, one leg lolling over an arm, hands clasped behind the back of his neck. He watched Paula, who busied herself at her desk, sifting through files.
'Tweed still doubtful about the whole business?' he enquired.
'You heard what he said,' Monica replied cautiously.
'The PM is probably right, you know. It ought to be checked. All these rumours about some new outfit hijacking a ship. It might turn out to be one of ours… '
You bastard! Monica was thinking. You're covering yourself in case any of Tweed's comments get back to No. 10. She eyed him, playing with a pencil before she reacted.
'I wouldn't have thought something like that was our concern.'
'The PM thinks it might be, that's enough for me.' He smiled with an air of self-satisfaction. Monica saw through him instantly. He'd expressed support for the official view and had two witnesses to back him up – if push came to shove. 'And,' he went on, 'there's that business about the peculiar character who may – or may not – exist. Has to be checked.' He glanced again at Paula, her raven-black hair bent over the files. At least, Monica thought, he'd had the sense not to mention Zarov by name in front of the new recruit.
Howard stretched out his long legs, checked his watch, stood up and stretched. He thrust both hands in his trouser pockets and stared at Paula.
'What about a spot of dinner? You've worked well today. You need fodder to keep you going. I know a place where the fodder is rather good.'
'Thank you. Sir,' she added as an afterthought. She was sitting still crouched over the files, looking up at him. 'But it's an early night for me. I must be fresh for the flight tomorrow.'
'There's always another night. Have fun in Geneva. I hear the fodder is pretty good there. Tell me all about it when you get back. All right?'
'Good night. Sir,' replied Paula. She waited until they were alone. 'I'm looking forward to my first mission abroad,' she told Monica.
Things happen when Tweed arrives somewhere. Baptism of fire.'
Commander Alec Bellenger arrived at Park Crescent late in the afternoon of the following day, which caused Tweed to put off his flight to Geneva until twenty-four hours later. A phone call from Admiralty had warned he was delayed returning from abroad.
Mid-thirties, Tweed estimated, Bellenger was a tall heavily-built man with thick brown hair. Ruddy-cheeked, a strong jaw, ice-cold blue eyes, he carried himself with the easy assurance of a man accustomed to command.
He listened in silence as Tweed related the bomb incident at Blakeney, his eyes never leaving Tweed's. He's weighing me up, Tweed thought. Fair enough. He finished speaking and Bellenger crossed his large hands in his lap, then reacted.
'Nicholls, that Bomb Disposal officer, came to me afterwards. Brought the shell and innards of the infernal device. It's a Cossack, all right…'
'Cossack?'
'Code-name for the sea-mine we smuggled out of Russia. Can't tell you how. Came out by submarine. Period.'
'Understood,' Tweed assured him.
'Apart from the hydrogen bomb it's the most devilish device invented since World War Two. Don't mind telling you the thing scares the living daylights out of me.'
'Why?'
'First the explosive the sample we purloined contained. We've called it Triton Three. Its power is roughly midway between TNI and an atom bomb.'
'Just supposing,' Tweed said casually, 'we were talking about thirty of these sea-mines – plus twenty-five bombs -and they were all armed with this Triton Three. What effect could that lot have?'
Bellenger stiffened, leaned forward. Monica, who was watching him from behind her desk could have sworn the naval commander lost colour. He took his time replying, like a man recovering from shock.
Take out Birmingham,' he responded. The whole city. Three miles radius from impact point. Level every building. No survivors. Inside that three-miles radius…'
'Jesus!'
Tweed let slip the blasphemy involuntarily. He stared at his visitor, who stared back. Bellenger straightened up, steepled his hands.
'Is this theoretical? You chose very precise numbers.'
'Oh, completely.' Tweed smiled and drank some coffee. Inside the office the atmosphere was electric. He took his time over drinking the coffee – to defuse the tension. His hand was very steady as he replaced cup and saucer on desk. His tone was offhand when he spoke.
'What is so special about Cossack – the mechanism?'
Bellenger glanced over his shoulder at Monica. Tweed repeated the assurance he'd given when Bellenger arrived – that Monica had top vetting. 'In fact, if anything happened to me, she'd have to carry on.'
'Delayed action detonation for one thing. A saboteur could carry an object no larger than the smallest pocket calculator, stand thirty miles from the mine – or bomb -press a button and bang! The most advanced form of the old World War Two magnetic mine we've ever encountered. For one thing…'
'And for another?'
'It's size – in ratio to its appalling destructive power. It is quite small. About one foot in diameter. And it's death to any sizeable naval vessel. Take a submarine. They drop it within thirty miles of one of our subs. Our chaps are dead -that means they're so many fathoms under, all engine power switched off. No one even drops a spoon. Cossack homes in on them, even comes up to the hull, attaches itself like the suckers of an octopus with a revolutionary magnetic system. Someone presses the button. Our sub splits in two, is blown out of the water in a million bits.'
'How does it home in if everything is switched off and silent.'
The men inside have to breathe,' Bellenger said grimly.
'So?'
'Cossack has an ultra-sensitive chemical probe which picks up carbon dioxide – even through a hull of sheet steel. How much carbon dioxide do you imagine a sub's crew breathes out?'
'Sounds a bit diabolical.' Tweed sipped more coffee. 'But the men who despatch the mine or bomb – from a plane, another sub, whatever. They breathe…'
'I see where you're heading,' Bellenger commented. 'Cossack's sensitivity to carbon dioxide is controlled. The pocket calculator device again. Press another button and the carbon dioxide probe comes into action. We've no defence as yet. All that – and the Triton Three. Only the timer device is second rate.'
'I think,' Tweed said, checking his watch under the level of his desk, 'you've put me into the picture.'
'And now you can put me in the picture. How did that bomb in Norfolk get there? Admiralty only let me come in the hope you'd give me a lead on that.'
