'Robert Newman? The foreign correspondent? Writer of that blockbusting bestseller book, Kruger: The Computer That Failed? '
'The same. That book made him financially independent. Now he works freelance, just takes on the jobs that interest him. He has a flat in Beresforde Road, South Ken. He's agreed you can stay there for a few days until we get you fixed up with living quarters.'
'Won't I be a damn nuisance to him?'
'He won't be there. I want Cockley Ford investigated. I can't do that now something else big has come up. Bob has agreed to do the job for me. You may as well know he's been vetted like yourself years ago.'
'Might it not be dangerous for him? If the bomb is in some way linked with that village as you wondered?'
Tweed smiled. 'He can cope. He's an ex-SAS man. He survived the full course when he was writing a series of articles on how they operate. But I'm still sending one of my men with him – which is something he doesn't know yet.'
'Your expression suggests he won't like that.'
'Bang on target. He's the lone wolf type.'
'Is that why,' she enquired, 'we're going to reach London hours before nightfall as you told Monica?'
'Bang on target. Again. Things to arrange before we arrive at Park Crescent. First port of call after lunch, Newman's flat.'
'Forget your phone call,' Newman said. 'Go over it again for me.'
They were sitting in the very large sitting room of Newman's flat where bay windows looked out on to St Mark's Church. The ceiling of the Victorian room was way above their heads and the original coving of interwoven bunches of grapes had been left in place by the developer.
Newman, a well-built, sandy-haired man in his early forties, lit a cigarette as he watched Tweed who sat on the other sofa. His blue eyes had a hint of humour but the strong mouth and jaw-line were clenched and unyielding. Newman, Tweed, reflected, was a much harder man since his experience behind the lines in East Germany.
Paula was unpacking her case in the large bedroom at the back, deliberately taking her time so the two men could talk alone. Tweed took no more than five minutes to tell him about his experiences at Cockley Ford and Blakeney. As he sipped at the coffee Paula had made for them Newman stood up and began strolling round the spacious room.
'It doesn't add up,' he decided. 'It's a mystery without any key. The two separate incidents do link up. The photo Dough-face peddled round Blakeney to pinpoint Paula's address had to come from the cine-film the Porsche driver took. And you saw a red Porsche which must have come from Cockley Ford the night you arrived. Paula saw Foley come off that coaster and drive off in a Porsche, later turning off up to the village. OK?'
'Agreed so far.'
'That means an American was involved in the planting of the bomb on Paula's doorstep. But this Nicholls character later tells you the bomb is of Russian origin. And a new device perfected recently. The Kremlin isn't going to be handing out a thing like that to anyone. But no one. OK?'
'Still with you.'
'So, it doesn't add up – any of it,' Newman repeated. 'Why would the Soviets cooperate with the Americans, using their latest secret development – weapon of war, Nicholls said – to kill a girl who isn't – or wasn't at that moment – even a member of the British Secret Service?'
'Makes no sense,' Tweed agreed again.
'It gets more mysterious. If Paula had been on your staff why would the Kremlin join hands with Washington to do this? They wouldn't is the answer. So, what the hell is going on?'
'That's what I want you to find out…'
'Thanks a bundle. Incidentally, the name Portch rings a bell. Something in a paper. About eighteen months ago. Tucked away on a back page…'
'Eighteen months ago is when Portch moved to Norfolk from God knows where according to old Mrs Massingham
– and she's a lady with all her marbles where they should be.'
'Before I head for Norfolk I'll go sweat it out in the Reading Room at the British Museum, find that item.'
'Ball's in your court,'Tweed stood up.'I'm grateful…'
'I'm intrigued…'
'What I was going to say,' Tweed went on casually, 'was I want you to take one of my people with you…'
'Not on. I work on my own. You know that.'
The two men faced each other like terriers bracing up for a dog fight. Tweed compressed his lips. Newman, wearing a polo-necked sweater and well-creased grey slacks, scowled and shook his head.
'It's essential,' Tweed insisted. 'The groundwork is laid. I told them a couple of SAS men were coming looking for me – perfect cover for you to penetrate that strange village.'
'And who, may I ask, did you have in mind?'
'Harry Butler,' Tweed said promptly. 'You've been with the SAS. Harry is built like one of them. You both talk the same language. You'll lead the team. You know Harry
– he'll follow that lead. He's cool, resourceful, a good man to go into the jungle with. Unless you don't trust him,' he added artfully.
'Crap! Harry's OK in a tight corner. And now you're being wily. Give me one good reason why I should agree.'
'The bomb. Made in Russia. That concerns my outfit. It concerns me. And I'm up to my neck in God knows what. I don't even know what this new crisis is all about – but it's something pretty big for them to drag me back off the first holiday I've had in years. I need your help, Bob.'
'That's better.' Newman grinned and folded his arms. 'I'm going in. For one reason only.'
'Which is?'
'I smell something pretty strange and sinister.'
6
The next few hours passed in a flash for Tweed. Everything came at him at once. He became very calm and absorbed a tremendous amount of data. It started the moment he walked into his office at Park Crescent. He'd left Paula at Newman's flat.
'Best you arrive later when things have cooled. I'll call you.. .'
Howard was waiting in his office with Monica, striding round the room, unable to keep still. An expression of relief crossed his face as Tweed came in.
'Thank God you've got here. The world has exploded…'
'I didn't hear the bang. If I could just take off my raincoat.' He walked to the other side of his desk and sat down, clasped his hands in his lap. 'I'm ready.'
'Reports are filtering in from all over the continent that some great terrorist outrage is planned.'
'Anti-Terrorist Squad,' Tweed said. 'Their job…'
'The PM doesn't think so in this case,' Monica intervened before Howard could resume his torrent of words. 'You have to go and meet her at 5 p.m. if you were back. I'll call and confirm you can make it.' She picked up her phone.
'Fill me in then,' Tweed suggested. 'Don't understand this at all. Why us?'
'Because of who it isn't,' Howard explained. 'It's not the IRA. It's not the Shi-ite fanatics. It's not the Red Army Faction. All our contacts confirm this…'
'Baader-Meinhof relic?' Tweed queried.
'Not them. That's what I'm trying to get into your head. It is not any of the known groups. No one can pinpoint a single clue. The Paris lot are mystified. So is Bonn…'
'Then what's all the fuss about?'
