three locks being turned, the chain replaced to its secure position. Then he shuffled back down the steps and along the path. A minute later he was relating his experience to Nield and they decided to drive straight to SIS headquarters at Park Crescent.
12
It was after eleven at night when Butler and Nield were let inside the headquarters of SIS in Park Crescent, close to Regent's Park. George, the ex-NCO, who acted as one of the guards, called out to them as they started up the staircase to Tweed's first-floor office.
`You'll find Monica still there, hard at it. She's having meals sent in. Doubt if she'll welcome you two…'
They opened the door and walked in. Monica, who was Tweed's faithful assistant, a woman of uncertain age, grey hair tied back in a bun, looked up from her desk. She had a collection of files spread out and her hand was reaching for the phone.
`Hello, Monica,' Nield said cheerfully, 'we've got a job for you. Stop you from getting bored.'
`Bored!' Monica expressed mock indignation. 'Tweed has given me enough work to last me a week. Building up profiles on Sir Gerald Andover, Brigadier Burgoyne, and Willie Fanshawe. My phone bill for calls to the Far East will be horrendous. I even managed to reach Philip Car- don, our agent in Hong Kong. He's flying home shortly. For your information I can do without your job.'
She liked Pete Nield. He often joked with her and she was secretly rather taken with his dark eyes and easy manner. Nield grinned and went on.
`Better make a note. Tweed will want the data on this. Ready? Moonglow Refugee Aid Trust International. 185 The Boltons. Everything you can dig up about them – and who runs the outfit.'
`Moonglow?' Monica crinkled her forehead, scribbled the full name on her pad. 'I've heard of them somewhere. The Boltons? High living for a charity organization.'
`We've driven a long way,' Butler intervened. 'A mug of tea would go down well for both of us.'
`Then you know where the kettle is. So make it yourself. I haven't got time to fuss over you. And while you are about it, I could do with a drink myself..
When they had left her alone Monica frowned again. She absent-mindedly sucked at the end of her pen.
`Moonglow,' she said to herself. 'I have heard of you – and something odd, but never proved. I'll dissect you down to the bone.'
Monica was not the only one working late. At No. 185 The Boltons Dr Wand sat in a room which served as a cinema. The lighting was very dim and no more could be seen of him than Butler had observed from the front door. Dr Wand preferred the dark.
He was not watching a film tonight. Mrs Kramer was feeding the tape reels into a machine and he was listening to conversations which had taken place at Prevent. His large head was tilted at a slight angle as he memorized what had been said.
At one stage Mrs Kramer glanced in his direction. Wand's gold pince-nez glinted in the low-power illumination provided by a wall light. He was smiling, a smile with pursed lips, a smile which had no human warmth. Even Mrs Kramer, who knew him well, was frightened by the smile.
When the last tape had been played Wand rose slowly to his feet. He gave her the instructions in his slow, soft-spoken voice.
`Contact Vulcan immediately. I think from now on we must keep a very close eye indeed on the man called Tweed. Convey my thought to Vulcan at once. I am going to my study to check further details about Operation Long Reach.'
`I will make the call immediately, sir.'
`See that you do, please.'
Mrs Kramer hurried out of the room to the telephone. She had no idea of the identity of Vulcan – only his phone number. She also had no idea what Operation Long Reach meant. And she had learned it was unwise to ask Dr Wand any leading questions. People who made that mistake had disappeared.
At Passford House the following morning Tweed announced he was leaving immediately for London. In Room 2 Newman looked at Paula in surprise. They were so often taken off-guard by Tweed's lightning decisions.
`I shall drive myself back,' Tweed continued, 'in the Ford Escort. Paula wants to check Mrs Goshawk, who apparently has a house for sale in Brockenhurst – according to that estate agent, Barton. I want her protected, Bob. Could you drive her everywhere in your Mercedes?'
Will do. But what are you after? Have you any idea what is going on?'
`List the facts.' Tweed counted on his fingers. 'One, Harvey Boyd, who was about to join us as a trained agent, was possibly murdered on the River Lymington.'
`Murdered?' Newman queried. 'What do you base that on?'
`The fact that the right side of his head was sliced off so neatly needs explaining.' He looked at Paula. 'And I trust your exceptional eyesight. I'm convinced you did see something in the fog just before the so-called accident.'
`As a reporter I still regard that as an assumption,' Newman persisted.
`It is not an assumption,' Tweed said sharply, 'that on two occasions someone has tried to exterminate us. The mobile concrete mixer, then the chopper which dropped oil on the road in front of us. Somewhere along the line I said something, asked a question -with Andover, Burgoyne, or Fanshawe – which triggered off those lethal attacks. So we have stumbled on to something. That is fact two.'
`You can't include Andover – after what's happened to his daughter,' Paula protested once again.
`I'm not crossing Andover off my list before I've seen the profile Monica is preparing,' Tweed said firmly. 'At the back of my mind I once heard something odd about the daughter, Irene. Fact three,' he went on briskly, 'I'm sure there is something odd about that isolated village, Moor's Landing.'
`That is an assumption,' Newman objected.
`Oh, really?' Tweed's tone was hard now. 'When we have an estate agent who isn't interested in selling us any kind of property? And they're trying to drive out old Mrs Garnett from the last remaining cottage. Strange that Barton didn't say her cottage might become available if we could wait a bit longer.'
`It was a weird place,' Newman agreed.
`Finally, fact four – Irene had apparently been kidnapped. Yet Andover whispers to me that no ransom demand had been received. After about three months.'
`You see any pattern forming?' Paula asked.
`I'm completely in the dark,' Tweed admitted. 'I have in my hand a number of pieces of a jigsaw – none of which seem to fit. I need more pieces to build up a picture. And now,' he picked up his packed suitcase, must get off to London. Take great care.'
`We'll see you in London,' Paula assured him.
Tweed turned suddenly. 'I missed out facts five and six. The file Andover handed to me. And the letter from Gaston Delvaux, Belgian armaments genius – and a member of that think-tank, INCOMSIN. I may be in Brussels within the next twenty-four hours…'
April Lodge, the home of Mrs Goshawk, was a small detached Victorian house on the outskirts of Brockenhurst. Newman and Paula had agreed it would be better if she visited the house on her own. Having driven past it, Newman parked the Mercedes on a grass verge.
Bearing in mind Tweed's request for him to protect her, Newman followed her at a distance along the country lane and waited by a copse of firs. As Paula disappeared he checked his Smith amp; Wesson.
Paula walked up the straight drive. On either side was a spacious lawn, neatly trimmed and covered with a heavy coating of frost sparkling in the sun. The house corresponded with the old photograph she'd examined in Barton's office. She entered the porch, pressed a highly polished brass bell.
`Mrs Goshawk?' she asked.
The door, with a stained-glass window in the upper half, had been opened by a well-dressed woman in her fifties. From her coiffured brown hair Paula guessed she'd just returned from the hairdresser.
`Yes.' Mrs Goshawk smiled. 'I hope you're not selling something?'
