with a slightly different name. Moonglow Trading and Mercantile International. But no one seems to know what they trade in – and it has limitless funds. Source of those funds unknown.'
`Very odd,' Paula remarked. 'A refugee outfit in London. A trading company in the Far East.'
`Who runs this outfit?' Newman asked.
`A Dr Wand. On the phone Cardon said he's something of a mystery man. No one has ever seen him. He works through his executives. No photos of him. There's a rumour that he once visited the United States for plastic surgery. No one knows why. And Cardon said he heard another rumour – that Wand has a powerful deputy in Britain, an Englishman code-named Vulcan.'
`Vulcan? I find that intriguing,' Tweed commented.
`I also had a Paris call,' Monica went on. 'Lasalle said the situation in France is so bad he can't-release his brilliant agent, Isabelle Thomas, to join us. Not yet.'
`Pity,' Paula said without conviction. She hadn't taken to the attractive Isabelle during the previous year's fracas in France. 'And Cardon's call gets us nowhere.'
`Not quite,' Tweed corrected her. 'Remember Nield and Butler tracking that camper? That provides a direct link between the bugging of Sir Gerald Andover's house and the Moonglow outfit. Therefore, also with the shadowy Dr Wand. Track him, Monica. Up to the hilt.'
`I've got a lot more to tell you about my conversations in the bar at Passford House,' Paula reminded him.
`Later.' Tweed checked his watch. 'Monica had surprising news when I got back. I have to drive to London Airport in the next few minutes.'
`Someone arriving?' Newman asked.
`The last person I'd expect at this moment. None other than Cord Dillon, Deputy Director of the CIA. And he's bringing a woman with him who has discovered something very strange. If you like, you can come with me – both of you, Newman and Paula.'
`I like,' said Paula.
They stood waiting in the concourse of the terminal at London Airport. Outside the sun was shining and the sky was a clear blue. An atmosphere of peace and well-being, Paula thought. Especially after the horrors of Lymington and the New Forest. Strange that the frenzy of London should seem so comforting – when they had returned from what was normally the restfulness of the countryside.
`When is this damned aircraft due?' Newman asked impatiently.
Tweed had gone to check the arrivals board. He came back in time to hear the question.
`Landing now,' he said. 'It was supposed to arrive this morning early on. Delayed at Dulles Airport in Washington due to a bomb scare. Turned out to be a hoax. Monica was keeping in touch all morning.'
`Let's hope Cord Dillon is in a good humour,' Newman remarked. 'Which he probably won't be after the delay.'
The American had a fearsome reputation for his short fuse. Enormously competent, he expected everyone else to live up to his exacting standards. Fifteen minutes later the passengers started to emerge – far more than Newman had expected. The 747 Jumbo must have been full up.
More passengers appeared and soon the area round the exit was milling with people. Passengers disembarking, drivers of cars holding up names for their customers, friends greeting the new arrivals. Tweed, Newman, and Paula were huddled together in the crowd. You couldn't tell who had just come off the flight and who had arrived to meet them, Paula noted.
`There he is,' said Tweed.
Cord Dillon was a tall, well-built man in his fifties, with a craggy face. He had a shock of thick brown hair, was clean shaven, and above a strong nose his eyes were a startling blue, and ice cold. One hand carried his bag, the other waved a greeting as he pushed his way up to them. He nodded to Newman, shook Paula's hand, gave her a broad smile, then turned to Tweed.
`Could we wait here a minute or two,' he whispered. `My companion is travelling by herself. Security. She's Hilary Vane. A key element in the catastrophe. Small and slim, she's wearing a light-blue raincoat, dark blue beret. Carrying a small tartan case.'
`Should be easy to spot,' Tweed said to Paula, who had been listening.
The melee of people became more dense and muddled. Paula saw a tall, elegant, slim woman wearing a wide- brimmed hat with a small veil. Her coat flapped open and revealed a Chanel suit.
Paula saw the small woman he had described. Blue raincoat, blue beret, tartan suitcase. Hilary Vane began to thread her way through the jostling crowd. The woman with the wide-brimmed hat bumped into her, dipped her head in apology. Vane said something, started to push her way forward again. Her face contorted in a grimace of agony. The case fell from her hand. She collapsed.
`Jesus!'
Dillon thrust his way through the crowd, pushing people out of the way. Tweed followed at his heels. The crowd was parting, staring down. Dillon and Tweed reached the inert body. Tweed, moving swiftly, bent down, felt her neck pulse, looked up.
`She's dead.'
`She can't be!' Dillon roared.
Even among the babble of voices his own was heard clearly. More people stopped, pushed forward to see. Paula looked round for the woman with the wide-brimmed hat. No sign of her. An airport guard holding his walkie- talkie pushed his way through. Tweed spoke quickly.
`I'm Special Branch.' He showed the card forged inside the Engine Room in the basement of Park Crescent. 'Use that thing. Get Jim Corcoran, Chief of Security. He knows me. Get him damn quick…'
They were all inside Corcoran's top-security office. The body of Hilary Vane was stretched out on a table. Bending over her was a doctor. He looked up, shook his head. He pursed his lips, looked puzzled.
'I could have told you she was dead,' Tweed snapped. 'I would now like to know the cause of death.'
'Oh, I couldn't possibly give an opinion on that.. `Well, maybe I can.'
Tweed pointed to a small tear in Vane's raincoat in the upper arm. Gently, he eased up the sleeve of the light material. He pointed to a small puncture on the outer side of the slim arm. Vane's lips were a bluish colour. A tinge of the same colour was spreading over her face. The doctor sucked at the arm of his glasses and Tweed lost all patience.
`Clear enough, isn't it? She was injected with a lethal dose with a needle. The arm is bruised at this point.'
`Only a pathologist…' the doctor began.
'I know one of the top ones in the country,' Tweed informed him. 'So, thank you for your attention. But I don't think we need your presence any more.'
`Really! I beg your pardon…'
`Time to go, sir.' Corcoran, a tall, burly man, took the doctor by the arm, led him to the door. 'I am the Chief of Security here. It might be better if you did not mention this tragedy to anyone. To anyone at all.'
`I can't promise,' the doctor said peevishly. 'I have a formal report to make and no one is going to stop me.'
`I am. I can.' Tweed showed the same card. 'Now have nothing to worry about. Of course, if you disobeyed you might find yourself in professional trouble. I am invoking the Official Secrets Act.'
`Oh, I see. Why didn't you say so?'
`I just did. So, again, thank you for your time and I hope you haven't missed any important appointments due to the delay. I emphasize that this incident involves a matter of national security.'
`Then there's not a great deal more I can do here.' `Nothing I can think of,' Tweed said in the same polite tone. 'But thank you for your assistance…'
Newman made an observation to Tweed as soon as they were alone. It seemed very quiet inside the confines of Corcoran's office. 'You bluffed him,' Newman pointed out. 'All that stuff about invoking the Official Secrets Act. He hasn't even signed it.'
`I know. But it will help to keep him quiet.' Tweed looked at Dillon who was still staring at the body on the table.
`Was Vane important, Cord?'
