While waiting in the enormous entrance hall with a polished wood-block floor decorated with Persian rugs casually laid here and there, Tweed, hands clasped behind his back, strolled over to examine a small framed painting of a woman wearing medieval clothes.
`That's a Holbein,' he remarked to Newman. 'An original if I'm not mistaken. It must have cost a mint.'
`Dr Wand doesn't seem to be short of a bob or two,' Newman commented. 'Aiding refugees.'
The butler had walked to the rear of the hall where a large Regency desk stood. Presumably his station to which he summoned servants to give them orders. He was speaking into an old-fashioned phone with a gold handle. Replacing it on the cradle, he walked back.
`Dr Wand is prepared to make an exception in your case. Please follow me. I will be waiting outside his study door.'
`Eavesdropping?' Newman enquired genially.
Marching ahead of them, the butler missed a step, then resumed his military-style walk. Pausing before a heavy door inlaid with panels, he knocked twice, opened the door and stood aside, closing it as soon as they had entered.
Tweed blinked. The study was a very large room but all the heavy velvet curtains were drawn over the windows. The only illumination came from a shaded desk lamp, tilted so it shone on two low arm chairs in front of the Louis Quinze desk. Behind the desk, seated high up in a tall-backed chair, was a shadowy figure. Still in the shadows, the figure stood up slowly, remaining behind his desk.
`Mr Tweed, it is my great pleasure to be honoured with your company. So please come forward both of you and sit down. I am sure that with men of your intelligence we shall find much of interest to discuss.'
Conscious of the deep pile carpet under his feet, Tweed walked forward more slowly than usual, glancing round as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light. Then he moved sideways, lifted a carver chair, pushed the low armchair out of the way, sat down.
`I prefer this type of chair,' he remarked.
`So do I,' said Newman, bringing forward another carver, seating himself with his legs crossed.
`Mr Newman, I believe?' said Dr Wand, who had settled himself back in his own chair. 'The famous international foreign correspondent. I trust our conversation is – as they say – off the record? I would find it disconcerting to read an account of our meeting later in Der Spiegel.'
`I retired a few years ago,' Newman told him.
`Of course. I recall you wrote an international best-selling book which brought you in a fortune. I read it with fascination. Such a villain.'
`Oh, there's a lot of it about.'
Tweed saw Dr Wand's large head dip forward. For a brief second he saw the eyes behind the gold pince-nez, a flash of pure malevolence. Newman's retort had hit home. Then the head withdrew into the shadows. Wand spoke again in his soft careful voice.
`I must apologize for the paucity of illumination, but strong light affects my eyes. Now, in what way can I be of assistance to you, Mr Tweed?'
`I thought the reverse was the case,' Tweed reminded him. 'We are here at your invitation.'
`Of course. Of course.' Wand paused. 'I find myself intrigued by the fact that you have found it worthwhile spending your valuable time investigating me.'
Now we come to the crunch, Newman thought. He wondered how Tweed would handle the situation. Tweed responded instantly.
`What leads you to think I have the slightest interest in your activities?'
`Come, come, my dear sir. A man in my position – with world-wide interest in the plight of refugees – has of necessity an acute ear to the underground grapevine.'
`Mind if I smoke a cigarette?' Newman asked to throw their host off balance.
`If you must. And you should understand that it is a major concession on my part to allow you in, armed as you are, with a gun.'
His tone of voice had changed. There was an abrasive note. Tweed sensed a dynamic energy in the man he still hadn't seen clearly. Newman responded immediately, removing the cigarette from his mouth.
`Then I would advise you to have a word with your butler. The gun he is carrying in a shoulder holster bulges out for all the world to see.'
`Thank you, Mr Newman. Most kind of you.' An edge of sarcasm now. 'I will most certainly have a word with Jules about his armament. But we live in violent times.'
`Talking about armaments, you are quite right,' Tweed shot back quickly. 'Sir Gerald Andover was murdered outside the estate of Gaston Delvaux in Liege last night. You've heard of Andover, of course – on your underground grapevine.'
Newman smiled to himself. The pace was hotting up. Tweed was seizing on every opening. He had the impression Dr Wand was furious he had opened a chink in his armour.
`Yes,' Wand said reflectively, 'somewhere I have indeed heard of Andover. I believe he is – was – a crackpot who propounded bizarre theories.'
`Or a genius who saw what was coming next to menace the Western world,' Tweed snapped with a bite.
`And what is coming next, if I may be so bold as to enquire?'
`The refugee problem, for one thing, is a horrendous menace. Thousands – maybe millions – on the move from the East. Europe would be swamped if they were allowed through. And yet, apparently, your organization is dedicated to infiltrating these people into our midst.'
`Infiltrating!' Wand sounded horrified. He shifted in his chair and his head appeared briefly in the light. Cruel eyes regarded Tweed from behind the flashing of the pince-nez. 'Would you kindly be more explicit? What precisely are you suggesting about my organization, when its only purpose is to help poor and helpless people?'
`It was a figure of speech,' Tweed said smoothly. 'Why is the subject of refugees such a sensitive point?'
`We have to be so selective – distinguishing between political and economic refugees. Surely you have heard the topic argued about?'
`Is there any connection between your trading company operating out of Hong Kong and your refugee organization?'
`None whatsoever.' Wand's tone was very abrasive. `My understanding is your own company is concerned with the negotiation of wealthy men who have been kidnapped. You are supposed to be an expert negotiator in such cases – so how does that link up with what you have been talking about?'
`Because a prominent man has been kidnapped. And I am negotiating his release,' Tweed lied.
There was a long silence. Dr Wand shifted restlessly in his chair. He adjusted his pince-nez. Suddenly his manner changed, became amiable.
`And you are near success in your difficult undertaking, I trust?'
`Oh yes. Vital information has come to light. At the moment you might say we are closing in on our target. There are certain people in Brussels and I wonder why they are here. I think I may have found out why.'
Another pause. Newman, the unlit cigarette still clamped between his lips, was fiddling with his throwaway lighter under cover of the desk. He was using his tough thumb-nail to revolve the wheel controlling the power of the gas, converting it into a miniature flame-thrower.
`Then may I wish you good health, Mr Tweed. And also success in your – I am sure – most difficult task. One wrong move and, I suppose, the whole thing could blow up in your face.' The voice became so soft Tweed only just caught the words. 'That would be a tragedy for you – and for all those involved.'
Newman chose that moment to lean forward, to flick the wheel of his lighter. A large flame speared up, he held it steady while he touched the tip of his cigarette, then he released the wheel and the scorching flame died. In those few seconds both men had a photo-flash image of Dr Wand. He threw up a hand to shield his face, but not before they had seen him.
Tweed caught an expression of satanic fury. The eyes glared savagely. Wand had prominent cheekbones, a nose like the prow of a ship, and swiftly he smiled, which was not a pleasant sight, his thin lips twisted in a smile like Siberia. He rose behind his desk, now back in the shadows.
`Mr Tweed, I wish to express to you my deep gratitude for spending a little of your undoubtedly precious
