Fieldway looked up. 'I did say all this was highly confidential?'
`You did.'
Tweed was the soul of relaxation. Settled in his chair he sipped a little more of his tea. It tasted awful.
`The official version,' Fieldway explained, 'is that he was buying timber from Peking – Beijing – I do wish that these new countries, regimes, would stop mucking about with familiar names.'
`You were saying,' Tweed reminded him.
`Buying timber from the Chinese at prices way below the world market price. That put him in a position to make huge profits when he sold the timber to other countries.'
`And the unofficial version?'
`That the timber deals were a cover for smuggling banned high-tech equipment to Peking. And that,' Field- way emphasized, 'was a very vague rumour.'
`So what eventually brought Burgoyne home from the Far East?'
`He sold out his companies to locals at a high price before leaving Hong Kong at short notice. He was on a plane flying home before the buyers of his companies found out the catch.'
`Which was?'
`The Chinese overnight raised the price of the timber they were selling to world market prices. No more easy profits for the new owners of Burgoyne's companies.'
`So Burgoyne out-manoeuvred some of the shrewdest businessmen in the world.'
`Looks like that.' Fieldway closed his file with a snap. `That's all I have.'
`I'm very grateful.' Tweed rose, shook hands with Fieldway, who leaned across his desk, stood up. 'No, don't bother to show me the way out. I know the drill.'
Tweed turned round suddenly as he was opening the door. Fieldway was still standing up and looked uncomfortable, even embarrassed. Why?
As Tweed travelled back from Whitehall to Park Crescent in a taxi he totted up in his mind the data assembled so far. In a taxi no one could get at him.
On the flight to Brussels Burgoyne, Willie, and Helen Claybourne had been aboard the same plane. 'A coincidence? Tweed didn't believe in them. He remembered Paula and Marler telling him about the trip to the new village outside Ghent.
From their description it sounded like a Belgian replica of Moor's Landing on the Beaulieu River. Tweed's mind recalled a certain passage in Andover's file about the Mongol invasion of the West.
Then there was the macabre murder of Hilary Vane when she arrived at London Airport with Cord Dillon. The murder carried out by another woman, with a wide-brimmed hat. He played back in his mind Vane's report he had heard on the tape. Three top Stealth scientists vanishing to the Far East, according to Dillon. Always the road led to the Far East.
Dr Wand owned Moonglow Trading amp; Mercantile International – based in Hong Hong. No one knew what he traded in. Mercantile? That suggested shipping to Tweed. Then there was his verbal duel with Wand at the luxurious Waterloo villa. A more sinister man Tweed had never met.
First he had been glimpsed by Butler in London inside his mansion in The Boltons. Then he turned up in Brussels at a deluxe hotel, followed from the airport to the Bellevue Palace by Marler. A very mobile man, the mysterious Dr Wand.
And also the director of Moonglow Refugee Aid Trust International. Refugees? Hugo Westendorf, the Iron Man of German politics – before his sudden retirement – had had a tough programme worked out to stop Europe being swamped by refugees. According to Gaston Delvaux.
Andover. Delvaux. Westendorf. All outstanding among the brains of Western Europe. All now men broken by a hideous conspiracy of kidnapping – involving the maximum of psychological pressure to break them. A pattern was forming in Tweed's mind. But he still needed more data.
Prior to his visit to the MOD, Tweed had met Cord Dillon, American Deputy Director of the CIA – more important, he had been sent over as special emissary of the American President. During his brief meeting with Dillon he had reassured the American.
`I've been sitting on my ass waiting for you, Tweed,' Dillon had begun in typically abrasive fashion.
`So you had a chance to get over jet lag and the after-effects of your flu bout,' Tweed had responded genially. `No, wait until I've finished. I am tracking this vital Stealth problem…'
He had told Dillon frankly about the visit to Belgium, the bizarre murder of Andover in Liege, his conversation with Gaston Delvaux. Mollified, Dillon had nodded and stood up, grabbing hold of his suitcase.
`Then I can catch my flight back to Washington. I now have enough to tell the President you're on the job..'
What a responsibility, Tweed thought. He shrugged. It was part of his vocation. His mind flashed back to the interview with Fieldway. When he got the chance he must take Willie Fanshawe aside, question him about Burgoyne's view of life.
FAR EAST AIR CRASH. ALL DEAD.
He saw the poster next to an Evening Standard newspaper seller. Why did he immediately think of Paula and wonder how she was getting on?
Paula came out of the Brussels shop, the carrier containing her purchase looped over her left arm. She had just bought an expensive pair of knee-length leather boots. The weather had turned even colder.
Walking along near the kerb, she glanced into other shop windows. The green Lincoln Continental cruised slowly behind her. She saw its reflection in a shop window. Why did the Americans have to go in for cars as big as battleships? Gas-guzzlers, they called them – and they were.
The car parked a few feet in front of her. The rear door was thrown wide open. Pursing her lips, she moved to her right to avoid it. As she drew level two powerful hands grasped her by the shoulder. A rough voice growled in heavily accented English.
`Get into the car, lady. Take you back to the Hilton…'
Paula resisted the impulse to struggle. She remembered Harry Butler's instruction during the tough training course. 'The moment to stop being kidnapped is when an attempt is first made. Later is too late…' Relaxing her body briefly, she allowed herself to be thrust towards the interior. The driver, cap pulled well down over his head, was watching in the wing mirror, keeping his engine running.
Paula rammed her left hand on the roof of the car to gain leverage. Her relaxed body suddenly stiffened. With all her strength she rammed her backside away from her. It hit a flabby paunch. She heard her attacker let out a grunt. What happened next was so swift she didn't see it.
A scooter whizzed up out of nowhere. The rider jumped off and let it fall over. Nield, a knuckle-duster on his right hand, slammed his fist into the side of the roughneck's jaw. Blood smeared the assailant's face. A second later Newman came up behind him, slammed into his side with a vicious kidney punch.
The large fat man gave a horrible groan, started to sag to the pavement as Paula slipped out of the way on to the sidewalk. Newman grasped the thug by his greasy hair and the back of his pants. He threw him bodily into the back of the car, where he collapsed.
Nield had already darted round to the open window, where the driver had a dazed look. Nield hit him with less force, then hissed at him in French.
`Bugger off or I'll break your neck…'
Newman had slammed shut the rear door with the groaning body inside. The driver fumbled for the brake. His trembling hands grasped the wheel. The huge car moved away from the kerb as Newman noted down its registration number.
`No need,' Nield called out.
The Lincoln was zigzagging into the main stream of traffic. A juggernaut coming up behind applied its brakes. Not enough time. It hammered into the back of the car. Another car with 'Politie' in large letters along its side pulled up. Two uniformed policemen dived out and opened the doors of the Lincoln.
`Just stroll,' Newman said, taking Paula by the arm. `We're not interested in getting involved…'
Paula glanced back as she forced herself to walk normally. Pete Nield was astride his scooter, crawling along behind them. She hugged Newman's arm.
`Thank you, Bob,' she said. 'But I left you in the shop.' `And I followed you out at a discreet distance.'
`So I've become a target.'
