Newman found himself falling under her spell. It wasn't just her physical beauty. Her voice was soothing and he felt he could listen to her for hours. She sipped her wine, still staring at him, but her mind seemed to be far away. He prodded her.
`Why are you fed up with Maurice?'
`The Brig. can be such a pain. He's so goddam stiff – unyielding in the smallest thing. Everything has to be just so. It's his military background, I suppose. He still thinks he's in charge of the brigade – that I'm his aide-de- camp, or whatever…' Newman realized he'd pressed the right button: the words came out in a torrent.
`I trained as an accountant,' she went on, `so that made me pretty meticulous in everything I do. I gave it up. Figures are boring. They never talked to me – the way they seem to do with some accountants. I drifted from one job to another, then I saw this advertisement. For a housekeeper-cum-personal assistant. 'Meticulous attention to detail required', was one phrase used. So I thought: that's me. I keep his papers in order – those he'll let me handle…'
`There are some he keeps to himself?'
`Oh, yes!' Her eyes opened wide. 'The Brig. keeps a lot of them locked in a safe like a bank vault. I'm never allowed access to those. Maurice can be very secretive. And he's not relaxing company – like you are, Bob. You're memorizing every word I say, aren't you?'
`I wouldn't go so far as that,' Newman lied. `Do you travel a lot with him?'
`Indeed we do. Traipse all over Europe. He's meeting what he calls business associates – some of them very peculiar characters…'
`In what way are they peculiar?' Newman asked casually.
`Pretty rough diamonds. I wouldn't like to meet them in a dark alley. God knows what these business deals are. If he wasn't the Brig. I'd say they were villains. He once told me to go to a certain bar in the Reeperbahn in Hamburg late at night to collect an envelope. I had to dress in a certain way so whoever had the envelope would recognize me. Talk about rough types – it's a wonder I got out of there with any of my clothes still on.'
`So how did you handle that?'
`I grabbed a bottle by the neck, smashed it on the bar, and shouted in German that anyone who came near me would carry the scars for life.'
Newman looked at her. With her soothing voice and perfect complexion he found it difficult to picture her as a raging tigress. But he had no doubt the incident had taken place.
`Get the envelope?' he asked.
`Of course.' She looked surprised. 'A big fat sealed envelope. I felt it afterwards in the taxi back to the hotel. I was pretty sure it was crammed with 500-Deutschmark notes.' She smiled again. 'You're listening to every word I say with hardly an interruption. The Brig. wouldn't let me talk for sixty seconds without interrupting. We really ought to get to know each other better.'
`Great idea.' Newman stood up. 'The food will be here soon. Mind if I pop out for a paper? Back in a minute…'
He strolled across the cobbled square in the cold sunlight before the shadows of the ancient buildings blotted it out. Marler, who had seen him coming, had melted out of sight. Newman found him just round the corner.
`What's happening?' he asked Marler. 'I'm bothered about Paula.'
`She's inside the Tete whatnot with her sleek friend. So not to worry. How are you getting on with your blonde lovely?'
`Hearing some strange things about Brigadier Maurice Burgoyne. Keep an eye on Paula and that jerk she's taken a crazy fancy to. Anywhere I can get a paper?'
He arrived back with a copy of La Libre Belgique under his arm and stood stock-still. The wine, the glasses, the crockery and cutlery, and one crumpled napkin were still on the table. But Lee Holmes had gone.
Inside the Tete d'Or Paula had enjoyed the excellent food. At the same time she had been wary of the pleasant compliments Mordaunt paid her. Was he leading up to something more intimate? She asked the question over the coffee.
`It's a small world – excuse the cliche – but it really is rather amazing that we should first meet at Buckler's Hard, then you pop up in Brussels at the Hilton.'
`I always stay at the Hilton,' he replied in his debonair manner. 'And this is where journalists congregate these days. The headquarters of the EC fat-cats and all that. Put it down to a lovely coincidence – from my point of view.'
`So what were you doing at Buckler's Hard? Not a lot of material for a journalist there, I'd have thought.'
`On holiday. Drifting.' He sounded vague. 'I do like messing about in boats.' Paula felt sure he was lying: for the first time he seemed uncomfortable. 'You have the most beautiful hands,' he said suddenly.
She prepared to remove her hand off the table, expecting him to reach out for it. But instead he sat back in his chair. She had the impression he couldn't take his eyes off her. If I allowed my vanity full rein, she thought, I'd think he was falling for me. So get that silly idea out of your head.
`Thank you,' she said quickly. 'And I ought to get back to the hotel soon. I'm expecting a phone call.'
Mordaunt summoned the head waiter immediately, asked for the bill. Paula was puzzled by his attitude. He seemed almost genuine, which she hadn't anticipated.
`I would like to meet you again,' he said, leaning his arms on the table. 'I've never met a girl quite like you.' He looked uncomfortable again, a complete contrast to his normal assured manner. 'Sorry, I heard myself say that. God, it sounded like the usual cheap come-on. I hope you'll excuse me?'
`You're excused,' she replied, smiling, more confused than ever.
`Then could we make a date for dinner? I don't want to put any pressure on you. It's entirely for you to decide.'
`Maybe.' She pondered. 'It would have to be at the Hilton. I get important phone calls at all hours,'
The Hilton would suit me fine. The Baron de Boeuf or the Sky Room? It's up to you.'
`My, we are pushing the boat out.' She smiled again. `The Tete d'Or first, now the Baron de Boeuf. This is costing you a mint.'
`I have a job with a big salary at the moment,' he replied curtly. Then he moderated his tone. 'So it is a date – when you can manage it?'
`If I can manage it,' she corrected him.
He paid the large bill – in cash, she noted. On their way to find a taxi he didn't again take hold of her arm as he had done when they'd left the Hilton. She sensed he was being careful not to push her, an action she appreciated.
`When we get back,' he said, 'I'll see you safely inside and then I've got to go across the road to the money exchange. And, if you don't mind my saying so, don't go out alone at night. Brussels isn't the safest city any more…'
`I can't go on calling you Mr Mordaunt,' she said in the cab. 'What is your first name?'
`Joseph.'
Dr Wand sat behind his desk in the Waterloo villa studying a map of Africa. He checked the date on his calendar and then measured a distance from the Cape of Good Hope with a plastic ruler. On the floor by his side a copy of La Libre Belgique was spread out. A short story carried the headline in French: DUTCH VESSEL DISAPPEARS OFF CAPE OF GOOD HOPE
He pursed his lips in annoyance at the distraction when Jules entered the darkened room. His instinct was to throw down the ruler but instead he carefully placed it parallel to the top of the map. A very precise, controlled man, Dr Wand.
`Yes, Jules.'
`Joseph is on the phone. Speaking from a public call box. He sounds agitated.'
`Wait. Sit down.'
Only the unusual terse instruction told Jules his chief was annoyed. Wand spoke in his usual mellow tone as he answered the phone.
