Paula saw why Tweed had referred to the Hotel Metropole's strategic position as soon as they arrived. Perched high up, it looked down on and across the estuary of the River Camel. Gleaming like a sheet of quicksilver by the light of the moon, it appeared to be about a quarter of a mile wide from Padstow to the opposite shore.
Parked outside, in the forecourt in front of the large Victorian building, was Newman's Mercedes 280E. Its owner appeared from inside as Tweed was registering for his party. Newman frowned at Paula, slipped her a sheet of folded paper as he passed her, which she palmed. He walked outside as though he'd never seen them before in his life.
She showed Tweed the note as they travelled up in the lift to their rooms. Tweed had a suite, No. 11, on the first floor, while Paula's double room was on the second.
'Come down and see me within five minutes,' Tweed told Paula after he'd read the note.
Butler and Nield, acting as guards, had rooms close to Paula's. Tweed had requested this at the desk.
'Miss Grey is recovering from a serious illness,' he had informed the receptionist. 'Pneumonia. She might need assistance walking when she leaves her room…'
Paula closed her room door. The lights were on, the curtains drawn. She moved swiftly, sensing the urgency in Tweed's order. Opening her case, she threw the lid back, lifted out her favourite navy blue suit, hung it in the wardrobe, hurried back to the lift.
Tweed had a much larger room with a sitting area. He stood in the middle, still wearing his trench coat in spite of the heated atmosphere. Handing her the note, he began pacing like a caged tiger. The note was terse.
Meet me in my car -parked halfway up Station Road. Have phoned H. Very big trouble. H. wants you to call him. Have found safe phone. Bob.
'You said you were ravenous just before we reached here,' Paula reminded him.
'Food will have to wait. I phoned the dining-room. They will serve us later.' His brusque tone softened. 'But you can go straight down to dinner – you've had a pretty rough day.'
'Nothing doing. I'm coming with you.'
'So is Butler…'
Outside the hotel an icy breeze blew from the north. As they climbed the hill Paula asked her question.
'Why do they call this Station Road?'
'Because at the bottom of the hill behind us is a building which is the old station. Now it's Customs amp; Excise. The trains don't run here any more. Haven't for years. The line was eliminated long ago. Here we are. You sit next to Bob. Maybe he'll be better company than I am tonight. While I remember, Bob, I'd like to borrow your field glasses.'
Newman drove to the top of the road, turned right down New Street. Lined with two-storey grey stone terrace houses, it made Paula feel they had arrived in old Cornwall. Newman paused, pointed to a wooden cabin set back from the road. No light in the windows.
'Believe it or not, that's the police station. Unmanned. So, if we hit trouble, don't expect any help from the police.'
'Comforting,' Paula commented.
Newman swung right again down St Edmund's Lane, an even narrower and bleaker street at night. It descended steeply and it too was hemmed in on either side with old grey stone terrace houses. No one about, not a soul, and the lighting was dim, Newman paused for a moment, pointed to a gap in the wall to their right with a shadowed pathway leading uphill.
'That's a short cut on foot back to the Metropole.'
'I wouldn't advise going up there after dark,' said Butler, seated next to Tweed.
It was the first thing he'd said since they had entered the car. Paula, feeling edgy, took the remark personally.
'I suppose that was for my benefit. Harry, I'll have you know I can take care of myself.'
'I wouldn't go that way at night myself,' Butler told her equably.
Newman drove to the bottom of the lane and Paula leaned forward, anxious to get some idea of Padstow's layout. Turning to the left along a level road, Newman gestured to his right.
'That's a dock beyond the car park with the estuary on the far side. I'm now driving along a one-way street. If I'd turned right at the bottom of St Edmund's Lane it's two-way traffic. Ahead is the harbour, a complex system. I can show you better in the morning. Tweed, I decided it might be better if I stayed elsewhere as an unknown reserve. I have a room overlooking the harbour in the Old Custom House, the building on your left. It's a very good hotel. And there is your phone box. I have to park a bit further on. See you in the morning?'
'Yes. We'll be walking past your hotel at ten o'clock on the dot. Good night. Take care…'
Newman had paused, while Tweed and Paula got out of the car. Butler followed them, crossed to the carpark where he had a clear view of the old-fashioned red phone box. The raw wind hit them as Tweed struggled to haul the door open and Paula dived inside with him. It was with some trepidation that Tweed dialled Howard's number at the Surrey mansion.
'Who is this?' Howard's voice enquired after Tweed had been passed through an operator.
Tweed. I gather you wanted to talk to-'
'Is that a safe phone?' Howard interrupted, his voice tense.
'It should be. It's a public call box. If you don't mind I won't say where I'm speaking from.'
'Oh, damn that, I don't care. As long as you're well away from London…'
'I am…'
'Tweed, the situation is desperate, unprecedented. You'll hardly believe what's happening.'
'Try me,' Tweed suggested quietly.
'As you know, our HQ has been totally destroyed by the bomb. But I can't get through to the PM. He seems to have cut himself off from me. Every time I try to reach him some fool of a private secretary feeds me a load of codswallop as to why I can't contact him. But I know the PM is in Downing Street. The secretary let that slip.'
'I see. Any theory as to why this is happening?'
'Well, the PM is having trouble with Washington. He needs America's support, as you know, over Europe and the Middle East. Washington is being very distant with London.'
'Precisely who in Washington?' Tweed enquired.
'I gather it's the Oval Office. President March himself.'
'Rather a rough diamond, I've heard.'
'Should never have been elected,' Howard stormed. 'Just because he's a powerful orator, talks the language of the people.' He sighed with disgust. 'The people – and some of them he mixes with are hardly out of the top drawer.'
'What you're saying is we've lost the PM's support? Even with this bomb outrage?'
'It would seem so. I can't believe it.' Howard sounded to be in despair. 'I really can't believe it,' he repeated, 'but it's happening.'
'I want you to call Commander Crombie…'
'I spoke to him a few minutes ago. At least he is talking to me. He said it was too early to be positive, but his experts have found relics of the device which detonated the bomb. It's definitely not IRA, Crombie says. A very sophisticated and advanced mechanism was used – something they've never encountered before. The press will continue to say it was the IRA, and Crombie won't contradict them.'
'He sounds to be moving fast.'
'Something else difficult to believe. Crombie has teams working round the clock on clearing the debris – three shifts every twenty-four hours. I think it's discovery of this new device which has electrified him.'
'Howard, phone Crombie on my behalf. Tell him it is very important to find amid that mountain of rubble my office safe. It contains a film and a tape recording. They could be the key to all that's happening. I'm guessing.'
'You usually guess correctly,' Howard admitted. 'I will make that call to Crombie – mentioning you. What do the film and the tape contain?'
'If I knew that I might know who is masterminding these attacks on us.'
'Could take weeks to find,' Howard warned. 'And then it may be crushed to nothing – or its contents will be.'
'That's what I like about you, Howard – your eternal optimism. Just call Crombie.'
