He entered the vast concourse, carrying the bag containing a set of clothes he'd been careful to purchase at several shops after handing back the Chevy. He bought a United Airlines return ticket to London – the return was to throw off his track anyone who traced the reservation.
The flight left in three-quarters of an hour. Dyson was congratulating himself on his speedy departure as he checked in his bag. That was when he heard the crafty voice as he left the counter.
'Found a chick in London who's dropping her panties for the wrong man?'
'What?'
Dyson swung round and stared at a small man with a face closely resembling a monkey's. Which was why he was known as the Monkey. Nick Rossi was a small-time operator who watched the airports in the hope of picking up useful information he could peddle to the press for a small sum.
'I'm taking a well-earned holiday,' he snapped. 'And if I'm lucky I'll find an available chick. Sorry, Nick, no sale.'
'Which is why you're taking your camera with you?'
The Monkey grinned knowingly. A dead half-smoked cigarette was glued to the right-hand corner of his thin lips.
'You should know opportunities hit you in the kisser when you least expect it. Keep out of the rain…'
Dyson hurried away, swearing foully under his breath. He had thought of offering the Monkey a fistful of bills to keep him quiet – but that would have whetted his greedy appetite. Dyson only relaxed when the jumbo jet had taken off, swung out over Catalina Island and the Pacific Ocean, then turned east back over the mainland on its non-stop eleven-hour polar route flight to London. A double whiskey provided by the stewardess also helped.
His mood of relaxation didn't last long. As the machine flew on through the night, still climbing, he furtively glanced round, checking the other passengers. His chance encounter with Nick Rossi could prove fatal. Had they had time to rush a man aboard at the last moment? He doubted it. A second glass of whiskey relaxed him again.
Dyson dared not go to sleep even though most of the passengers of the half-filled jumbo were now comatose. The film camera nestled on his lap, concealed under a newspaper. Frequently he put his hand inside the pocket of his coat folded on the empty seat beside him. He felt relieved when he found the tape was still there…
Bob Newman. The name kept repeating itself in Dyson's mind as he disembarked at Heathrow. He changed his plan of action on impulse. Instead of immediately buying a
Swissair ticket to Zurich he hurried outside the concourse, climbed into a taxi and gave the driver the address of Newman's flat in Beresforde Road, South Kensington. In his haste, he failed to notice the small stocky man in a dark belted raincoat who watched him, followed him, signalled with his hand, stroking the left side of his face as a grey Volvo appeared. Then the man ran to a phone box.
'Ed, here. London Airport. The subject came in off the LA flight, walked out, took a taxi somewhere.'
'Did he now?' The gravelly voice of Norton was abrasive. 'With a tail, I trust?'
The grey Volvo was passing. We had three cars cruising round…'
'I know that. Nick Rossi came across good. Wait there. Don't go to sleep. The subject may come back. Report to me any developments.'
'I'll stay tuned…'
The stocky man realized the phone had cut out, the connection broken. Typical. He had never seen Norton, had only heard his gravelly American voice on phones. He had commented on this to another member of the unit.
'That's your good luck,' his colleague had warned. 'No one knows what he looks like. You ever meet Norton, know who he is, you're dead …'
Arriving at Newman's flat, which faced the church of St Mark's, Dyson told the cab driver to wait. An elegant slim blonde girl answered the door, but made no attempt to invite him inside. Dyson produced an old press card carrying his photo.
'Sorry to disturb you. I'm Joel Dyson, an old friend of Bob Newman's, I need to see him urgently. He's expecting me,' he lied.
'He didn't say anything,..'
'He wouldn't. Our business is confidential. And urgent,' he repeated. 'Matter of life and death.'
My death, he thought. The blonde examined the press card, looked at him, seemed uncertain how to respond as she handed back the card. Dyson forced himself to smile, to relax. She didn't smile back at him, but nodded.
'Have you something to write down an address? He's with the General amp; Cumbria Assurance Company in Park Crescent. Twenty minutes from here by cab…'
Thanking her after he'd scribbled in his notebook, Dyson, camera looped over his shoulder, hurried back to the cab, gave the driver an address in Soho. Earlier, on his way from the airport, he had glanced back a couple of times through the rear window. He didn't notice the grey Volvo driving one vehicle behind the cab. He really had little anxiety that he could have been followed.
Joel Dyson had badly underestimated the energy and power of the force reaching out towards him. During the eleven-hour flight from LA his San Francisco apartment had been turned over, examined for clues under a microscope. All main Californian airports had been checked -hence the swift contact with Nick Rossi. Wires had hummed between the States and Europe. Arrangements for the target's 'reception' had been made. Identity had been established by the tape recorder.
En route to the Soho address, Dyson was contemplating the value of the film and the tape. Five million dollars? No. Ten million dollars at least. The man would find ways of raising the money when faced with total destruction. Joel was on a big high when he left the cab in a street in Soho. He never even noticed the grey Volvo which slowed, then parked.
'Need to use your copying room for a film and a tape, Sammy. And I'm in a pissing great hurry,' Dyson told the cockney owner of the shop.
Outside it appeared to be an outlet for soft-porn films. But Dyson knew London well and had used the cockney's facilities in the past.
'Cost you, mate,' Sammy told him quickly. 'I don't let just anyone muck about with my equipment. Extra charge in case it's illegal, which it probably is.'
'Just watch the door. I don't want interruptions,' Dyson snapped. 'And here's your outrageous fee.'
Before disappearing into the back room he dropped two one-hundred dollar bills on the counter. Sammy, a ginger-haired hunchback, suppressed a whistle of surprise. He held the bills up to the light. They looked OK.
When Dyson came out of the room he had four canisters inside his bag. Two originals – film and tape – and one copy of each. Nodding to Sammy, he walked into the street, hailed a passing cab, told the driver to take him to Park Crescent.
Dyson had taken another impulsive decision the moment the cab had moved off from Beresforde Road - changing his next destination to Sammy's in Soho. Much safer to have twin sets of the film and the tape – one hidden in London, the other in Zurich. He prayed Newman would be at Park Crescent.
Inside a first-floor office at the Park Crescent HQ of the SIS, Bob Newman sat drinking coffee with Monica, Deputy Director Tweed's faithful and long-time assistant. Of uncertain age, Monica wore her grey hair tied back in a bun. Seated behind her desk, she was enjoying a chat with the foreign correspondent. In his early forties, of medium build, and clean-shaven, his hair brown, with a capable manner, Newman had been fully vetted and had often worked with her chief.
'I said Tweed was away,' she remarked. 'Actually he's in Paris. Expected back any time now.'
'He's like a dragonfly,' Newman commented. 'Zigzagging all over the place. I think he likes travel.'
'You're one to talk,' she chaffed him. 'As a foreign correspondent you've been everywhere-'
She broke off as the phone rang. It was George, the ex-Army man who acted as door-keeper and guard downstairs. Monica frowned, looked at Newman, said 'Who?' for the second time. 'Tell him to wait – and keep a close eye on him.'
