entrance.
Back in his study Wingfield decided he would make a few very discreet enquiries. The problem was always to find an ear where the mouth would stay shut afterwards. Calm and dignified during the meeting, inwardly the Senator was a very disturbed man.
14
It was dark as they waited close to Padstow harbour. Newman sat with Paula alongside him in his Mercedes. Cardon had taken over the wheel of the Escort. Butler and Nield had taken the Sierra – but at that moment they were both outside, watching the phone box with Tweed inside it.
A storm had blown up, the sea was in a rage. Paula got out of the Merc., leaned in to speak to Newman.
'I'm going to get a closer look. It's really wild tonight.'
'I'll come with you,' Newman said, jumping out of his seat.
They walked near the edge of South Quay, but not too close. The gale nearly blew them off their feet. Fascinated, Paula watched the boats in the outer harbour swaying and tossing. Huge waves rolled in, crashed against the rear wall, exploded in a burst of surf and spume rising way up above the wall. One smaller craft looked as though it was going to be upended at any moment.
Newman grasped her arm to prevent her getting any nearer to the brink. She glanced over her shoulder where the interior light shone down on the occupant of the telephone box.
Tweed had dialled the Surrey mansion, was put through very quickly to Monica. He spoke rapidly.
'Short of time. Monica, I want you to prepare a profile on a man called Gaunt. Lives at Tresillian Manor on Bodmin Moor. You won't hear from me for some time, but don't worry.'
'What the hell is going on?'
It was the first time he'd ever heard her swear. Even on the phone he could sense her tension – a tension which probably pervaded the whole mansion.
'No idea yet,' he answered. 'Now, put me on to Howard…
Tweed, are you all right?' were Howard's first words.
'Yes. We're moving on. Had a word with the PM yet?'
'No, we're completely cut off from the outside world -which is an eerie feeling. I did get one thing out of that fool of a private secretary when I threatened to go up to Downing Street. He said I wouldn't be admitted, that there's a major terrorist hunt in progress. I can't imagine what he's talking about.'
Then you haven't got much imagination, Tweed thought. He had a pad and a pen at the ready.
'Can you give me Commander Crombie's private number? I may need to contact him.' He scribbled down figures of a phone number in London. 'Thanks. Now listen, Howard, you may not hear from me again for a while. Don't worry about it. I'll be in a safe place with my team.'
'Well, I hope you know what you're doing. Where is this safe place?'
'Sorry, I'm leaving no forwarding address. Must go…'
'Wait! I've just remembered. Had a call from Cord Dillon. Take down this number… Got it? He must be in Switzerland. He wants you to call him urgently. Gave me different times. Half a sec. Just checked my watch. You could get him now, allowing for the time difference. There are only fifteen-minute periods during the times he gave me.'
'I'd better get off this line, then…'
'But I need to know where I can get in touch with you.'
'No forwarding address…'
Tweed put down the phone, fished in his pocket. He needed more coins. The wind nearly hurled him back inside the box as he emerged. Battling against the gale he beckoned to Butler and Nield as Paula and Newman came back to the Merc. Tweed climbed into the back, called out brusquely.
'I need all the change you've got to make a long-distance call. Hurry it up
'Not another call?' Paula exclaimed. 'Maybe we'd better set up a coffee and sandwich bar for you inside that box,' she teased.
'It's not funny. Just give me the change. Cord Dillon is waiting for me to ring. Sounds like a fugitive, from the way Howard reported it. The Deputy Director of the CIA -something is terribly wrong…'
Armed with a large collection of coins Tweed returned to the box. The first number Howard had passed to him was 010.41. Switzerland. Followed by 1. Zurich. Followed by the rest of the numbers. The operator put him through quickly and he began listening to the ringing sound. He checked his watch. He was damned close to the end of the fifteen-minute period.
'Who is this calling?'
Dillon's abrasive American voice. No doubt about it.
'Tweed here. I got your message from Howard…'
'Where are you calling from? I can't hang about here much longer
'Public phone box…'
'Like me. In Shopville. Just listen. Joel Dyson is here. Still alive. Least he was when I spotted him, then lost the guy. So is Special Agent Barton Ives, FBI. Again I go and lose him. At least he's here.'
'You're staying at…
The place you suggested. No names. Don't see how they can tap every goddamn phone in this country, but you just never know.'
'Cord…'
'I said just listen. I'm filling you in on the situation. Too many Americans here who don't look like tourists. I guess they're after Dyson. Ives, too.'
Tell me about this Barton Ives…'
'Not over the phone. Maybe we can meet some place some day. If I'm still walking around…'
'Cord. You may see me sooner than you think. Keep under good cover
…'
'What is good cover in this situation? Got to go. Hang in there, Tweed…'
There was a click. Tweed sighed, pushed open the door as another gale-force gust tried to slam it shut on him. He walked back to the Merc, with his head bowed, followed by Butler and Nield, and dived inside the back. The wind closed the door for him. Paula twisted round in the front passenger seat.
'It's quite a night. You should see what's happening in the harbour.'
'Which is exactly what I shouldn't see. Bob, get moving. You've found St Mawgan, Paula?'
'I can take us straight'there.'
'That will be a miracle.'
Paula didn't reply. Tweed was tauter than a guitar string.
Newman drove along the A389 once he was clear of Padstow. Cardon followed in the Escort and the Sierra, with Butler at the wheel and Nield beside him, brought up the rear. The wind beat against the side of the Merc., bent over hedges as though intent on tearing them up by the roots. 'We're heading for Wadebridge,' Tweed called out.
'We could have taken a side road and come out on the A39 much further west.'
'Who is the bloody navigator?' Paula snapped. She'd had enough of Tweed's brusqueness. 'I'm keeping us on A-roads. On a night like this we don't want to be driving on windy B-roads. Not until we have to later.'
'She's right,' Newman said. 'I'm driving and this is a big car to take down narrow country roads on a night like this.'
'Sorry, Paula,' said Tweed, who realized he'd been sharp with her. 'I'll leave the two of you to get us there.'
Tweed was enduring a mixture of emotions – impatience to reach their ultimate destination and anxiety about the safety of Cord Dillon.
'What about accommodation for the night?' Paula queried after a while. 'Did you manage to fix up rooms for
