'Someone for you,' she said as she put down the phone. 'A man called Joel Dyson. Says it's desperately urgent he sees you at once.'
'Joel Dyson? How the devil did he know I was here? He used to be one of my journalist informants. Nowadays he has sunk to the level of one of the paparazzi. Takes pics of so-called celebrities – married – enjoying a tumble with the wrong woman. Sells them to the press for huge sums. I suppose I'd better see him, but not up here.'
'The waiting-room,' Monica decided. She phoned George to give him instructions. Newman said he'd like her to come with him as a witness. 'I'll bring my notebook, then,' she replied.
Facing George's desk, the waiting-room was a bleak bare room with scrubbed floorboards, a wooden table and several hard-backed chairs. It was not designed to encourage visitors to linger.
Monica was surprised at how smartly Joel Dyson was dressed. While driving down through California he had stopped at a motel, hired a room, stripped off his duffle coat, denims and open-necked shirt. Substituting from his bag an American business suit, a Brooks Brothers shirt and tie, a vicuna coat, he had then slipped away from the motel unseen by the proprietor, his room already paid for the night.
A small slim man, in his thirties, he had a plump face with pouched lips, a receding chin and an ingratiating smile. Monica instantly mistrusted him. Her second surprise was his voice. He spoke with an upper-crust English accent. Joel could switch from convincing American to equally acceptable English with ease. He had, in fact, British nationality.
'How the devil did you find me here?' Newman demanded.
'No need to get stroppy. Called at your apartment. You do have a nice taste in blonde companions. She said you'd be here.'
Molly! Newman groaned inwardly. He was on the verge of gently ending the friendship – she was quickly showing signs that she expected him to take her seriously. Now he'd have to speed up the process of disengagement.
'Didn't know you were mixed up with insurance,' Joel went on cheerfully. 'Come to think of it, what an ideal set-up to learn people's dark secrets.'
He had been fooled by the brass plate outside which was engraved with General amp; Cumbria Assurance – the cover name for the SIS. Not asked to sit down, he was still standing.
'What is it you want?' Newman snapped. 'I happen to be very busy.'
'Insurance companies have top-security safes.' Dyson smirked at Monica who had sat down at the table and was making notes. She stared at him blankly, then dropped her eyes to the notebook. Which fazed Dyson not at all.
'I have a tape and a film,' he went on, addressing Newman, 'and they're a bombshell. I'll keep the originals and you store the copies. In case anything happens to me.'
'And what might happen to you?'
Dyson waited until he'd slapped his case on the table, unlocked it, produced two canisters, which he slid across to Monica.
'I may end up dead,' he said quietly.
The seriousness of his tone, the abrupt change from his previous breezy manner intrigued Newman. He was half-inclined to believe Dyson, but still not fully convinced.
'And who would want to kill the world's most popular paparazzo?' he enquired ironically.
'Don't like that word. I'm a highly professional photographer, one of the best-if not the best. And I can't answer your question.'
'Can't – or won't?' Newman snapped again.
'Pass.'
'Then get to hell out of here and take your junk with you.'
The contents of those two canisters could shake the world, shatter Europe to its foundations, destroy any influence Britain has internationally. I'm running scared, Bob – scared as a rabbit with the ferrets inches from its tail.'
Dyson took a cigarette from a gold case and Newman tried an experiment: he used his own lighter to ignite the cigarette. Dyson couldn't hold the tip still, his hand trembling like a leaf in the wind. Reluctantly, Newman decided he was not putting on another of his chameleon-like acts.
'If we agree to keep this stuff we have to know where to get in touch with you,' he said. 'Otherwise, forget it.'
Newman had noticed something when Dyson had extracted the two canisters inside his case. Rammed in on top of some clothes which looked new – and American in style – was a film camera with a coiled hanging strap.
'I've got to rush now,' Dyson protested, lifting his case off the table.
'I said, how do we get in touch with you? Where will you be staying?'
'Contact that Swiss banker you introduced me to. Julius Amberg in Zurich. Look, I'm going to miss my plane…'
'Then shove off.'
Monica escorted him to the door, nodded to George to unlock the front door. Dyson disappeared like the wind.
'I'm taking these canisters straight down to the explosives boffins in the Engine Room for testing,' Monica said the moment she came back.
'Wise precaution,' Newman agreed. 'Then what?'
'Put them in Tweed's safe until he gets back…'
The driver behind the wheel of the grey Volvo, still parked within sight of the building where Dyson emerged, signalled to the driver of another car, a silver Renault, parked behind him, by stroking a hand over his head. 'Volvo' picked up his mobile phone as Dyson stepped inside a taxi he'd hailed, dialled.
'Jerry here again.'
'Developments?' Norton's gravelly voice demanded.
'Subject called at a soft-porn shop in Soho. Came out, took another taxi to a Park Crescent building. Went…'
'Park Crescent? God Almighty, not there! Number of the building?'
'General amp; Cumbria Assurance.' The driver gave him the number. He had strolled round the crescent and back to his car while Dyson was inside. 'When Dyson left the Renault took over-'
'General amp; Cumbria.' Norton had interrupted him, sounded to be thinking aloud. 'I know what that place is. What was Dyson carrying – when he left?'
'Just his bag…'
'He must have left them there for safe keeping.' The voice became even grimmer. 'We'll have to take out the whole building. You'll be needed to prepare the vehicle -and the explosives. The job must be done in the next forty-eight hours. Get back to headquarters…'
PART ONE
1
Two days later Paula Grey was following the other guests into the large dining-room of Tresillian Manor for lunch. The Elizabethan gem was located on an isolated stretch of Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. She had been staying with friends in Sherborne when the call from Tweed came through early in the morning.
'Paula, a strange emergency has arisen. I'm just back from Paris and I had a call from Julius Amberg, the Swiss banker. He sounded frightened. He's flown over here from Zurich to a friend's house on Bodmin Moor…'
