locked the door, then gazed at his visitors with a smile. Tweed introduced Paula as his assistant and confidante. Morgenstern smiled even more broadly as Tweed turned to Newman.
'No introduction necessary here, Tweed. Bob Newman once interviewed me. And I don't give many interviews.' He shook Newman's hand warmly. 'You're looking great and maybe a bit tougher. Experience does that to us all – if we have the fibre. Come and sit down. I'll serve coffee.'
Paula had been studying Morgenstern closely. He was shorter than she had imagined, but his figure in a grey Savile Row suit was well padded. She had the impression of a man of great intelligence who enjoyed the good things of life – especially wine and food. His hair, neatly brushed, was greying and he emanated an aura of supreme self-confidence and dynamic energy – of power.
His large desk was a genuine antique, Chippendale, she thought. On it was a silver engraved tray with a silver coffee service. Three comfortable upright chairs were arranged in front of the desk and Morgenstern dragged his swivel chair round to join them. Not a man to flaunt his importance.
'You were looking at my coffee service,' he said to Paula after she had seated herself, which made her realize this man didn't miss a thing. 'When I was a poor student in Europe I was once invited to a mansion where they had such a service. I decided then,' he continued as he poured coffee, 'that one day I'd have one like it.' He smiled. 'It was a long journey before I was able to purchase one.'
His face was long, Paula noted. His nose was long, his features strong, and beneath his American accent she detected a trace of some European accent. When he had served coffee he sat down near Paula, drank half the contents of his cup, folded his arms.
'Tweed, I've been giving a lot of thought to what you said to me when we last met. At the time I was dismissive. Since then I have given your accusations more thought. I admit I'm a troubled man.' He looked at Paula, then at Newman. 'May I take it that anything we talk about today will be in complete confidence?'
'Quite definitely. These two are my right and left arm. I said recently I'd trust them with my life. That I had done.'
'Good enough for me. The weak link in what you said is a complete lack of evidence.'
'That is what I have brought with me. Overwhelming evidence. In photographs and documents. Some of it was supplied by Arthur Beck, Chief of Swiss Federal Police. I can supply you with his number in Berne if you want it later. While in Basel recently four of the men attached to this Embassy tried to murder me – along with Paula and Bob. Instead, they were killed. They all carried American diplomatic passports. Here is a photograph of the dead killers, supplied to me by Beck. Their names are on the back. And here are photocopies of the passports they carried. Beck has the originals.'
Morgenstern studied the photo of the dead Umbrella Men. He looked at the back, where their names were given. Placing it on his desk, he looked at the photocopies of the passports. His mouth tightened. He placed them on his desk.
'There's worse to come,' Tweed warned. 'There's a clear video picture of the man who left the bomb in the Oxford Street department store.'
'His name is Vernon Kolkowski,' Newman said quietly. 'He also had a diplomatic passport. Once, in New York, the police chief told me he was a professional who had murdered at least six men. They could never indict him. No witness dared testify. If one was willing to testify he'd been found dead in a side street.'
'Then,' Tweed continued, 'we rescued a poor woman who was being tortured by another American with a diplomatic passport. Name of Rick Sherman. He's dead too.'
'Could you pause?' Morgenstern requested. He took from his pocket a leather-bound notebook. 'I'd like to note down some of these names. What was that last one?'
'Rick Sherman.'
'Thank you. And Vernon someone. I'd like the surname.'
Newman spelt it out carefully. Morgenstern wrote it down in his notebook. Then he looked again at the video print of the man who had planted the bomb in the Oxford Street department store.
'As far as I can gather,' Tweed went on, 'I know you are handling the diplomatic side of this huge operation. But there is another secret section inside this Embassy called the Executive Action Department. That is staffed by what I would call the gangster level – and all the members have been given diplomatic passports.'
'How can I phrase this?' Morgenstern wondered aloud. 'While you were away I made certain enquiries here. I had the impression certain people evaded giving me answers to my questions.'
'Have you heard of the Executive Action Department?'
'No.'
'I'm certain it's located in this building. That it is responsible for the outrages. Individual murders and wholesale bombings.'
'I am good at assessing character, Tweed. I am sure you would not ever invent such horrific stories.'
'Is there any way you could check the names of everyone who has been issued with a diplomatic passport over, say, the past seven weeks?'
'I was thinking of that. Yes, there is. But first I must refresh your cups.'
Paula glanced round the large room while Morgenstern manipulated the silver coffee pot. The room was furnished in expensive but restrained taste. Heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains flanked the windows, curtains with a Regency stripe. The wall-to-wall carpet was a pale mushroom colour. The few pieces of other furniture were also antiques. The room had a restful atmosphere. On another desk the Stars and Stripes was suspended from a bronze column.
'I'm going to ask the Ambassador's personal assistant for the record of all diplomatic passports issued recently,' said Morgenstern.
'Mrs Pendleton,' he said on the phone, 'I require urgently the list of all personnel working here issued with diplomatic passports over the past seven weeks.'
Mrs Pendleton had a loud raucous American voice. Tweed could hear her end of the conversation clearly.
'Well, the list exists, but I can't supply it to you without the consent of the Ambassador.'
'Ask him now, then.'
'I can't. He is out.'
'Mrs Pendleton, do you recognize my voice?'
'Of course, sir.'
'Then kindly remember you are talking to the Secretary of State.'
'I do know that, sir.'
'Then I expect you to deliver the list to me within two minutes.'
'Some people,' Morgenstern smiled briefly, 'who have held down a job for years develop delusions of grandeur.'
Paula was struck by the brief smile. Since Tweed had started to produce his evidence a change had come over Morgenstern. Instead of his earlier amiability his expression had become one of gravity. He's taking this very seriously, she thought.
There was a tap on the door, Morgenstern called out to come in. A plump self-important looking woman in her late fifties entered. She was holding a green leather- bound ledger which she placed on the desk.
'I'm afraid I need a receipt before I release that ledger,' she said, producing a small pad.
'Really?' Morgenstern stared at her. 'Have you a short memory? If so, something could be done about that. Only minutes ago I reminded you I am Secretary of State.'
'I suppose I could make an exception.'
'Mrs Pendleton. Do you see the handle of that door you opened to come in here?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Go over it, take hold of it. That's right. Now turn it to the left.'
'I'm sorry, sir, if…'
'Now you keep hold of the handle. Pull the door open towards you. I see you've managed it. Now, walk into the corridor and close the door quietly behind you. It's not too difficult.'
Tweed smiled to himself. It was notorious that Morgenstern had an acid side to his nature. He couldn't suffer fools gladly.
'Now, we can do our homework,' said Morgenstern.. 'Excuse me if I go and sit behind my desk for a
