moment.'
Taking his chair back to its original position, he sifted through the photos and documents he had quickly arranged in a pile before Mrs Pendleton arrived, so she couldn't see anything. Taking out his notebook, he then opened the ledger. He had perched it on an inkstand so his visitors could not see its pages.
Using a pen as a pointer, he began to check the names provided by Tweed with the list inside the ledger. It took a while but often he stabbed at a name in the ledger with his pen. His expression became grimmer. When he had closed the ledger he sat staring at Tweed. Then he hauled his chair back to join his visitors.
'I have decided,' he said.
'What is your decision?' Tweed enquired.
'Can you leave with me all the items you have given me?'
'Certainly.'
'I have a Gulfstream jet standing by permanently at Heathrow. I like to be mobile. Soon after you have left me I shall drive to Heathrow, board the jet, and fly immediately to Washington. If you want to contact me, call this number.' He took a pad from a drawer, wrote on it, handed it to Tweed. 'I shall inform all my aides that if you call you are to be put through to me – even if I'm at the White House.'
'Sharon Mandeville next,' Tweed said when they had left Jefferson's lair. 'Might as well tie the lot up at once.'
'Do come in.' Sharon, like Jefferson, had opened the door herself to welcome them inside. 'What a pleasure to see you all again.'
She kissed Tweed on the cheek, shook hands with Paula and Newman. Then she escorted them across the spacious room towards a desk which was even larger than Jefferson's. As they followed her Paula glanced round the room. It was very expensively furnished – money had been no object – but unlike Jefferson's office, it was very modern.
Sharon's enormous desk was made of gleaming white wood, all the chairs were upholstered in white leather, the carpet was white and scattered across it were tiger- skin rugs. The coffee service on a tray on her desk was almost surreal in design. And the rims of the cups were six-sided, which made them very difficult to drink out of without the contents ending up in your lap.
Three chairs were arranged in front of the desk. Behind it was a high-backed chair which reminded Paula of a throne. Sharon gave Tweed a ravishing smile.
'Do sit down, all of you, please. Coffee for everyone?'
'Not for me,' said Tweed as he sat down.
'Me too neither, thank you,' said Newman.
'I'll also pass,' said Paula.
Sharon was wearing a navy blue trouser suit which suggested the high-powered businesswoman. Newman thought she had never looked more attractive. She was pouring herself a cup.
'Excuse me, but I need an ocean of caffeine to keep me going.' She sat in the chair behind the desk. 'Well, Tweed, I suppose we can say we have completed the Grand Tour of Europe.'
'Something like that.'
'Oh, come – ' she gazed at him over the rim of her cup – 'no call to be so serious. It isn't the end of the world.'
'Isn't it?'
Sharon's nails were painted blood-red, a varnish which Paula hated. She had a high collar, buttoned up to her neck. She went on gazing at Tweed, as though assessing his mood. He had taken off his glasses and was cleaning them on his handkerchief. He put the glasses on again.
'Now you get a clearer view of beauty,' Newman joked.
'I have a clearer view of a lot of things now,' Tweed replied.
'So why have you come to see me?' Sharon asked in her soft voice. 'How can I help you?'
'You can confirm certain information I have received.' 'You sound just like a policeman.'
'I was once a policeman,' Tweed told her. 'A century ago.'
'He was the youngest superintendent at Scotland Yard,' Paula explained. 'His speciality was Homicide.'
'What information are you referring to?' Sharon asked.
She was still her calm self. She was leaning back upright in her chair. Her half-closed eyes, glowing greenly, were fixed on Tweed.
'I have here a certain document.' Tweed took a thick envelope out of his breast pocket, extracted a sheet. 'This is a copy of your birth certificate.'
'Really? Isn't this rather personal? How, I wonder, were you able to obtain it?'
'By perfectly legal means. Such certificates are in the public domain, as you must know.'
'Oh, come on, Tweed.' She smiled, still leaning against the back of her upright chair, her body very erect. 'All the way across the Atlantic?'
'Precisely. All the way across the Atlantic.' Tweed unfolded the sheet of paper. 'You were born in Washington, DC. You are forty-two years old.'
'Not very gallant of you, to broadcast my age.'
'On this copy of the certificate it gives your full names. Sharon Charlotte Anderson.'
'So?' Her eyes were almost closed now. 'Where does this lead us to?'
'Charlotte. Sometimes abbreviated to Charlie. Even with a woman. You are Charlie.'
Paula had difficulty suppressing a gasp. She glanced at Newman. He looked stunned. She switched her glance to Tweed, sitting next to her. He looked very relaxed. Still holding the document, he was gazing back at Sharon.
'Charlie,' he said, 'we know masterminded the gigantic operation under way to absorb Britain into America as the fifty-first state. Do you deny you are Charlie?'
'Damn you! Nosy, insignificant little man. Friggin' two-bit so-called detective!' Sharon was standing up now, leaning over her desk as though about to leap at Tweed. 'You don't know what the bloody hell you're talking about!'
She continued screaming at the top of her voice, uttering a foul stream of obscene abuse. Her voice had completely changed. Her lung power was awesome. Suddenly she grabbed the certificate out of his hands, tore it to shreds, threw the pieces over her visitors.
'I do have other copies of that birth certificate,' Tweed informed her quietly. -
'Much good they will do you. You can't prove any of this friggin' nonsense you've been spouting at me. How dare you?' she yelled.
'Imminent events will prove me right.'
'Imminent events,' she screamed, 'will see you out of a job, you friggin' nobody. You'll be lucky to stay alive.'
'Is that a threat?' Tweed asked quietly. 'The kind of order you gave to Jake Ronstadt? Because he is no longer available '
'What do you mean by that?' she raged.
'Jake Ronstadt is dead.'
'Dead?'
'He tried to kill me in Strasbourg – under your orders, I'm sure. One of my people dropped a grenade into the launch Ronstadt was guiding along a waterway. Result? Ronstadt and the two men with him vanished when the launch sailed on into a wild sluice.'
'Tweed, you are a very inventive man,' she spat at him.
'Then there was Rick Sherman. He was torturing the wife of Kurt Schwarz – again on your orders, I'm certain. He's dead – with a knife through his throat.'
'You're lying, Tweed,' she said in a deep voice full of hate. 'You always lie.'
'I'm sure, when it is checked, that it will be found you organized the recruitment of this large gang of thugs front the back streets of New York. You must have sanctioned the issue of diplomatic passports to an army of killers. There has to be a record of who did that.'
'You're crazy,' she went on screaming. 'Stark raving mad. That is something which will be proved. Do you hear me? Do you hear me? Do you hear me?'
