'When I first went – was taken – to the States, I realized my English accent was a passport to successful men. When you're young you're easily flattered. I suppose I did exploit my accent. Does that sound awful?'
'No.'
'Money isn't everything.'
'How is it you still speak perfect English, after all that time spent over there?'
'I came back over here frequently. I have a small mansion in Dorset. Sometimes I think I'd like to live here for good. I find America raw. You glanced at your watch.'
'I've enjoyed our conversation. I hope you'll excuse me – I have an important appointment this afternoon.' 'Of course.'
A light had been flashing on her phone for several minutes. It had been reflected in a mirror close to the door. Tweed collected his coat from the hanger she had put it on while Sharon sat behind her desk. Picking up her phone she listened, then answered.
'Yes. Yes. Yes. Now don't bother me again.'
She got up and walked slowly towards him. Again it occurred to Tweed that she was an incredibly elegant woman. She shook hands with him.
'When you have the time perhaps we could meet again for lunch or dinner to chat some more.'
'It will be my pleasure.
He walked into the corridor, she closed the door and he felt very alone.
There was something about the atmosphere of the building which Tweed found disturbing. No sign of anyone. No sound. He'd have expected the Embassy to be a hive of activity. He had paused, was about to turn to his right when the door across the corridor opened.
A tall American with a smooth face and a blank expression stood facing him. Tweed had the impression of a man conscious of his position in the pecking order. When the American spoke he wondered how he had known Tweed would be in the corridor. Sharon Mandeville had finished speaking before she opened the door, which had not made a hint of noise.
'Tweed?' the American enquired.
'Yes. Who are you?'
'Chuck Venacki.'
The penny dropped. Tweed recalled Chief Inspector Buchanan's story of the encounter when Newman had rammed the Lincoln Continental on the edge of Park Crescent. This physically impressive man had said he was an attache at the Embassy.
'Main elevator you came up in is out of order,' Venacki said tersely. 'Turn left, end of corridor turn left again. Take the elevator there. There's a door to the side street.'
'Thank you.'
Veriacki didn't hear his reaction. He had closed the door in Tweed's face. A certain lack of warmth, Tweed said to himself. As though Venacki resented his presence. And there had been an air of hostility. Tweed turned right, heading for the elevator which had brought him up.
There was a notice hanging from the elevator's closed door. Out of order. He pressed a button. Nothing happened. Next to the elevator was a wide staircase which, presumably, led to the exit floor below. He was just descending the first step when he looked back along the corridor. Chuck Venacki was outside his office, watching him. He disappeared instantly, as though he had dashed back into his quarters. Tweed frowned.
He descended the several short flights of stairs slowly, listening. Still not a sound. Peculiar. The atmosphere now seemed menacing. He reached the bottom and the spacious hall was empty – except for the receptionist behind her desk. Her phone rang. She answered it, slammed down the receiver, got up, vanished through a door behind her. Tweed walked quickly to the door. When he tried to open it the door wouldn't move.
He turned round, headed for the revolving door leading out to the square. Close to it was a small desk with a phone. He was about to pass the desk when the phone buzzed faintly. Carefully, Tweed lifted the receiver. A man's voice he didn't recognize was speaking.
'The operation's under way. Double-check with Charlie.
What operation? And who the heck was Charlie? Tweed moved swiftly, pressed a hand on the revolving door. It remained stationary. He couldn't get out the way he had come in. He was trapped. Calmly he surveyed the reception hall. There was no one he could contact. No doubt about it – he was imprisoned inside the building.
He peered out beyond the immobile revolving door. A stretch limo had pulled in behind a blue Chrysler parked, at the kerb. Without waiting for his uniformed chauffeur to alight, a passenger jumped out of the rear seat, slammed the door shut, ran up the steps. On his arrival Tweed had noticed two video cameras aimed down the flight of steps. He recognized – from pictures in the papers – the lean energetic man running up the steps. The recently appointed American Ambassador.
Taking no notice of the man inside, the Ambassador pushed at the doors and they began revolving. Tweed walked out as the Ambassador walked in. The keen cold air hit him after the warmth of the air-conditioned building. Tweed paused at the top of the steps, scanning the street. Then he ran one hand over the top of his head, smoothing down his hair.
He had almost reached the bottom step when three tough-looking men emerged from the Chrysler. One opened the rear door. Another addressed him in a harsh American accent.
'Mr Tweed?'
'Yes..
'We'll drive you back to where you're going. Get in.' 'No, thank you…'
'I said get in, Buddy.'
Something hard and circular was rammed into his back. Two men took him by the arms, began to hustle him inside the rear of the car. On the far rear seat a small bald man was playing with a Colt automatic pistol, grinning unpleasantly at Tweed.
Tweed became aware of a commotion, a scuffle behind him. He was released from the hand grips. Newman hit one thug over the head with the barrel of his gun. Marler hit another of them with the stiffened side of his hand, the blow connecting with the side of his neck. Harry Butler pointed a wide-barrelled gun, aimed inside the car, pulled the trigger. The interior was sprayed with Mace gas. The bald man and the driver behind the wheel collapsed, choking, unable to see. Newman heaved one unconscious thug into the rear of the car, Marler bundled the second unconscious bundle inside. Butler, who had earlier broken the jaw of the third assailant, shoved him in, fired one more blast of Mace gas, slammed the door shut.
'Let's go,' Newman said to Tweed. 'Merc's parked over there.'
'I know. I saw it.'
'What brought you here?' Tweed asked as Butler drove the Merc back to Park Crescent.
'Monica,' Newman replied, for once seated beside Tweed in the rear. 'When she told us you'd gone to the Embassy we decided you might need back-up. Too many not-nice people floating around our city these clays:'
'Well, thank you all. I don't know what they had in mind for me if they'd pulled off the kidnap. Maybe interrogation, maybe murder…'
He then explained concisely his experiences inside the Embassy. When he'd finished he looked out of the window where a drizzle of rain was smearing London.
'One key is to find out who Charlie is. I think he may be the real leader behind their Executive Action Department.'
6
At four in the afternoon Tweed was driving his Ford Sierra along a narrow twisting lane approaching Parham. By his side Paula sat keeping quiet. She sensed Tweed was thinking as he drove.
It was almost dark and his headlights shone through the gloom. Overhead dark clouds massed as though preparing for a cloudburst. She noticed he kept glancing in his rear-view mirror. He slowed down at an isolated spot where he could see the lane ahead for some distance, pulled over onto the grass verge, put one hand out of the window he had lowered, gestured for a car behind to stop.
