'No, you ain't. So I'll tell you. It's called destabilization. For you who don't know what it means – which means all of you – I'll explain. We'll leave bombs – big bombs with timers – in markets. Over here they call them supermarkets. We'll plant them in bars, restaurants – everywhere a lot of people gather. The Brits will get so they daren't leave their homes. Until bombs start exploding inside houses. Terror is a powerful weapon. Got it now? Great idea.'
'Terrific!'
'A winner!'
'A blaster!'
Every man tried to compete with his colleagues in thinking up a better superlative. Jake glowered at them, his' mouth a thin tight line. He shook his large head, shuffled his pack a few times.
'You still ain't got it. When a load of bombs have gone off – with heavy casualties – the Brits will start shoutin' their heads off at their police. 'Why can't you do something?' That's when we offer to send in an FBI unit. About a week after the FBI have supposedly gone for the tails of the bombers the explosions stop. Result? The Americans are much better at the job than the Metropolitan Police jerks. 'Give the job to the FBI,' the Brits will beg. We're in control. No more yapping. You had a trial run in Philadelphia when you planted dummy bombs all over the city. None were discovered.'
'When do we start?' asked Brad, daring to open his mouth.
'Soon. First I have to check with Charlie. Timin' is so goddamn important…'
Tweed had fallen asleep on the camp bed Monica had hauled out of a cupboard then made up with pillow, sheets and blankets. The phone began to ring at 4 am and he was instantly awake as Monica answered it.
'Are you awake?' she called out softly.
'Yes.'
'I have Ed Osborne on the line. Wants to speak to you…'
'I'll take the call.'
Slipping on a dressing gown over his pyjamas, he sat behind his desk, picked up the phone.
'Tweed here, Ed. What can I do for you?'
'Hope you weren't asleep.'
'I was. What is it?'
'Think it's time you and I had a talk. Just the two of us. Do you know a pub called the Raging Stag in Piccadilly?' 'I do.'
'Can we meet there today? Say noon?'
'Can you give me a hint as to what this is about?' 'Sooner not, over the phone…'
'Noon at the Raging Stag, then.'
He told Monica the brief gist of his conversation. She raised her thick eyebrows, frowned.
'After his performance here I wouldn't have thought you would want another session.'
'The Americans can be a bit brash. Doesn't worry me. And the more I can find out what they're up to the better. We're very short of time, I sense.'
'You realize they are taking a great interest in us? Tonight Bob is dining with Sharon Mandeville at Santorini's. Then Marler is taking out Denise Chatel.'
'The same thought had occurred to me. Incidentally, I want you to book seats on the early morning Swissair flight to Basel for six people. Me, Paula, Newman, Marler, Harry Butler and Pete Nield. Not sure when we'll be going but it will be suddenly. So, each day book, then cancel, and immediately book for the next day. Keith Kent, the money tracer, called me to say millions of dollars have been deposited with the Zurcher Kredit Bank – confirming what Schwarz said. I wonder why.'
'Who knows? Millions of dollars. That's a vast sum. Going back to Osborne, I doubt he'll tell you much.'
'He might let something slip. Oh, at a civilized hour, get me Ren6e Lasalle, chief of the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire – French counter-espionage in Paris – on the phone.'
'Will do.'
'Any luck with identifying Charlie?'
'No. As I told you earlier it's difficult, but I'll go on digging.'
The phone rang again. Monica pulled a sour face, took the call. She looked even more sour.
'Now we have Roy Buchanan on the line. Says it's urgent – at this time of night.'
'I'll speak to him.'
'I know you work all night,' Buchanan began. 'Sometimes I try to get a bit of kip.'
'Sorry, and all that. Something's happened. Can I come and see you now? I think you'd want to know about it,' Buchanan suggested.
'Can't it wait till morning?'
'It could, I suppose. When would suit you?'
'Eight o'clock. You sound worried. It's too early, to worry. Wait a bit longer and then you'll have something. to fret about. That is, if my present reading of the situation is correct.'
'I've got enough on my plate,' Buchanan snapped. 'Get a bigger plate. Goodbye…'
'And you'd better go to the office next door and get some sleep yourself,' Tweed told Monica.
'I think I will. You talk as though you're expecting a storm.'
'A gale. Force Ten.'
Tweed had two hours' sleep. He woke up, alert, hearing the door to his office open. His right hand slid under the pillow, gripped the 7.65mm Walther automatic under it. It was a measure of his estimate of the gravity of the situation, that he had taken this precaution. He hardly ever carried a gun.
The light came on. Tweed, twisted on his right side, aimed the weapon at the door. Howard, the Director, stood framed in the doorway, looking startled. Tweed sighed, shoved the gun back under the pillow, got up, put on his dressing gown.
'Sorry if I wakened you,' Howard burbled. 'But George told me you were still here.'
'As you see, I am.' Tweed glanced at his wristwatch. 'I've had two hours' sleep and that will have to do. What are you doing, prowling about the place? I heard you'd returned from a holiday.'
He sat behind his desk while the Director flopped into the largest armchair. Howard was six feet tall with a plump, clean-shaven, pink face, and touches of grey in his neatly brushed hair. A large man in his fifties, he was immaculately garbed in a blue Chester Barrie suit from Harrods, a snow-white shirt and a Hermes tie. He rested one long leg over the arm of the chair, his usual posture. His voice was plummy.
'Hardly a holiday. I've just returned from Washington. I caught up on sleep by going to a hotel after the flight had landed. Had early breakfast, then came straight on here.'
'What's happening in Washington? Why go there?' Tweed poured water from a carafe into a glass, left for him by Monica. He sipped as Howard ran a hand over the dome of his head, a characteristic gesture when he was worried.
'I went there at the invitation of the august and influential Jefferson Morgenstern – only to find he had suddenly dashed off over here. He'd left some of his top staff to look after me. I was wined and dined at all the best places. Everyone I met made a big fuss over me as though I was the most important man in the world. Not the usual reception by a long chalk. All of which worried me. They wanted something – but never got round to saying what it was. Under their glowing greetings I detected tension. Something's rotten in the woodshed.'
Tweed was surprised. The pompous Howard often didn't grasp what was going on. But sometimes he had flashes of insight. Tweed drank more water before he began.
'The woodshed where there's something rotten is over here. I've got a lot to tell you…'
It was unusual for Tweed to tell Howard everything that had taken place. He did so now. If I don't survive, he thought to himself, someone had better be in the picture. Howard listened with great attention. He even removed his leg from over the arm of the chair, leaning closer to Tweed.
'So now you have the full story up to date,' Tweed concluded. 'Didn't they tell you anything in Washington?'
'They kept going on about the importance of the special relationship between Britain and America, the way
