wouldn't tell me. Like a volcano about to explode.'
'You didn't answer my question about Marler.'
'Marler?' Tweed suppressed a yawn. 'He's attempting to discover who assassinated our Prime Minister in Manchester last week.'
1
'This traffic is as bad as I've seen in LA,' Dillon commented. 'And the Cadillac has picked us up again – it's three cars behind us.'
Newman was driving his Merc among an armada of speeding cars in the dark moonless night. He chose his moment carefully for the manoeuvre when a huge truck masked the Cadillac, then turned in to the left-hand lane. They climbed a hill via a slip road and the traffic had disappeared.
'We were on the M20 motorway driving south,' Newman explained. 'So much traffic at this late hour was due to the accident which held us up further back. Now the poor devils back on the motorway are ramming their feet down to get home hours late.' He checked his rear-view mirror again. 'We've lost the Cadillac '
'So where are we headed for?'
'Canterbury, eventually. Which is where we don't want to go. So at the next roundabout we'll turn back and rejoin the M20. I want to turn off it at Junction Eight. Are you too tired to talk?'
'Guess not. Strange things are happening in Washington. A heavy delegation is heading for Britain – some have arrived.'
'Give me some names.'
'Sharon Mandeville, for one. Taking up some position at the Grosvenor Square Embassy.'
'She's made the papers a lot. A girl friend of the President?'
'Never. She's too smart to risk upsetting the President's wife. She carries a lot of clout. Then Jefferson Morgenstern himself is coming over,' Dillon said.
'The Secretary of State. Very big gun. Went to the States from Europe as a young man. They say he would have been the President one day if he'd been born an American. Clever as Kissinger and similar background. Here's the roundabout – we can turn back, rejoin the motorway…'
Scores of headlights glared like marauding tigers. Side by side, almost touching, a torrent of cars roared south at dangerous speeds. Risks were taken. Everyone seemed to sacrifice safety in their urge to get home, knowing they were very late.
'Never seen anything like this,' Dillon commented, glancing back. 'Like an enemy attack.'
'Were you looking for the enemy?'
'No. I guess you lost him for good.'
'Don't be too sure…'
They reached Junction Eight, left the motorway for a country lane. The sudden quiet and solitude in the night was startling. Dillon sagged with relief. Newman turned off the lane down another empty hedge-lined country road, switched his beams full on as they approached a series of bends.
'Anyone else important coming in from Washington?' Newman asked.
'Yes. Ed Osborne, the roughneck who has got my job. A tough guy. Dangerous. You never know what he's thinking.'
'Any ideas why they tried to gun you down in Albermarle Street?'
'I knew too much. I'd ferreted around checking on people. A huge operation is planned but I couldn't get the hang of it.'
Newman sensed that his companion was making an effort to think. The American was close to a state of total exhaustion. They had driven some distance along the lonely country lane without meeting another car when the headlights illuminated a road sign. PARHAM.
'This is an old village,' Newman commented. 'There's another one of the same name in Suffolk, I think. And a good three miles north of us is a very good hotel, Chilston Park. Tweed has stayed there-' He broke off as they swung round a bend, dipped, his headlights, slowed down. 'Well, well – look what's ahead of us. The white Cadillac.'
'Have you got a gun I could have?' Dillon growled, jerking himself into his normal alertness.
'I'm carrying my usual Smith amp; Wesson. 38 – and you can't have it. We don't want to start a shooting war out here.'
'Those guys in the Cadillac will see us.'
'I don't think so. I've experienced this before. One car tails another, loses it. From then on the occupants are looking in front of them. They rarely look back. Might be interesting to see where they're headed for.'
Parham was a working village. Even at this late hour lights were on in pubs and restaurants. The Cadillac drove slowly along a narrow street lined on both sides with white clap-board houses. Newman was familiar with the place laid out in a series of chessboard-like squares, one leading into another, an old village typical of the area. A cutting icy wind had been blowing in the countryside but the village was sheltered by the layout of its buildings.
'Looks like they've arrived somewhere,' Dillon commented.
'Let's find out where…'
Everyone was indoors. There was not a soul on the deserted narrow streets, lit at intervals by ancient lanterns. They followed the Cadillac into one small square and then it turned into another even smaller square. Newman parked his Merc by the kerb.
That's a dead end. Let's follow on foot.'
'Bloody cold night,' Dillon observed, standing on the cobbled pavement.
'You'll feel it – you're very tired. Now where have they gone?'
Leading the way, he peered round a corner into the smaller square. The Cadillac had stopped at one side in front of tall gates which gave no view of what lay beyond them. On either side the property was further concealed by old twelve-foot-high brick walls. A hand protruded from the driver's window. Both huge gates slowly moved inwards automatically.
'That's weird,' Newman whispered as Dillon stared over his left shoulder. 'They're electronically controlled and the driver has the gadget which opens them.'
They watched as the Cadillac drove slowly forward up a curving drive. At the end they had a glimpse of a large grim-looking mansion built of stone with turrets at the corners. All the windows were masked by closed shutters and there was no sign that the place was inhabited – until the front door opened and light streamed on to the drive. Then the gates closed and the mansion was gone.
'Let's take a closer look,' Newman suggested.
They crept into the square and on the three other sides were more high brick walls almost hiding the large houses behind them. Newman handed Dillon a pair of gloves, told him to put them on. The American was shivering with cold and fatigue. Newman had a torch in his left hand as they reached the outside of the mansion where the Cadillac had disappeared. The gates were constructed of tall iron rails and attached to them on the inside were sheets of metal, obstructing any view. On the right- hand brick pillar was a metal plate which gave the name when Newman switched on his torch. Irongates.
'Let's get back to the car,' Newman whispered.
Once inside the Merc they savoured the warmth of the heaters. Newman had left the engine running in case they had to make a quick getaway. He drove back into the large square, took another exit and suddenly Parham vanished and they were out in lonely countryside, moving along another deserted country lane.
'Irongates,' Newman said half to himself. 'I know who lives there. Sir Guy Strangeways. Spent over twenty years in the States building up a property empire. Never met him.'
'I have,' Dillon told him. 'A mogul. Had the right contacts with certain senators in Washington. Money changes hands and he always got permission to buy an old building to erect a high rise after demolition. He was over there a long time but stayed very British.'
'Never went native?'
