He was referring to the smart red trouser suit she wore. She gave him a warm smile of appreciation, then frowned before she spoke.
'Talking about setting the world on fire, somebody tried to do just that last night to the American Embassy in London. Smoke and flames were pouring out of a window, the fire brigade was called, Grosvenor Square was in chaos.'
'How do you know this?' asked Tweed.
'I called the Embassy this morning. What is happening? I don't know.'
'Which part of the Embassy was set on fire?' Tweed enquired.
'The office next to the Security room on the first floor. My office is OK, thank Heaven. I'm glad I wasn't there.' `So am I,' said Newman.
'Hi, everybody. Mind if I join the party?' a voice boomed behind Newman.
Tweed was looking up. He smiled ironically. The large figure of Ed Osborne had come into the dining room. Dragging a chair from another table, he placed it at the end, eased his bulk into it, clapped his large hands together, a grin on the outsize face above a bull neck.
'Great to see you guys again,' he said, looking at Paula and then Tweed. 'What brings you to this hick town?'
'First of all,' Newman rapped back, 'it's not a hick town. It is a more ancient and interesting city than you'll find in the whole of America.'
'Naughty.' Osborne slapped a hand against the wrist of the other hand. 'Keep your big mouth shut. Trouble is,' he went on, leaning forward, 'the mouth opens and it all hangs out. Coffee, garcon,' he demanded, addressing the waitress. 'PDQ. And since I guess you don't understand the lingo, that means pretty damned quick.'
'And for breakfast, sir?' she asked quietly.
'Just the coffee, honey. Didn't get that it was a girl at first,' he remarked as the waitress moved away. 'Her hair is trimmed so short.'
'Men don't wear skirts,' Paula snapped.
'They sure do – when they're transvest-' He broke off. 'Guess that's not a subject for breakfast.' He gazed at Paula. 'You enjoying a holiday out here?'
'We were. Until you arrived.'
'Great!' Osborne grinned broadly. 'I like a lady who answers back. You and I must get into a huddle soon as we can.'
'Don't go in for huddles,' Paula told him. 'And what are you doing in Basel anyway?'
'I get around. Why I am here?' He gave a belly laugh. 'Business, honey. Monkey business.'
Tweed pushed back his chair. Before he could stand, prior to leaving, Sharon leaned over, whispered in his ear.
'Now you won't forget we're having a drink together. Would noon in the bar behind us suit you?'
'Perfect,' Tweed whispered back.
'Hey!' Osborne boomed out. 'You two got a thing going together?'
'You'll excuse us,' Tweed said, standing up. 'We have an appointment to keep. We enjoyed your company, Mr Osborne.'
'Ed! I keep tellin' you, it's Ed…'
They were on their way out of the restaurant. Tweed had Paula by his side while Newman and Marler followed behind them. As the door to the restaurant closed behind them Paula exploded.
'What a coarse man!'
'Don't underestimate Osborne,' Tweed warned. 'Under that brash manner I suspect is a shrewd operator. Ruthless, too. I bet he could recite how all of us were dressed. His eyes were all over the place.'
'Well, he could do with a few lessons in how to dress. That loud jacket, striped shift, flashy tie, dingy corduroy slacks. It was all wrong. Like his conversation. If you can call it that.'
'Can we all have a quiet word?' Marler had caught up with them. 'Maybe over there in that far corner?' he suggested.
'Since you want to,' Tweed agreed.
They sat in a circle round a small corner table in the lobby, well away from the reception counter. Marler was about to explain when he stared. Pete Nield had appeared from the direction of the lift. He fingered his moustache as he greeted them.
'Harry and I just got here from the airport.'
'Enter the Knife Man,' Marler commented.
'And what does that mean?' demanded Tweed.
'Pete has added to his talents. During the past month or two he's been practising knife-throwing,' Marler explained, keeping his voice down. 'He's become fantastic. He invited me to go with him to a low-down pub in London. They were playing darts and Pete bought drinks all round, then asked if he could use a knife instead of darts. Everyone thought he was a lunatic but let him have a go. He stood well back from the target, threw his knife six times. Result? Six bull's-eyes. I lost a packet. I'd bet him he couldn't do it from that distance.'
'Could come in useful,' Tweed commented. 'Now what were you going to tell us, Marler?'
'It's about the Ear. Poor Kurt. He gave me an address where I could meet him in Basel in an emergency. Drew a map.' He produced a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. 'As you'll see it's a five-minute walk from here – as long as you're good at climbing steps.'
'So what is your idea?'
'That we go there and check out this place. It's not where he lived, wherever that might be. There might be a note left for me there.'
'Who is going?' asked Newman, studying the map. 'All of us,' said Tweed.
'Any thugs in Basel?' Nield enquired.
'The place is crawling with them. They appear to be based at the Euler with more at the Victoria. Two hotels close to the Hauptbahnhof.'
'I know where those hotels are. I came to Basel for you once before,' Nield said. 'I know the place pretty well. And after what you've told me I don't think it's a good idea you trooping up to this place en masse.' He took the map back from Newman.
'Then what do you suggest?' Tweed asked.
'I'm going up to have a quick look at this address by myself. I can be back in a few minutes. I'm off now. Harry will be down soon.'
Before Tweed could protest Nield, taking the map with him, had walked away. Prior to going through the revolving door he slipped on the coat he'd held over one arm. Then he was gone.
'Do you think that's a good idea?' Marler queried. 'I don't. I just hope he'll be all right. He's got the map, so we'll have to sit here and hope for the best.'
Even though it was morning it seemed like night to Nield as he headed along the pavement. The heavy overcast appeared to be almost touching the tops of the old buildings, making the atmosphere even bleaker. There was no one about. All the workers would be thankfully inside their centrally heated offices. Anyone who could would stay in their apartment. It was very quiet. The only sound was the crunch of a tram's wheels as they passed over ice.
Nield had turned left after leaving the hotel. The map was in the breast pocket of his jacket now – having once seen it he knew where he was going. He passed the steps leading down to where, in summer, ships took tourists on short cruises up the Rhine, crossed the street, came to the entrance to the Rheinsprung, a steep street leading upwards for pedestrians and cyclists only. He knew that if he followed that eventually it would lead him to the Munster, a great feature of Basel overlooking the river from a considerable height. Instead, he was treading carefully on the icy slope, looking to his right. He saw what he was looking for very quickly.
A plate on a wall identified it as a gasslein, a narrow alley of endless steps leading up between two high vertical walls. The plate gave the full name, a trainload of German letters. Nield, skilled in speaking and reading German, translated it.
'Alley of the Eleven Thousand Virgins. Sounds hopeful,' he said to himself.
It was a stone staircase mounting upwards into the distance. Very dark, very lonely. Remembering to bring his coat from his room, he had forgotten his gloves. His fingers were beginning to tingle with the cold when he
