'None at all. As yet. The Ear is going on digging. Speaks good English. He'll contact me here if he finds out more. Monica, he'll give the name of Maurice and leave a message. Maybe just an address and a time and day.'
'Any other clue?'
'Only one, which could be misleading. The Ear says it's known he's paid in dollars. That could be a smokescreen. Could be some other nation is his paymaster.'
'You've done well,' said Tweed. 'Now I think we should all hear what Bob has to tell us.' He looked at Marler. 'He has just returned from escorting Cord Dillon to the Bunker. Come to think of it, maybe Paula had better put you in the picture first. She had a bit of an adventure late yesterday evening.'
'A bit of an adventure,' Paula repeated ironically. 'That's one way of describing it. Here goes…'
Newman and Marler watched her as she gave a terse account of her experience with Cord Dillon. She started with her leaving the hotel in Albermarle Street. Yet again Newman thought that Paula was a very attractive woman. In her thirties, slim with a very good pair of legs, her black hair had a glossy sheen, falling just short of her collar. She had a face with strong bone structure and a determined chin. Her voice was soft but he could hear clearly every word she said. Smartly dressed in a two-piece navy blue suit she was a woman men in the street turned to look at. Above all else she was enormously capable and had great stamina.
'That's it,' she ended. 'And that's enough, I'd say.' 'Tough cookie,' said Marler, squeezing her shoulder. 'If you say so.'
'Now it's Bob's turn to bring us up to date,' Tweed suggested.
He made occasional notes as Newman outlined everything that had happened when he'd escorted Dillon to the Bunker. Monica was recording the entire story, as she had with Paula.
'That's it,' Newman concluded, 'to quote Paula.'
'It's a lot,' Tweed said. 'Some of it very disturbing. Now we have quite an array of players in; this grim game. Monica, in the morning I'd like you to start building profiles on these people. Jefferson Morgenstern, esteemed Secretary of State, whom I know. Ed Osborne, the new Deputy Director of the CIA. Both now in London. Sir Guy Strangeways, who lives at the mansion called Irongates at Parham. And…' He paused. 'Sharon Mandeville. Her whole history, which could be interesting.' He stared at the ceiling. 'Add Basil Windermere to that list if you would, please.'
'I'll start tonight,' Monica announced. 'New York is five hours behind us and some of my contacts work late. Then San Francisco – they're eight hours behind us so I'll catch my contacts there. Don't look at me like that. I'm fresh as a daisy '
The phone rang. Monica picked it up, frowned, put her hand over the mouthpiece, looked at Marler.
'It's for you. Maurice on the line…'
'Marler speaking. Where are you?'
'On a public phone at Heathrow. Need to see you urgently.'
'Hang on a moment.'
Marler put his own hand over the mouthpiece. He spoke to Tweed, spoke quickly.
'The Ear has turned up at Heathrow. Needs to speak to me. Can he come here? He thinks I work for an insurance outfit.'
'Yes. Tell him to take a cab. You can see him in the waiting room.'
The moment Marler ended the brief call, giving the Ear the address, Tweed reacted. He gestured towards the curtained windows.
'We have to shift that Lincoln Continental fast. If it's still there they'll photograph the Ear.'
'I'll handle that,' Newman said, standing up. 'There's going to be an accident. I'll take the four-wheel drive. Could you get the police here yesterday?'
'I'll call my old sparring partner, Roy Buchanan at the Yard. I've already reported the attack in Albemarle Street. He's not best pleased with the Americans.'
Newman snatched a scarf and his trench coat off a hook. As he hurried downstairs he was wrapping the scarf round the lower part of his face, covering his nose. He pulled up the military-style lapels, darted out of the front door and round a corner to where the vehicle with a ram was parked.
He drove a roundabout route which brought him back on to the main road. A plane was flying very low overhead as he saw the Lincoln parked at the edge of the Crescent. He pressed his foot down, slammed into the back of the American car, smashing up its rear badly. He then reversed, dragged metal off the damaged car.
'Made of tin,' he said under his breath.
Turning off his engine, he got out as a tough-looking passenger jumped out of the back of the Lincoln. He had a boxer's nose and the face of a moron. His head was bald. He swaggered up to Newman, now standing in the road as a car pulled up alongside him. Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan was at the wheel with Sergeant Warden, a heavily built man, beside him.
'Buddy, I'm going to put all your teeth down your throat,' the thug said with a rough American accent. 'You could try it,' Newman replied.
'Here it comes then. Kiss your mouth goodbye.'
Newman timed it carefully. As a huge bunched fist slammed towards his mouth he jerked his head sideways, took the punch on the side of his jaw. The fist slid off him. Newman made no attempt to retaliate as Buchanan appeared with Sergeant Warden on his heels.
'This car was illegally parked,' Newman told him. 'A plane flew very low and distracted me. You don't expect a car parked here at any time.'
'And I saw you assault this man,' Buchanan said grimly.
'Who the friggin' hell are you?' the thug snarled. 'Chief Inspector Buchanan of the CID…'
'I've got a diplomatic passport, so frig off.'
The thug raised one finger almost in Buchanan's face. Then he swore foully.
'I wish you hadn't done that. Diplomatic passport? And the moon is blue.'
'Look at the licence plates, buddy,' the thug ranted on. 'It has diplomatic plates.'
In the distance Newman heard police sirens coming closer. Buchanan folded his arms and studied the thug. Then three police cars with uniformed officers aboard appeared and pulled up, forming a laager round the Lincoln. Buchanan was a tall lanky man in his forties, wearing a dark suit, an ironic smile on his lean intelligent face. Villains found something disturbing about his casual manner.
'I think I recognize you,' he said, addressing the thug. 'A bank raid in the City a month ago. No money taken – just security documents about a number of prominent British citizens. One of the raiders was caught on video. Looked just like you. I'd appreciate you giving me your name.'
'See for yourself,' snapped the American. 'Hank Waltz.' He shoved a diplomatic passport at Buchanan.
'Sometimes known as Diamond Waltz,' Newman remarked. 'Look at all the flashy rings on his stubby fingers. Fakes, I imagine.'
'Fakes?' Waltz clenched his fist. 'You want another one?'
'Cool it, chum.'
One of the uniformed police who had spilled out of the cars stood very close to the American. While Buchanan was examining the passport the driver of the Lincoln stepped out and came up to them.
Tall, with the appearance of a quarterback, his manner was very different from Waltz's. Wearing a Savile Row suit, he was smiling, conciliatory, his American accent soft.
'Good evening. I'm sorry if we've caused any problems. And Hank has a short fuse. He's fond of the Lincoln – normally he drives the car.'
'I do?'
'Hank, now the Chief Inspector has given you back your passport I suggest you get back to your seat. Every time you open that mouth of yours you shove your big foot in it.'
'Could I have your name?' Buchanan asked stiffly. 'Sure. Why not? I'm Chuck Venacki. Attache at the Embassy.'
'What are your duties, sir?' Buchanan demanded. 'Public relations.'
'Diamond Waltz isn't going to help you much in that direction.'
'Hank Waltz. He's a bodyguard. The new American Ambassador has received threatening warnings. You'd like to see my passport?'
