'That's staggering,' said Paula.
'They also have some kind of base in the area. Not in the city.' He turned to Paula. 'You probably know the city is unique. Three countries meet there. Switzerland, Germany and France. You can slip across the border easily. They have a unit somewhere, but not in the city,' he repeated. 'So my next mission is to locate their base.' He sipped more wine. 'I will inform you when I discover it. This wine is not bad.'
'Which means he'd like more,' said Marler, refilling his glass. 'And you'd better be careful. There are some pretty nasty types floating about.'
'There always are.'
'You were very late phoning me from Heathrow,' Marler remarked casually. 'The last flight from Paris had arrived ages before.'
'I was tailed. I had to lose him before I came here. I headed for the multi-storey car park. As you know, it has many levels. Eventually I hid behind a car and he lost me. But I was cautious – I waited a long time before I left the place. Then I called you.'
'How did the tail spot you?'
'He happened to be on my flight I made a bad mistake. I had been talking to the stewardess in French. Then she dropped a tray and I said, 'Don't worry. I'll help you to pick them up.' In English. I think the tail heard me. That's what always gets you in the end. Random chance.'
'Any more dope on the Phantom?'
'I was coming to that. The rumours that he's English are now stronger. But they are still rumours. No name. And he's very cautious.'
'I'll say he is,' agreed Marler. 'He assassinated the Prime Minister over here. The security people only think they found his firing point on the rooftop of a warehouse. If they did, he left behind no spent cartridge, nothing.'
'The same as when he killed the German, Heinz Keller – and the French Minister. Bear in mind he could be a Frenchman, a German – or an Uzbek.'
'How are we going to get you away from here? It's late.'
'That is easy,' Kurt explained. 'There are many areas not far from here with cheap hotels. You get a room for the night – providing you pay in advance.'
'You've been here – I mean in London – recently, haven't you?' Paula suggested intuitively.
'Clever lady.' Kurt smiled, his lips twisting in a crooked way, but the smile was very human. 'Yes, I have. On several occasions.'
'You didn't tell me that in Paris,' Marler said sharply.
'Why should I? When I am not certain what I have found out? I only pass on information when what I say is positive. I take your fees. To do otherwise would be dishonest. I will tell you that something very strange and dangerous is happening here. England is facing the greatest enemy since it fought Hitler.'
'What we'll do, Paula said decisively, 'is the three of us will drive to my flat in the Fulham Road. It won't take me long to prepare a meal, and I'm hungry. I think you are, Kurt.'
'And I'm starving,' Marler lied. 'Afterwards I can drive Kurt to my place for the night. I have a spare bedroom. It's not far from Paula's flat.'
'Don't argue,' Paula said severely as Kurt opened his mouth.
'I surrender.' Kurt threw up both hands. 'I am grateful…'
He travelled alongside Paula in her Ford while Marler followed in his station wagon. On the way Paula found Kurt's phrase repeating itself time and again in her mind. .. something very strange and dangerous is happening here. England is facing the greatest enemy since it fought Hitler.'
4
'Sharon Mandeville,' Monica announced. 'Let's start with the profile I've built up on her – so far as it goes…'
It was the morning of the same day that Paula had provided a meal for her two guests. Newman sat in an armchair, his long legs casually crossed. Paula, hiding a yawn, was behind her desk, and Tweed was leaning forward in his swivel chair.
'Sharon is forty-two years old, looks younger,' Monica began. 'I obtained a recent photo of her from the editor of a fashion magazine, a friend of mine. Here it is.'
Newman took it from her. Sitting down again, he studied the glossy print. Then he whistled before passing it to Tweed.
'She's a blonde stunner.'
'She's enigmatic,' commented Tweed. 'I met her at a party in Washington. Not the most recent visit. When I was there three weeks ago.' He passed it to Paula. 'What do you think?'
'Hard to say,' she said eventually. 'A photo can mislead.'
'If I could proceed,' Monica said impatiently. 'Sharon was born in Washington, DC. So she's an American citizen. Her mother was English, her father an American industrialist with money. Sharon was partly educated in England, partly in the US. When Sharon was fifteen the three of them moved here. Apparently her father thought he could make more money in Britain. Result? He lost everything on the stock market and they all returned to the States. Soon after they got back the parents were both killed in a car crash. Sharon was eighteen. A year later she married a Texan oil millionaire. There was a prenuptial agreement. Twenty months later she divorced him and was a rich woman.'
'Because of the prenuptial arrangement?' Tweed suggested.
'Exactly,' Monica confirmed. 'There's a pattern. To cut it short, she remarried three times, always to millionaires or, in one case, to a billionaire. Always there was a prenuptial agreement with a generous settlement for her. Now she may be the richest woman in America.'
`Gold-digger,' said Newman.
'Not necessarily,' Tweed objected. 'Didn't strike me like that when I met her. You have to remember it's a jungle in the US. Rich men treat their wives like trophies, but they can be mean and unreliable. Maybe Sharon spotted that – hence the prenuptial agreements.'
'If I may go on,' snapped Monica. 'So now she's single with four husbands behind her. After the fourth fiasco – if you can call it that – she bought an apartment in luxurious Chevvy Chase and mixed with high society in Washington. She became a friend of the President's wife and was given various jobs.'
'I'd say Newman was right. Gold-digger,' said Marler. He had come. into the office a 'few minutes earlier, nodded and now had taken up his usual stance, leaning against a wall. 'And very attractive,' he concluded, handing back the print.
'You can't always tell from the photo what someone is like,' Paula protested.
'Jefferson Morgenstern, Secretary of State,' Monica continued, 'is difficult. I'll get there but I concentrated on Sharon. Morgenstern, as I'm sure you know, originated in Europe. Not sure where yet. His real name is Gerhard Morgenstern. He's now at the American Embassy here, like Sharon.'
'You've done very well,' said Tweed.
'Haven't finished yet. Sir Guy Strangeways, who lives now at Irongates in the village of Parham, made his pile as a property developer in the States. An ex-Guards officer, I gather he's still very British. He was in America for twenty years and for some time he lived in Washington. Travels a lot all over the world. There are mysterious gaps in his whereabouts at certain periods. More later.'
'When did he come back here?' Tweed asked. 'He was still in Washington when I was there three weeks ago.'
'Came back two weeks ago. A sudden departure.' 'That's interesting,' Tweed remarked.
'Now, Ed Osborne,' Monica went- on. 'The most mysterious of the lot. He also had an English mother and an American father. He was born in New York, in Hoboken. Not the most salubrious part of that place. His father was an unsuccessful locksmith. His childhood was poverty-stricken. Then, Heaven knows how, he's at Harvard. Afterwards there are huge gaps in his life. No knowledge as to whether he was somewhere in the States or
