'That would be my estimate.'
'And so far,' Crag reflected, 'we haven't been seen by anyone.'
'Correct, sir. No submarines have been detected by sonar. We have seen not a single ship which might have reported our presence. And no commercial airliner has passed over the task force.'
'Let's hope it continues that way. The Pentagon is counting on our surprise arrival on their doorstep to stun the Brits out of their skulls.'
'Maybe it's time to report our situation back to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He gets restless if he isn't kept regularly in the picture.'
'Old Stone-Face does just that. Send him another report. Include that worn-out phrase 'proceeding according to plan'. He'll like that.'
'Can't this buggy move any faster?' Osborne demanded. 'The chauffeur is doing very well. We're going at high speed now,' replied Sharon acidly.
She was sitting in the back of the stretch limo with Osborne by her side. In the front Denise Chatel sat next to the chauffeur, her head down as she studied a file open on her lap. The limo streaked along the auto-route to Paris.
'Guess I could drive the jalopy faster myself,' Osborne grumbled.
'I don't know why you had to come with me as a passenger,' Sharon retorted.
'Simple, lady. Your limo was just leavin' when I needed to. I want to reach the Ritz before Tweed does, to be waitin' for him.'
'Well, I would appreciate it if you would leave the driver to do his job – which he's doing very well.'
'We gotta keep movin', baby.'
'And please do not call me baby. I really have no idea what your position is at the Embassy.'
'Call me an expediter. Hi, Denise,' he called out, 'how is the world goin' with you?'
Denise Chatel kept her head bent over her file. She made no reply. With one hand she shut the half-open section of the glass partition dividing the front of the limo from the rear. Osborne shrugged, waved both large hands in a gesture of resignation.
'If I'm not being nosy,' said Paula, 'why are we going to Paris?'
'I want to see Rene Lasalle, head of the DST. I think face to face, as opposed to talking on the phone, Rene may tell me more about the father of Denise.'
'Her father who was killed with his wife in a car crash somewhere in Virginia a year or so ago?'
'That's right – Jean Chatel. Sent over officially as an attache, but really a member of the French Secret Service.'
'Why are you so interested in him?' she asked as Tweed overtook a convoy of three large trucks.
'Because he was sent to find out what the Americans were up to – and especially because Jean Chatel and his wife died in a car accident at exactly the same bridge where years before Sharon's parents died in a car accident.'
'I don't see the connection.'
'Neither do I,' admitted Tweed. 'But I have a feeling there is a connection – and that it might be the key to what is going on now. I'm hoping Rene will be able to give me more information.'
'Does he know you're coming?'
'Yes. I called him briefly on Beck's mobile from my room when I went to collect my case before we left the Hotel Regent.'
'We're getting low on petrol,' Paula warned.
'Yes, I had noticed. And I think I see the lights of an all-night service station ahead. While we're filling up I want to call Roy Buchanan.'
'I'll deal with the petrol,' Newman called out.
'I can do that myself,' said Kent. 'I feel like stretching my legs, making myself useful.'
'You've been of invaluable help already, Keith,' Tweed assured him. 'But if you feel like that you can tank us up. Here we are.'
While Kent was filling up the tank Tweed used the mobile to try to contact Buchanan. He was lucky:- The familiar voice, taut and grim, answered immediately.
'Who is this?'
'It's Tweed. Roy, if you can, I'd like you to do something for me. I'm going to see Jefferson Morgenstern when I get back to London. Have you any evidence that the Americans were behind the bombings in London?'
'Yes. A security video in the Oxford Street outrage survived the blast. We have a very clear picture of the man who planted that bomb. A very tall thin man with a hard bony face…'
'A very tall thin man with a hard bony face,' Tweed repeated, looking back at Newman.
'Vernon Kolkowski,' Newman said promptly.
'We know – knew – him,' Tweed reported to Buchanan 'He's dead as the proverbial doornail. Name of Vernon Kolkowski. I'll spell that… Got it? Good. He was probably based at the American Embassy while I was still in London.'
'He was. We secretly photographed him when he re-entered the Embassy. Couldn't do a thing about it. They all carried those diplomatic passports.'
'What I'd like you to do is to compile a file of evidence – including what you've told me, with pics. I'd like as fat a file as possible to show Morgenstern when I get back:'
'Consider it done. No more bombings. Our drastic security precautions are working. Touch wood,' he added. 'When will you be back?'
'At a guess, within the next twenty-four hours.' 'The file will be waiting for you.'
The connection was broken and Tweed sank back with relief. He smiled as Paula asked the question he'd been expecting.
'Why do you want to talk to Morgenstern?'
'I said quite a while ago that I was convinced that the Americans are operating at two different levels, in watertight compartments. Sharon confirmed that. I don't think the diplomatic side has any idea of what the Executive Action Department lot have been up to, the crimes they've committed. And Morgenstern is greatly respected not only globally but also inside the States. To the American public Morgenstern is Washington.'
He glanced in his rear-view mirror. Marler's Audi was parked behind them while Butler filled up its tank. Kent reappeared out of a large cafe attached to the petrol station. Paula lowered her window as he handed her two large paper bags. He leaned into the car.
'Mineral water in one bag, fresh croissants in the other. Most of the customers sitting inside are truckers. Their vehicles are parked out at the back. In France bakeries work through the night to produce fresh croissants. The French insist on them, as you may know. In the morning housewives make a trip to the nearest source of supply. Must have fresh croissants for breakfast.'
'Keith, you're an angel,' Paula purred.
She leant out of the window, kissed him on the cheek. At that moment Marler strolled up to Tweed's window. He was stretching his arms.
'Got a moment?' he asked.
'A few minutes only. Think I'll get out and flex my muscles…'
Paula was drinking water out of the bottle. When she'd quenched her thirst she wiped the neck of the bottle with a clean handkerchief. Then she handed the bottle to Newman.
'Excuse my unladylike manners. When you've had a drink I'll pass you some croissants. Don't forget Keith,' she went on as Kent got back in beside Newman.
'While I was marooned back at the Schwarzwalder Hof in Freiburg,' Marler began, 'I went out, found a public phone, called Alf.'
'Alf?'
'Alf Rudge. Top man in that cockney mob I once mentioned to you. In my spare time, for several weeks I've been training them as a reserve. Tough lot. All cab drivers. Took them out into the wilds of the Chiltern Hills. Seven of them, including Alf. Set up a makeshift shooting range in the middle of nowhere. Trained them with handguns, grenades, and machine-pistols. Three of them already knew their stuff – veterans of the Gulf War. They're all pretty much crack shots now.'
