Guided-missile cruisers were protecting the carrier. Midway between the two destroyers sailed on a parallel course.

'Linda, take these, give me the camera. There's a ruddy great American task force down there. At a guess it's heading straight for Britain.'

He was operating the camera as he spoke. He swivelled it at different angles, trying to take in the whole of the vast battle fleet. Then the overcast reappeared, blotted out everything. Henderson stood motionless for a minute, his index finger tapping the side of the camera he was no longer operating.

'Frank,' he said to the co-pilot, 'have you heard anything about a major American task force heading for British waters?'

'No.'

'Neither have I,' said Linda. 'And I read the newspapers from page to page. Nothing on the radio. Nothing on TV.'

'I think I'm going to send a detailed and urgent radio signal to the Ministry of Defence,' Henderson decided.

45

Tweed first attempted to call Monica, using Beck's mobile. He had to give up eventually – the line was constantly engaged. Instead he called Roy Buchanan, reaching the Chief Inspector immediately.

'Tweed!' Buchanan sounded triumphant. 'The bullet matches.'

'Pardon?'

His mind had been elsewhere, replaying the breakfast conversation in the Ritz dining room when Osborne had joined the party.

'The bullet!' Buchanan repeated. 'Remember? You called me from Freiburg, told me to have the plane carrying the body of Sir Guy Strangeways met here: I personally was on the spot when the machine landed at Heathrow. I had a top doctor standing by, had the body rushed to him. He performed the autopsy, dug out the bullet which killed Strangeways. I had it compared with the bullet which assassinated our Prime Minister. Both bullets matched up perfectly. Which means the. Phantom shot both the PM and Strangeways.'

'He has a lot to answer for…'

'Haven't finished yet. I've sent the Strangeways bullet to Rene Lasalle in Paris' y courier. He'll have it by now. So he can compare it with the bullet which assassinated the French Minister.'

'Very good work, Roy.'

'More yet. I had patrol cars waiting in secret just outside all American airbases in East Anglia. One of them grabbed the big white truck flown in from Germany. Also its driver. You know what was inside that truck?'

'Money.'

'Enough brilliantly forged British banknotes to cause a financial panic here if they'd been distributed. I've got them under heavy guard. Have sent specimens to the Bank of England. They are in a state of shock.'

'This is wonderful news, Roy. Congratulations.'

'We've beaten the so-and-sos,' Buchanan said jubilantly, a man Tweed had never before known to show emotion.

'Hold on, Roy,' he warned. 'I think the monster crisis is yet to come. How about the bombings?'

'None since I surrounded the American Embassy with plain-clothes men.'

'Thank Heaven for that. Just don't relax your efforts one inch.'

Tweed had just put down the phone when it started ringing. He picked it up quickly.

'Hello, who is it?'

'Rene. I'm back. Could you come now to rue.. Lasalle paused. 'Is this phone safe?'

'Yes. I'm on a hacker-proof mobile.'

'Then could you come now to rue des Saussaies? I have news for you.'

'Can you dig out your file on Jean Chatel?'

'It will be waiting for you, my friend.'

'I'm on my way. Oh, can I bring Paula and Newman with me?'

'They will be most welcome.'

Tweed kept his word. He phoned Paula and Newman, asked them to come to his room immediately.

Very few people know about – or notice – rue des Saussaies, the headquarters of the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire. In other words, French counter-espionage. A short narrow street almost opposite the Elysee Palace, it is passed by without so much as a glance by tourists. The entrance to the nondescript building is halfway along on the left, approached from the Elysee end. Newman stopped the car at the entrance and Tweed showed the guard his passport. The guard waved them inside.

'M. Lasalle is expecting you, sir.'

Newman parked the car in the small cobbled courtyard at the end of a short stone tunnel. An officer in plain clothes led them inside and up an old stone staircase to an office on the first floor. Lasalle rose from behind an old wooden desk to greet his guests.

'Coffee?' he suggested.

'It would help,' Tweed agreed.

Rene Lasalle, in his fifties, was small and slim and sported a neat moustache. He was dressed in a dark business suit and he pulled out a chair for Paula, then, returned to sit behind his desk. A shabby green file was the only object on its surface apart from a telephone.

'The bullet arrived from Chief Inspector Buchanan some time ago,' he began. 'I'm sure you know which bullet I'm referring to.'

'I know very well,' Tweed assured him.

'We have had time,' Lasalle explained in his excellent English, 'to compare it meticulously with the bullet extracted from our late French Minister. It is a perfect match.'

'Then it's the Phantom again.'

'I would like your permission to send this bullet to my colleague in the German police at Wiesbaden, Otto Kuhlmann. For comparison with the bullet extracted from the body of Keller, also assassinated, as you know.'

'Send it by all means,' Tweed urged. 'Is that the file on Jean Chatel?'

'It is. I would ask you to treat its contents with confidentiality. In fact, officially you have never seen it. The Secret Service is very prickly about its documentation. Rightly so, you might agree.'

'Of course.' Tweed read the first few paragraphs, typed in French, then began to comment. 'This states that the real purpose of Jean Chatel's assignment to Washington is illumination. Specifically, is it true the Americans are preparing a plan which would change the geopolitical balance in Europe? Important that this includes the state of Great Britain…' Tweed went on reading.

'It was just over a year ago roughly when Chatel went to Washington, wasn't it?' asked Newman.

'No. Twenty months ago. But it was just over a year ago when he and his wife were murdered in the fake car accident in Virginia.'

'Murdered? You have evidence?' Newman queried. 'Let Tweed read on. You will see then.'

'This,' said Tweed, 'is a summary of a report sent to Paris by Chatel fifteen months ago. Chatel has reported he is followed everywhere by a team of American agents. He fears for his life, but asks to be allowed to continue his investigation.'

'It's getting grimmer,' commented Paula.

'It gets even grimmer,' Lasalle told her.

'The next report from Chatel,' Tweed went on, 'states that there is a highly detailed plan for the Americans to occupy Great Britain by subterfuge, employing every ruthless technique which will help to bring this objective about.'

'Why didn't you warn us?' Newman demanded.

'I wished to do just that,' Lasalle said bitterly. 'But it was argued by my superior that we had no concrete evidence, no documentation. He said the British would simply think it was a device by the French government to

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