that MoA was an abbreviation for the Whitehall Ministry of Armaments. He surmised that Bogle had probably dropped the book while he had been putting on his gloves, presumably to make himself look more official. Now he wanted to get out of the village before Bogle discovered his loss.
He had also decided to drive straight back to Park Crescent. It could be important to Tweed to hear about the information he had picked up.
Seattle, Washington State, Pacific Coast. The HQ of the World Liberation Front was located in an apartment overlooking Lake Washington. This location had been carefully chosen due to its upmarket situation. Successful, well-off Americans were happy to live in this area. No one – including the FBI – would dream that dangerous revolutionaries might be found here.
In the spacious ground-floor apartment at the end of a block with a view across a trim lawn down to the lake, a man sat in front of the Internet. His long greasy hair was coiled in a ponytail. On the back of a nearby chair hung the jacket of the expensive business suit he wore. Leaving the apartment – or returning to it – he always wore a hat with the ponytail tucked out of sight. His neighbours thought he was one of those whizz-kids, something in electronics.
It was the middle of the night when he checked the time, then clicked the mouse to a repeat program on fitness. This catered to insomniacs of both sexes who whiled away the dreary hours following the instructor, a big man who was all muscle and no fat. Standing on a platform, he faced a class of mixed sexes, demonstrating exercises.
Ponytail had a pad open in front of him, noted down every third word of the instructor, who spoke slowly. The moment the program was over he glanced at the words which had formed into a message. He picked up the phone and dialled an unlisted number in London.
'Oscar here,' a rough voice answered.
'You sound like a comedian,' Ponytail replied and connection had been verified.
'You have the business report?' Oscar enquired.
'With this takeover the minimum of pressure can be used. End of report…'
In his room above a little-used warehouse at Reefers Wharf Oscar Vernon sucked the end of his pen. The correct interpretation of the word 'pressure' was 'violence.'
'This, I thinks,' he said to himself, 'is what Brits call the escalation. London will have the rough night.'
CHAPTER 7
Tweed came back into his office after having a good wash. He had just eaten the lunch Monica had brought in from the local deli. He looked annoyed.
'I wonder if we'll ever hear from that boy wonder, Mark Wendover. If he does turn up I'm going to give him a real grilling.'
'I've been surfing several American sites,' Monica began. 'There was a weird one on gardening – the woman commenting spent ages between naming each flower. Then there was one on keeping fit. That was weird, too -the instructor took so much time between giving fresh instructions. I had the feeling it was coded.'
'Surfing the net.' Tweed snorted. 'Sounds like playing in the waves down in Devon. As for coding…'
'Monica,' Paula interjected, 'was once a code-breaker in the Communications building further down the Crescent. Until you spotted her potential and moved her here.'
'I would like what I wrote down about the gymnastics to be examined by our chief code-breaker,' Monica persisted.
'I'll call and get Jacko over here,' Paula said, going to the phone.
'Don't mind me,' grumbled Tweed. 'I only work here.'
'He's on his way,' Paula said.
Tweed took out his pad with loops round names, studied it. A few minutes later someone tapped on the door. A slim blonde girl of about thirty came in, wearing a fawn trouser suit which went well with her hair.
'I'm Jenny,' she announced. 'Jacko moved to another job in GCHQ about a month ago. I'm the chief code- breaker.'
She took the sheet of paper Monica handed her. Newman looked at her and she was aware of his interest.
'I've an idea this could be fairly simple,' she remarked.
'Doubt if it's a code at all,' Tweed commented.
Ten minutes later she handed a sheet from the pad to Tweed. He pursed his lips as he read it.
With this takeover the minimum of pressure can be used. End of report.
'It was every third word,' Jenny explained.
'Obviously some business corporation working a deal,' Tweed said sceptically. Paula was peering over his shoulder. 'You see, it means nothing,' he said to her.
'I wonder. When they had those riots in Washington I saw them on TV. One thug yelled at the camera 'It's a takeover.' He meant they were taking over Washington -or trying to.'
'Did he?' Tweed looked thoughtful, then decided. 'I think for this expedition with Lisa tonight we'll marshal our forces. Harry, phone Pete again. Tell him to get here at once. Pity Marler is down in Dorset.'
'If you need me again,' said Jenny, standing up, 'just call me.'
'We will. And thank you for what you've done.'
'It was a piece of cake…'
She had just left when the phone rang. Monica answered and informed Tweed that Mark Wendover was waiting downstairs.
'Send him up. I've a good mind to put him on the first plane back to the States.'
Paula looked with interest at the tall well-built man when he entered. She liked the way he was dressed informally, the way he smiled as he accepted Tweed's suggestion to sit down.
'I have to inform you,' Tweed began grimly, 'that here we work as a team. I haven't heard one damn' word from you all day. Where have you been? Then I'll want to ask you a lot of questions about your background.'
'I did try to phone Bob Newman before I left the Ritz. But there was no reply.'
'I came straight here,' Newman told him.
'Well…' Mark looked back at Tweed. 'I drove to Alfriston, got some information you might find interesting. Can I tell you about my trip before you hang me from the nearest tree?'
'Go ahead.'
Tweed's expression gradually changed to neutral as he listened intently to Mark. The American explained in great detail everything he'd experienced while in East Sussex. He had total recall for every conversation that had taken place. He concluded by producing the blue leather-bound notebook.
'You've done a very good job,' Tweed said as he examined the book. 'I don't want to hear about your background. You know what I think happened with this notebook? Bogle was there before Paula and I arrived. He denied touching the body but I think he lied. He found it in one of the late Jeremy Mordaunt's pockets and kept it. MoA. Very interesting. Paula, could you get Jenny back here for me, please?'
'Something wrong?' Jenny asked when she arrived back in the office.
'Nothing. Since you left us this book has come into my possession.' He handed it to her. 'Would you say the entries are in code?'
'Could be,' she said, after glancing through the pages. 'I would have to work on it before I'm sure. MoA.'
'Yes. Which means no one except yourself in Communications should see it. Can you ensure that?'
'I can. I have my own little office to work in. It has three locks on the door – two Banhams and one Chubb. And I do have a safe where I keep top secret material.'
'That's top secret.'
'I realize that. Who shall I report to if I solve it?'
'Myself or Paula. If neither of us is available, then Monica.'
'I'll get cracking – literally – on it right away. Could I have a thick envelope? Something I can carry the notebook in so no one sees it when I get back to Communications.'
