carefully, perched on the edge of Paula's desk. Tweed repeated his warning about the use of firearms, showed him Lisa's list of targets, which caused Nield to whistle softly.
'Going to try and level London to the ground, are they?'
'As I told you,' Tweed snapped, 'it's supposed to be a rehearsal for a major event later.'
'If you say so…'
He stopped speaking as the door opened and Lisa entered with Paula behind her. Everyone stared. Carrying her heavy raincoat with capacious pockets Lisa wore a leather skirt ending way above her knees. For a top she was wearing a gaudy silk blouse which fitted her tightly. It was sleeveless. Newman stopped staring, looked anywhere except at her legs.
'Sorry to dress like a tart,' Lisa explained. 'But a major target is the huge discotheque in the West End. I need to merge with the atmosphere. When we leave the place I'll put on what's in my raincoat pockets. Rolled-up sweater, pair of jeans, old windcheater.' She smiled. 'I'm only showing you this outfit so you don't get a shock later.'
Saying which, she slipped on the raincoat. Then she checked her watch, looked at Tweed.
'Shouldn't we leave during the next half hour? It's got late suddenly.'
'Transport,' growled Harry, jumped up, left the room.
Tweed introduced Lisa to Pete Nield, who shook hands, smiled at her.
'Welcome to the war party.'
'I don't want to hear any more language like that,' Tweed told him. 'It's the wrong attitude.'
'You hope,' Newman said under his breath.
'That SAS team I wanted here from Hereford has arrived, I hope,' Gavin Thunder snapped at the aide who had replaced Jeremy Mordaunt.
'It's across the street, secreted in a building near what used to be Scotland Yard, sir. I hope you don't mind my saying this – but don't they come under the control of the MoD? ^ 5
'Yes, but I talked the Defence Minister into agreeing. I can talk him into anything. You've heard the rumours. Tonight that foreign scum we've let in has planned an inferno. We'll keep the SAS in reserve, see how it develops.'
'I hope, sir, the Cabinet will go along with you.' 'None of your damned business. But as you've raised the point, I talked the Cabinet into agreeing, albeit reluctantly.
We may need to show our iron fist.'
'Which, I hear, sir, is your nickname inside the Cabinet.
Iron Fist.'
CHAPTER 8
Action this day.
The words went out on the Internet, from Ponytail at his base in the apartment on the shores of Lake Washington in Seattle. Went out to be decoded by 'chief executives' in London, Paris, Rome, Brussels, Berlin and Stockholm.
Even as they were deciphered, 'tourist' buses were moving in to the centre of each city. There were no convoys to attract the attention of the police. Single buses packed with men drove in from different directions, heading for their targets.
Ponytail then turned to operating on the home front. The same coded instruction went out to San Francisco, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles and New Orleans. In the States Greyhound buses had been hijacked at prearranged points in the countryside, their passengers herded into barns where they were trapped once the doors had been locked. All mobile phones had been confiscated. Waiting gangs of rough-looking men boarded the empty buses which then proceeded to their destinations.
And no one realized that these three words of the instruction had once been the favourite phrase of Winston Churchill, urging lethargic civil servants to do what he said immediately.
It was 10 p.m. in London. Tweed and his team had entered the basement restaurant off Piccadilly in separate groups, had sat at three different tables. The only member absent was Harry Butler, which left Pete Nield by himself.
They had eaten a light dinner – without alcohol – when Harry ran down the stairs from outside, made a gesture for them to leave.
Lisa, wearing her sweater and jeans, dashed into the ladies', carrying her raincoat. Locked in a cubicle she swiftly changed into her 'tart's' outfit, emerged wearing the raincoat.
'Vorina's, the discotheque,' Harry told them and dashed out and up the steps into the street, followed by Pete Nield. The four-wheel drive was parked nearby and they jumped into it. Tweed had taken the precaution of paying his bill early while he drank coffee. The others had done the same.
Lisa appeared, her raincoat belted tightly, joined Newman and Mark. They dived into their car, Newman taking the wheel. Tweed and Paula led the convoy – he had parked his car ahead of the other two vehicles.
'Where the heck is this Vorina's?' Tweed asked.
'In a side street off Regent Street. I'll guide you…'
The moment they entered the side street Tweed saw Vorina's. It was impossible to miss with the glow of lights shining out through enormous plate-glass windows. Earlier, after consulting Harry, Paula had arranged with him to rush out in the afternoon and purchase three members' tickets. One ticket admitted three people.
'Only ninety quid for that lot,' he'd told her when he came back and distributed tickets.
'Ninety pounds!' she'd exclaimed. 'It must be a high-class place.'
'Decide for yourself when you see it,' he'd told her.
They parked in a wide alley with the four-wheel drive in front. A doorman in a blue uniform checked their tickets while Paula stared inside. Behind the windows attractive girls in various states of undress were dancing. When the door was opened a blast of sound hit them, the latest modern 'music'.
Crystal balls of lights were suspended from the ceiling of the vast room. They flashed on and off non-stop in wild colours. On a platform halfway down the left-hand side a group of five young men were armed with saxophones, guitars, and heaven knew what else. Huge amplifiers built up the deafening noise to incredible decibels. Couples sat at tables, drinking and trying to hear each other. At intervals down the right-hand side were booths where men were playing at undressing their girlfriends. A number of older men were urging younger girlfriends to drink more. Tweed could see no activity the police would regard as obscene. They were all people of various ages enjoying themselves. But he didn't like the hellish noise or the flashing lights. C'est la vie, as the French would say. Paula grasped his arm after looking back.
'Trouble.'
Lisa, who had gone ahead, ran back to them, heard what Paula had said.
'Big trouble,' she warned.
At the entrance door a giant had pushed his way in, followed by a troop of ugly-looking toughs wearing ragged camouflage jackets. The doorman demanded from Delgado his ticket. The giant grabbed the doorman with one hand round the throat, lifted him off the floor, slammed him against the wall. His victim collapsed. A bouncer appeared, tried to grab the giant by one arm. Delgado grasped his wrist, whirled him round and round, let go suddenly. The bouncer crashed against the wall, collapsed. The giant's toughs were rapidly infiltrating the restaurant.
They ran from table to table, jerking the cloths off them, spilling plates and food and drink on the floor. One man, using a can of spray paint, swiftly defaced a wall with his graffiti message. Down With Monny, Tweed detected a degree of illiteracy.
Panic broke out. Women were screaming. Men were holding on to their partners, trying to escort them out through a wild mob. One woman with a semi-backless dress was refusing to leave her table. Delgado came up behind her, shoved in his huge hand, tore the dress down to her seat. Butler appeared behind the giant, grabbed a handful of his hair, crashed his head down on to the table, then went elsewhere. Delgado straightened up, dazed, staggered round.
