The voice was robotic. The caller was using some kind of instrument which completely distorted the voice. Impossible to tell whether it was the voice of a man or a woman. `What the hell do you mean?' Calouste demanded. `The plan failed. Tweed and Paula Grey are alive and well. Back in London, I assume. Alive and well…' `You said that before.' he screeched.
He slammed the mobile closed. He was going to have to start all over again. He started to swear in the foulest French.
6
When Tweed and Paula arrived back from Hengistbury all the core staff were assembled. Tweed gazed round at them. Marler, tall and slim, in his late thirties, occupied his favourite position. He was standing up, leaning against the wall next to Paula, now seated at her desk in the far corner by the large windows. He was smoking a cigarette in a long black holder.
As always, he was smartly dressed, his dark hair neatly trimmed He wore a well-cut beige suit, dark blue shirt, Chanel tie. Marler was reputed to be the top marksman in Europe with his Armalite rifle. Clean shaven, his face was handsome, attracting envious attention from elegant women when he walked down any London street. `In case you think we've been lounging about,' he began in his upper-crust voice, 'we've all been out and busy. I've been in the East End where agents of a certain Calouste Doubenkian have been recruiting the worst types – brutal thugs, some killers who have never been caught for their crimes. Thought I'd just mention it in view of Philip Cardon's phone call, passed on to me by Monica.' `What!' gulped Paula. `Don't I speak so good?' Marler enquired cynically. `You see?' Paula called out to Tweed. `Harry,' Tweed responded, as though not having heard what had just been said. 'No, I mean you, Pete,' he said to Pete Nield, five feet seven tall and also neatly clad, but without the panache of Marler. 'You have a pal in one of the three gold-bullion merchants. Got something for you.'
Paula jumped up to join him as Pete fingered his neat moustache by the side of Tweed's desk. An educated man, his team-mate was Harry Butler, seated cross-legged on the floor. A greater contrast between the two men would have been difficult to imagine. Harry wore a shabby old windcheater, trousers which had seen better days. He was indignant. `I've got twice the number of underground contacts Pete has,' he grumbled.
Tweed, absorbed, ignored the protest. Laying a sheet of thick white paper on his desk he carefully took his white display handkerchief from his top pocket, emptied the contents onto the sheet. Peter switched on a desk lamp. The specks and one larger piece glittered brilliantly in the light. `Pete,' Tweed said, `is that gold?' `Oh,' said Paula, 'so that's what you were doing. Wetting your handkerchief in the water carafe, then pressing it on the carpet while Bella and Lavinia were struggling to open their awkward drawer.' `What do you think, Pete?' Tweed asked, ignoring another interruption.
Pete had produced a powerful magnifying glass from a pocket. He peered at each speck for several minutes, spending most time on the largest piece. `I need to take this to my pal who is an expert,' he said eventually. 'But for my money this is gold.' `I need to know how long ago it was mined. Also, if it's possible, where.' `Should be back within two hours,' Pete said, checking his watch. 'My contact works through the afternoons and evenings. Sleeps in the morning.'
As he spoke he converted the paper sheet into a chute, then skilfully emptied the contents back into Tweed's display handkerchief. Screwing it up gently he produced a clean white handkerchief of his own as more protective wrapping. `Back in two hours,' he promised and was gone. `Don't tell me anything,' Paula chided. `Wait until we find out whether I'm right or wrong,' Tweed replied. `No good pushing Tweed,' Harry warned from the floor. 'He will only talk when he's ready. Should know that by now. `And I love you,' she told him with a smile.
The phone rang. Monica answered, waved to Tweed who reached for the phone, heard the voice, beckoned to Paula to listen on her phone. `Yes,' he said. 'More information about-' `I'm reliably informed that Calouste Doubenkian is now in England. Arrived several days ago…' `Where?' `No idea.' `What route did he use?' `No idea. Will keep in touch. When I can.
The phone went dead. Philip Cardon had swiftly ended the call. Tweed raised his eyebrows at Paula. He thought for a moment, then asked Monica to get Commander Buchanan on the line. He opened the conversation by giving his friend Roy a terse report on his visit with Paula to Hengistbury, leaving out any reference to the gold specks. `I'm sorry,' Buchanan commented. 'I had no idea she was after you as a bodyguard, which is what it comes to as I see it. Of course you had to refuse. Don't like the sound of an offer to buy her out. That could be very dangerous.' `Thought you didn't know anything about this character.' `Only rumours, which it's suspected Doubenkian spreads himself.' `What rumours?' `Among others he wanted to buy a private bank in Vienna. The owner refused. Next development is his only son – eighteen years old – is kidnapped. Price of his safe release is the sale of the bank. Owner sells, boy is returned unharmed. Then a mysterious buyer, as in Vienna, is offered a price for his private bank in Grenoble. Owner refuses, his wife is kidnapped. Owner, who maybe wasn't too fond of wife, gets her back through the post, a leg at a time, then an arm and in pieces the rest of her.' `Doubenkian sounds the most cold-blooded villain I have ever heard of…' `Hold on. These are rumours. Nothing is ever connected to Calouste Doubenkian.' `The buyer could be traced by finding out where the sale money ended up,' Tweed insisted. `The Vienna criminal department tried that. The money was passed through several private holding companies. Ended up inVaduz, Liechtenstein. You know it's impossible to check accounts in that tiny state.' `Mrs Bella Main says Doubenkian phoned her himself.' 'That's no proof. We only have her word for that. It is not enough to prove it was him.' `Doesn't anyone have any idea where his base is?' `No.' `What about Interpol?' Tweed hammered away. `Aren't they at all interested?' `What I'm about to say is not a joke. You know Interpol out at their quiet HQ at Lyons in France have black notices to list wanted major criminals, with their photographs and whatever data they have? I once asked a contact in Lyons what the position was on Calouste Doubenkian. A black notice is on their walls. Just his name with a query mark. Nothing else, a blank sheet. No photo. Some humorist has scrawled one word on it: Phantom. He probably has half a dozen perfect fake passports. All with different names.' `Why the query mark after his name?' `Because his real name could be anything. Tweed -' Buchanan became emphatic. – 'Everything Fire told you is rumour.' `Well, now you know I'm not going to Hengistbury.' `How could you? With the present position you hold…'
Tweed ended the call, looked across at Paula, who had heard every word. Smiling, he spread his hands in a gesture of forgetting the whole thing. `What did you think of that?' he asked. `I found it most intriguing.' `In what way?'
We don't yet have a clue as to what Calouste looks like but his character is emerging.' `In what way, for Heaven's sake?' `In his callous way he is very clever, a brilliant puller of strings without ever exposing himself. I'll bet he never stays in the same place for long. And he'll always appear with a false name.' `Doesn't get us much further. In any case he's not our problem.' He waved a hand at the pile of files on his desk. 'My job is to deal with these reports from agents overseas. Probably most will have sent meaningless reports to show they are active. I don't want to be disturbed while working on them.'
Robert Newman, a key agent of Tweed's, was sprawled in an armchair near Tweed's desk. Thoroughly vetted long ago, he had once been the most respected international news reporter in America and Europe. His occasional articles had been reprinted in full in the Washington Post, Der Spiegel in the German Republic and many other influential papers, including London's Daily Clarion.
Six feet tall, well built, in his early forties, his strong, good-looking face was often stared at by women when he walked down a street. He frowned at Tweed's response. `Tweed,' he began forcefully. 'I think what Paula said was very shrewd. Defining the character is halfway towards identifying the man. Give her credit.' `I asked for no more interruptions,' Tweed said quietly. 'We're not concerned about this Doubenkian. But since you all have him on the brain, everyone can go out and trawl your contacts. Don't go south of the river. Criminals and spies avoid that better-off area.
They're worried they would be conspicuous.' `I'm going to the ladies' room,' said Paula and left the office.
On the morning of the third day after Calouste received the disturbing news that Tweed and Paula Grey were alive and probably back at Park Crescent, he decided to move. He never stayed in the same place for long wherever he might be.
He had spent the whole night out of bed in his hotel room, seated in an armchair, drinking cup after cup of
