The figure was leaving the mosque. Probably a woman. The figure carried a stick and appeared to have a limp. Crouched well forward, it was impossible to assess its height. The face was covered except for the eyes.
'Doesn't ring any bells,' Tweed decided. He beckoned to Marler, pointed a finger at the crouched figure. 'Did you by chance notice where this one went to?'
'Heavens no! I just snap-snap-snapped. Had to be careful. Finsbury Park isn't the safest area in town.'
'File them,' Tweed said pushing the photos towards Paula as she walked round the desk to head back for her own corner. 'Marler, you have achieved a minor miracle -finding out about the real Jasper Buller.'
'Where is everyone else?' Marler asked.
'I sent Newman to check up on Drew Franklin. Pete and Harry are following Eva Brand.'
'You can't suspect such a lovely creature.'
'She's a woman, not a creature,' Paula snapped.
'She's a niece of Drew Franklin,' Tweed remarked. 'Plus the Hogarth brothers, Billy and Martin, being cousins of Drew Franklin. We really don't know who knows who out at Carpford. So we're going to find out. Beaurain used the word 'base' about the place.'
Paula had checked her watch. 'Heavens, I've got to go to my flat and get ready for my dinner at the Ivy with Eva. That doesn't take five minutes.'
'How women compete with each other,' Newman remarked. He had just returned. Paula fled out of the room as he made his comment.
'You'd prefer them sloppy?' Tweed growled. 'It is one of their nice traits. I like it.'
The phone had rung while they were talking and Monica called out.
'That was a message from Jules Beaurain. He's landed back at Heathrow. Expects to be here in about an hour. Says he has important news, very important.'
Inside the barn at Oldhurst Farm the fifth and last milk wagon had arrived. The body of the English driver was already at the bottom of the septic tank. The weapon had been hauled up out of the wagon, was now transferred to the interior of a small white van bearing the legend Flourishing Florist on both sides of the vehicle. The three vans which had departed earlier bore a different legend, Fresh Fruit.
Ali, arms crossed, stood gazing with satisfaction inside the van where the weapon had been placed in position near the front of the vehicle. Its three strong legs rested on a metal plate which had holes drilled on four sides. Large metal screws were now in place, gripping the tripod tightly to the floor.
To any normal human being the device would have seemed sinister and menacing. The large shell, tipped with its warhead, perched on the brutal tripod holding it firmly in place, would have seemed horrific. Ali, on the other hand, was gloating as he visualized it leaving its platform when the red button was pressed. The special powerful explosive which, on hitting its target, would explode outwards and upwards to cause the maximum of havoc.
'Now fill the van with the camouflage,' he ordered in Arabic. 'Four of you get the job done.'
Huge bouquets of expensive flowers, including orchids, were piled up round the device, almost to the roof of the van. Large pots of flowers, secured inside boxes open at the top, were placed close together at the rear of the van. A number of very large pots, tipped backwards with wedges, were placed inside as the rear doors of the van were closed slowly.
'Abdullah' had hammered home this instruction to Ali. In the rare event that a van was stopped by a police car the driver would hand the keys to an officer, standing back.
When the officer opened a door an avalanche of heavy pots carrying plants would descend on him, possibly knocking him out. That would curb a patrol car's officers from probing any further into the van. Similar 'barricades' had been built up against the locked doors of the three 'florist's' vans.
Ali checked his watch. They were keeping to the timing. The master planner had insisted the vans, departing separately, should drive south so they would be caught up in the London rush hour. Hardly a time when police would be stopping vehicles and adding to the chaos. As with the planes which had flown into the World Trade Center in New York, everything had been thought of. London was doomed.
11
Paula, clad in a pale orange suit, glanced back through the rear window of the cab taking her to the Ivy. She couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she was being followed.
There were three cars behind her cab, but close behind the third car was a motor-cyclist. Black leather gear, a large helmet which concealed his face, the shape of his head. She'd thought she had heard a motor-cycle start up soon after the cab left her flat.
It was night, but the Strand was well illuminated. Street lights and shop windows glowing. They were close to the restaurant when she looked back again. The motor-cyclist was now behind her. She decided to pay the cabbie now, gave him a generous tip. As he pulled in to the kerb she threw open the door, jumped out, and ran to and inside the Ivy. The manager told her Miss Brand was already waiting, at their table.
She followed him into the spacious restaurant. Already the place was almost full. Eva wore a close-fitting dress of gold with a high collar. She jumped up to kiss Paula and a bottle of Krug was nestling in an ice bucket.
'You look ravishing,' Paula said as she sat down. 'Gold suits you.'
'And your suit is so smart,' Eva replied with a wide smile. 'Now we've told each other how good we look let's have a toast.' She raised the glass the waiter had just filled. 'Here's to crime.'
'I prefer here's to the destruction of criminals.'
'Excuse me.' Eva chuckled. 'That was the toast we used to drink at Medfords, the security lot. Without crime we'd have been out of business. Mind if I smoke? Thanks.'
'I was really thinking of Mr Warner. A disappearance is in a way even more disturbing than a body. You wonder and wonder. Victor Warner conceals his emotions well but he must be going nearly crazy.'
'I agree.' Eva played with her cigarette in an ashtray. 'She was a nice lady. Like me she was a linguist.'
'You knew her then?' Paula asked.
'I met her at several panics. She loved England. Said she'd travelled but there was nowhere in the world like it.'
'What languages do you speak then?' Paula asked, looking up from the menu.
'Oh, French, Arabic, Spanish and Italian.'
'Arabic? That's impressive.'
'Medfords once sent me to Cairo after a man who'd absconded with a large sum of money. Now,' she said quickly, 'see anything that appeals?'
They ordered. Both avoided starters and Paula ordered the salmon fishcake. She had the impression Eva wished to get the conversation away from Arabs and Arabic. Determined that they would not just indulge in chit- chat, Paula changed the topic.
'What do you think has happened to Mrs Warner?'
'Who knows?' Eva waved an elegant hand. 'Kidnapped?'
'Then why no ransom note? I happen to know that is the case. After three long weeks.'
'It's a mystery others must solve. I heard your people are working hard on the case,' commented Eva.
'Among other things. So you're also fluent in Italian. I imagine you've been to Italy?'
'Rome, Florence and Verona. And Milan.'
'So when were you last in Milan?' Paula asked with a smile.
'If I didn't know you have perfect manners,' Eva began, her smile gone, her large dark eyes staring, 'I would get the impression you are interrogating me.'
'Now why would I do that?' Paula enquired with a smile. 'Is there some significance about Milan? Do tell.' She sipped her champagne. 'This is wonderful. I suppose you can get it in Milan,' she persisted. 'I've heard in Italy they push their own vintages.'
Eva, her expression neutral, buttered a piece of bread. She ate it before wiping her wide mouth.
'Italy does have some excellent wines. But of course, if you stayed at a top hotel you could get anything you fancied.'
