Cell

piece of paper with the address Marler had given him. 'Marler, tell us all about your experience with following Buller.'

They listened while Marler repeated the report he had given Tweed earlier. He left nothing out. Paula had heard it before but now she sat up very erect, waiting until Marler waved a hand, indicating he'd finished. Harry had sat cross-legged on the floor. He whistled.

'The Finsbury Park mosque. That's the one where those rats who belong to al-Qa'eda are supposed to be brainwashed and given their orders.'

'And,' Tweed emphasized, 'Milan keeps coming into the picture. First, Buller is on his way there. He's a bit like you, Paula – gets an idea and follows it up on his own. Now we have Eva Brand linked with Milan.' He checked his watch. 'Bob, get any information on Drew Franklin when you went to the Daily Nation?'

'Yes – and no. Met my pal, the sub-editor. Took him out to a pub. He said Franklin isn't liked by the rest of the staff, but they all admit his column is so brilliant and snide they know a lot of their readers turn to it first. Doesn't talk to anyone, gives the impression they are all members of a lower class, that intellectually he's way above them, and shows it. Has a London pad not far behind Eaton Square – I've got the address. Drives off up to Carpford to type his column. Goes to a lot of parties in London – I suppose he's picking up gossip. He goes abroad in January for six weeks. No one knows where to. He only misses handing over the text of his column for one week. Behind his back they nickname him Snooty. Not a lot, but he seems a bit of a mystery man.'

'Paula, time for you to go home, get a good night's sleep after the Ivy business. Beaurain is still trapped at Heathrow – Security at Heathrow got an anonymous call that there was a terrorist aboard his flight. Beaurain is marooned there until they've checked everyone. He'll be here later tonight so I'll wait.'

'So will I,' said Paula forcefully.

Half an hour later, Marler was looking out of the window after pulling aside the curtain. Pete and Harry had earlier left to get something to eat. Marler whistled and grinned as he looked at Tweed.

'You're honoured. Prepare for a shock.'

'You'll never…' began Monica, who had answered the phone. She cut off the rest of her remark after a certain look from Tweed.

'You have a visitor,' she said quietly. 'Victor Warner, Minister of Security, wants to see you urgently.'

'We know by now what he is,' growled Tweed. 'Ask him up – by himself.'

'Arrived in a couple of black limos,' Marler reported. 'The second one is crammed with camel-hair coat types. They've jumped out, started parading round. Comedians…'

The door opened and Victor Warner, clad in a camel-hair coat – presumably to disguise his identity during the drive from Whitehall – dashed in, clutching a cardboard-backed envelope. He sat in the armchair facing Tweed.

'Thought it best to come over here. It's an emergency. We think we know the target – and who is behind all the rumours.'

'That would be a step forward.'

Tweed became silent as Warner extracted a photograph from the envelope. He slapped it down in front of Tweed. His expression was grim, his manner disturbed.

'What would you say that is?' demanded Warner.

'It is a photo of Canary Wharf, the main tower block. It is easy to identify.'

'Now look on the back,' Warner snapped.

Tweed turned it over. Scrawled in an illiterate but readable hand was one word. Next? Tweed raised his eyebrows, looked at Warner.

'Where did this come from?'

'Bit of luck. In my position you need a bit of luck. Learned that when I was with Medfords. A couple of policemen in that area saw a man taking photos of the building from different angles. They collared him, Buchanan phoned me, sent the pics over by courier. Chap taking the pictures is under arrest. A certain bigwig in the IRA. Released from prison a couple of months ago.'

Marler had glided over, appeared behind Tweed's back. Casually he picked up the photo and headed for the door. Warner swung round, furious.

'Where do you think you're taking that?'

'We have a chap on our staff who once worked at Canary Wharf,' Marler lied glibly. 'He can confirm positively that this is Canary Wharf.'

'Of course it is,' Warner roared. He stabbed a thick finger as he went on. 'And I forbid you to make any copies. Got it?'

Marler had gone. Tweed started doodling on a pad with his pen. He pursed his lips, then asked the question as though the answer wasn't important.

'What do you know about the track record of this IRA man, the bigwig?'

'Name is Tim O'Leary. Known to have been sent to the Mid-East at one time to try and get collaboration – arms – from groups out there. Speaks fluent Arabic. Believed to have spent three months out there, although the timing is vague.'

'And he was openly photographing Canary Wharf, despite the presence of two policemen?'

'Doubt if he'd noticed them. Probably thought if he took pics openly he wouldn't look suspicious. Bit of luck the police were there, spotted him.'

'So you think Canary Wharf is the next target of the Real IRA mob?'

'That and maybe St Paul's Cathedral at the same time. I have taken all precautions. Everyone who enters either building is thoroughly searched. More than that…' Warner was building up a head of steam. 'The RAF have fighters flying non-stop with orders to shoot down any airliner – even if crammed with passengers – if it enters the non-flying exclusion zone we've organized. We'll be ready for them if they come – on the ground or in the air. The PM has – albeit reluctantly – backed me.'

Marler had returned with the photograph, now inside a transparent evidence envelope, placed it on Tweed's desk. Warner glared at him, then spoke to Tweed.

'All this is confidential. I'd sooner he wasn't here. Nor that girl behind the word-processor.'

'Give us a few minutes alone,' Tweed said, thinking confidentiality was a bit late in the day. He pounced when Warner looked at Paula.

'Miss Grey stays. She knows as much as I do. If ever I was put out of action she'd take over command.'

Paula was astounded, even a little embarrassed. She had never before heard Tweed suggest elevating her to control of the entire organization. Warner nodded before continuing.

'So, I think, Mr Tweed, you'll agree I have everything under control. No need for you to concern yourself with this problem any more. And now, I had better love you and leave you,' he concluded, standing up.

'Thank you, Minister, for keeping me informed,' Tweed replied very quietly.

Paula walked to the door, opened it for Warner to leave. He hadn't even the courtesy to thank her. Tweed asked her to tell Monica and Marler. Newman, who had left without being asked to also came back.

A few minutes after Marler reported the two limos had left on their way back to Whitehall the phone rang yet once more. Monica reported that Jules Beaurain had just arrived. Tweed pulled a face.

'Now we know what has held up the poor devil so long. Warner's new security precautions at Heathrow. Tell him to come up now.'

Paula was expecting the Belgian to look exhausted after his long day, the irksomeness of hanging around forever at the airport. Instead, when he charged into the room he was bursting with energy and smiling broadly. He dumped the small case he had been carrying by the armchair, again sat opposite Newman.

He was wearing a neutral-coloured windcheater, corduroy slacks. Paula observed he was freshly shaven and guessed he'd tidied himself up inside the plane's toilet. Besides bubbling with energy he looked ready to start a new day. Don't know how you do it, she thought. He waved to her.

'I have news,' Tweed remarked, 'but I'm sure you have too.'

'Gentlemen first.'

Beaurain waved a hand in Tweed's direction. He settled himself into the armchair to listen. His eyes were fixed on Tweed's as he listened to the details of Warner's surprise visit. Tweed ended by shoving the evidence envelope across to the Belgian. He merely glanced at it, then pushed it back across the desk.

'Decoy.'