'So Petacci is an assumed name?'
'One of many. My Italian is good enough to pass for one of them in this country.'
'You have information for us,' Beaurain said tersely.
'The route they use when they've come in from the East is via Milan. They board an express for Paris. Then they take a train to the coast of Brittany, end up in St Malo. Guides wait for them, put them aboard fishing vessels which cross the Channel. A few miles from the coast of Britain they transfer to dinghies when the sea's calm. They land at a remote beach somewhere near Hastings. More guides are waiting with cars to take them on.'
'Take them on to where?' Beaurain snapped.
'That he didn't know. But he knew the spectacular target is London.'
'They sound well organized. Mind telling me how you came by this. priceless information? If it's true?'
Petacci smiled grimly. 'It is true. I persuaded an Afghan who spoke unnervingly good English.'
'Might I ask you how you persuaded an Afghan to tell you all this?'
'You may.' Petacci smiled. 'You just did. I used the one method which would make him talk. I threatened to cut off his beard. Without that he couldn't join his own people. They would know something had happened, stick a knife into him.'
'Have you any idea,' Beaurain persisted, 'how many of them have followed this route?'
'More than twenty. Their European base was Milan. Now it is somewhere in Britain. No idea where. But something very big is being planned. No point in telling Victor Warner, Minister for Home Security. Man's an idiot. Always gets it wrong…'
'What is your real name?' Beaurain persisted, still holding a wad of banknotes.
'Oh, for heaven's sake!' Paula protested.
Petacci smiled. 'Your Belgian friend is right to check me out. As far as he can.' He looked at Beaurain. 'George, Hugh, Alfred. Any name you like. None of them is right.'
'Don't answer me this question,' said Paula, 'and I will understand. But have you worked for some outfit in Britain?'
'Used to be with Special Branch. Since I'm a linguist they sent me over here to Europe. I made a lot of contacts. In those days I got fed up with Special Branch, a bunch of clods. So I decided to leave and go freelance over here. The money's much better.' He smiled again. 'But I do hear that since Buller took over as top dog they've cleaned up their act.'
'One more question,' Beaurain went on. Paula groaned to herself. 'Surely that Afghan you interrogated will tell his mob what he's told you.'
'Doubt it.' Petacci smiled again. 'After I'd bled him white I shot him in the head, dumped the corpse inside a deep ravine. And if you're returning home which route are you using?'
'Same one we used to get out here,' Paula told him. 'By express from Milan to Paris, then Eurostar…'
'No!' Petacci was emphatic, still smiling. 'They will be waiting for you at Centrale. Take a train from here back to Milan. Slip out by the side exit, grab a cab, go to the airport. Fly back to Heathrow. It's late but there's been another hold-up, so flights are all leaving very late. I can drive you to Verona station.' He checked his watch. 'You should catch an express from Venice soon.'
'Thank you for your help,' Beaurain said, now gracious. He handed Petacci an envelope stuffed with notes. 'Your fee.'
Petacci riffled through the banknotes, took half, handed the rest back to the Belgian. 'I still love England. Half will keep the wolf from the door.' He looked at Paula. 'You'll be appalled when you see my car but I've installed a brand new souped-up engine. It goes like the wind. Which is the way you'd better go to get out of Italy alive. Beaurain, one question you didn't ask.'
'Which was?'
'Who are the people I've been talking about. Miss Grey -and yourself – have had a tough time. Thought I'd better keep that bit till last. They're al-Qa'eda.'
18
Late on the afternoon of the day when Beaurain and Paula were travelling aboard the express to Verona, in London Tweed was surprised to be visited by an unexpected guest. It was murky beyond the windows in his office, another typical February day. The only other two people with him were Marler, who had just arrived, and Monica, who seemed to live behind her word processor.
'A visitor for you downstairs,' Monica announced with a wry smile. 'Jasper Bullet, that nice man from Special Branch.'
'He must have got back from Italy. Send him up.'
The bulky figure of Buller, wearing a raincoat – no camel-hair uniform this time – walked in. He smiled at Monica, then at Tweed as he sat down after removing the raincoat. His manner was so different from the Bull, as his staff had nicknamed him, Monica was taken aback.
'Would you like some coffee?' she suggested., 'A gallon of it would be welcome.' He swung round and again smiled.
Tweed studied him. Under his air of affability he thought he detected tension. Buller lit a cigarette after asking permission. He stared at Tweed over the flame of his lighter.
'The situation is probably desperate,' he said quietly.
'You found out something in Milan?'
'I did. London is the target. For the next al-Qa'eda spectacular. Atrocity would be a better word.'
'So Mario Murano came up trumps?'
'He did not.' He thanked Monica for the large cup of coffee she placed close to him on the desk. Tweed waited while he drank half the cup. 'No,' he continued, 'Murano was at pains to tell me nothing. Quite different from when I paid him a visit about something else six months ago. He was also very nervous. Couldn't wait to get rid of me.'
'Yet you come back with disturbing information.'
'That's right.' Buller emptied his cup and accepted Monica's offer of a refill. 'After leaving Murano,' he continued, 'I contacted another source. Ex-member of the carabinieri, which, as you know, is the police under army control. He had a high rank but couldn't stand the corruption. He resigned, set up his own investigation agency. One of his clever men infiltrated al-Qa'eda, second-in-command of their huge base in Milan. Got next to him, found he was bitter – his American wife had been inside the North Tower on September 11 when the plane hit it. He spilt his guts about the base moving to Britain since the next major target was London. The informant spoke English as well as Arabic. Shortly after telling his story his body ended up on a railway line. Police found it, dragged it clear minutes before the Rome express arrived. The autopsy showed the dead informant had swallowed a cyanide pill – probably just before he was tortured. Which makes the data he gave horribly reliable.'
'Poor devil,' Marler interjected.
'Are you passing this on to the Minister for Security?' asked Tweed.
'You must be joking,' Buller snapped. 'What use is he? He's absorbed in the idea that a Colombian drug cartel is the menace.'
'This is grimly convincing,' Tweed said reflectively.
'My next follow-up,' Buller went on, 'is to go up to that suspicious village, Carpford. I'll interview everyone up there even if I have to drag them out of bed. There may be very little time left.'
'Go up when?'
'Tonight.'
Buller had drunk all the second cup of coffee. He stood up, put on his raincoat, gazed at Tweed. 'No time like the present.'
'You could be walking into something,' Tweed warned. 'So take Marler with you.'
'I know you're tops,' Buller said, looking at Marler. 'But on something like this I operate best on my own. No offence.'
'None taken,' Marler replied.
