Tweed noticed she had three bolts as well as two Banham locks on the door as she opened it for them. They slipped outside and bitter cold hit them. The cloud was so low and dense it was like night. There was a heavy frost on the green round the lake.
'I think it might be a mistake not to interview Margesson,' Tweed remarked as Paula pulled up her scarf, closed the top button of her coat. 'I get a funny feeling about him.'
'I get a bloody funny feeling about the whole place,' Paula retorted.
2
Inside Tweed's office at Park Crescent Bob Newman sat reading the. day's issue of. the Daily Nation, London's big-selling 'serious' newspaper. While active as a foreign correspondent he had contributed major pieces to the paper – articles which had been syndicated to Der Spiegel in Germany, Le Monde in France and the New York Times. He looked up as Marler came into the office.
In his thirties, Marler was of medium height, slim, agile, good-looking and the best marksman in Western Europe. He was always smartly dressed and today he was clad in a grey two-piece suit, and a crisp white shirt with a Chanel tie. After kissing Monica on one cheek he walked over to a corner, stood against the wall, took out a long cigarette, lit it and stared at Newman.
He saw a well-built man in his forties, fair-haired, with a strong nose and jaw. His eyes were blue, his personality formidable. He had never yet been mugged. Even tough rubbish took one look at him and decided to go looking for easier pickings.
'We have to go and see my informant, Eddie,' Marler told him.
'You always see your informants on your own. So what is different now? I'm sure Eddie isn't his real name.'
'It will do for now. First time Eddie has clammed up on me. Says he has news so dangerous he'll only talk direct to Tweed. Whom he's never met, of course. Fact that he knows Tweed's name shows he's the tops.'
'Tweed is somewhere deep in Surrey with Paula. No idea when he'll get back.'
'So our faithful guard on the front door, George, told me, so I'm not sure we can wait. I'm hoping he'll talk to you. Make with the feet.'
Newman was wearing jeans, and a heavy zip-up jacket hung from the back of his chair. He sighed, stood up and put on the jacket. His bolstered. 38 Smith amp; Wesson revolver was now perfectly concealed. He made a gesture of resignation to Monica and she saluted with a grin.
'Just so I know,' Newman said as they walked down the stairs from the first floor office, 'where are we going?'
'Deepest and darkest Soho.'
'Great. Haven't been there for ages. Can't wait.'
They parked Newman's car on the edge of Soho. Marler led the way and soon they were walking down a main street. Newman looked round in surprise.
'They've smartened the place up. It almost looks inviting.'
'Almost. It's all cosmetic.'
The narrow street was well lit. Crowds of youngsters were drifting along, wondering what to do next to raise some hell. Ahead of them on the pavement a burly man with a cap leant against a wall as he carefully lit a cigar. He had first glanced their way. Newman grasped Marler's arm to slow him down. They were close to the man, who had just taken a deep puff on his cigar. Newman stopped a foot away from him as the burly character blew out a smokescreen of foul smoke intended to catch Newman in the face. As the smoke cleared Newman stopped opposite him.
'Meant for me, mate?'
'You bet, sonny.'
Newman's clenched right fist slammed into his stomach. Cigar groaned horribly, bent forward, burning half of his cigar on the pavement. Newman pulled the cap down over his eyes and walked on.
'Welcome to Soho,' Marler quipped.
'Think he swallowed half of it. Hope he enjoyed the taste.'
'We turn down here.'
'Even more salubrious.'
This street was even narrower. Newman saw a greasy-faced man handing a small packet to his customer. Cocaine. Ahead of them a slanting neon sign which had once been straight had a name. Belles. Two young scruffy- looking blondes were standing by the door, watching them coming.
'Belles,' Marler said. 'He should be inside. We're punctual. Eddie doesn't like waiting.'
'We're better than what you'll find inside,' one of the blondes said, leering.
'So you say,' Newman snapped, following Marler inside.
A barrage of noise assailed them. A mix of voices and the voice of a skimpily clad black girl perched on a platform as she 'sang' into a microphone. Marler pushed his way between crowded tables to the back where a staircase led upstairs.
At a table tucked under the stairs sat a small shabbily dressed man with a broken nose, a scar on his left cheek. Marler grabbed the chair with its back to the wall, sat down as Newman moved one of the chairs so he faced the crowd.
'Eddie,' Marler introduced, 'meet Tweed's right-hand man. Bob Newman.'
'Why three bottles of beer?' Newman wanted to know.
'To keep people away from this table,' Eddie explained. 'Where is Tweed?'
'A hundred miles away. Newman will tell him what you have to pass on. You said it was urgent.'
'New York had September 11.' Eddie kept his voice down. He paused, 'London is next. This month. February.'
'Dates?'
'Tweed gets those. No one else.' Eddie sipped his beer as Newman watched him. Shabby clothes. Nutcracker face, his cheeks sunk. Could be any age. 'So when do I meet him?' Eddie persisted.
Newman turned away, studied the jostling crowd. A small man had entered, wearing a worn leather suit. What caught Newman's eye was the black turban he was wearing, the eyes scanning the place. Newman turned round.
'That newcomer,' he said, addressing Eddie. 'With a turban. What the hell is he?'
'Probably Taliban. Our stupid government has let a horde in through Dover. They don't wear the turban till they get up here.'
'Not al-Qa'eda?'
'Probably… He's come for the girl upstairs. Sorry for her. They don't know. Knew one who was maimed for life. Her attacker was only with her for five minutes.'
'What's the name of the girl upstairs?'
'Lily.'
'Excuse me.'
The man in the black turban was approaching the staircase. As Newman ran up it ahead of him Marler took one of the beer bottles, emptied the contents on to the floor, only adding to the rubbish.
At the top of the stairs Newman ran along a narrow corridor. One door had a crudely painted sign hanging from the door knob. He hammered on the door. Nothing. He hammered again and a seductive voice answered.
'Who the hell is it?'
'Now listen good. I'm Robert Newman, newspaper reporter. You've got a brutal Afghan customer on the way up. He'll cut you to pieces. Afterwards. Just for the fun of it. So for God's sake don't open the door. Lock it, bolt it, put a handle under the knob – the handle of a chair. And I'm damned well not joking…'
As he started back down the corridor he heard locks being turned. He began descending the stairs. The Afghan was on his way up. Seen close up, Newman was appalled by the savage face, the death-like eyes. Newman stopped him.
