main road, siren screaming, lights flashing. It stopped. Behind it came a car with Buchanan at the wheel and behind him a large truck carrying specialized equipment.
Beaurain backed, swung his car on to the scrubby field, the convoy drove in and passed down the track. They got a brief wave from Buchanan.
'Now proceed to the right,' Tweed ordered. 'I want to check whether Warner has Special Branch patrols along the Embankment as I suggested…'
Again it was a crawl in dense traffic. They passed the Albert Bridge and Beaurain gazed fixedly at it while waiting for a chance to drive on. Paula noticed the intensity of his gaze.
'What is it?' she asked.
'Always like this?' he asked.
'Always,' Tweed called out. 'Rush hour. Not a thing moving on the bridge. Bumper to bumper. It's 5.30 p. m…'
They drove on, past Chelsea Bridge, Vauxhall Bridge, Lambeth Bridge and reached Westminster Bridge. All of them were packed solid with motionless traffic. And each time Beaurain gazed at the crush with his fixed stare.
'Now,' said Tweed, sitting up right, 'keep your eyes open for men strolling along in camel-hair overcoats.'
'The Special Branch patrol,' Paula commented.
They reached Blackfriars Bridge and hadn't seen one man in a camel-hair coat. Once again they were stationary, locked in the floodtide of traffic. Paula twisted round to look at Tweed. His expression was grim. ' 'You're not pleased,' she said.
'Not a single Special Branch man patrolling the Embankment. Warner has deliberately ignored one of my key requests. I know why. He'll have a number outside Buckingham Palace. Now we'll check St Paul's. My guess is there'll be a flock of them there.'
'It's Warner asserting a little authority, trying to show he still counts,' she remarked.
Tweed didn't reply. The traffic was about to get moving again. Newman leaned forward, called out to Beaurain.
'I'll navigate from here, get you to St Paul's.' 'When I can I go up Ludgate Hill. I did study the map,' the Belgian said quietly.
Paula twisted round again, gave Newman a certain look. He raised both hands in a gesture of resignation.
'I do realize I have become surplus to requirements.'
When they approached St Paul's, Tweed counted six men in the camel-hair overcoats. Three at the top of the steps, watching visitors as they entered. Three more apparently drifting round in the street below. He grunted.
'He's probably got half-a-dozen inside the place. So he had plenty to patrol the Embankment. You were right, Paula. He's demonstrating he is still Minister. Might as well get back to Park Crescent, Jules. Wonder what's waiting for us there?'
Martin Hogarth was waiting for them. George told Tweed he had put him in the waiting-room, that he had protested fiercely about being locked in.
'I would like to arrive back once and find no one waiting for me,' Tweed remarked. 'Give us a few minutes to settle in, then send him up. But escort him like an unwanted guest, which he is…'
Tweed had just settled himself behind his desk. Marler was leaning against a wall. Pete Nield was seated in one of the armchairs. Beaurain sat in a hard chair in front of Paula's desk. The door opened and George ushered in their visitor.
Martin Hogarth stormed in, his face very red. He glared round at everyone, then plonked himself in the other armchair in front of Tweed's desk, without being asked.
'Where have you got my brother Billy imprisoned?' he yelled.
'Calm down,' Tweed said, clasping his hands together.
His suggestion only added petrol to the flames. Martin had trouble getting the words out. Then he shouted.
'You have kidnapped him. I'll inform the police, get myself a lawyer.'
'How did you find this address?' Tweed asked quietly.
'I've a friend who knows the kidnap business. He said you ran a business negotiating the release of rich people who had been grabbed. Gave me this address. And I thought you were SIS. But you have a bloody plate outside -General amp; Cumbria Assurance. The Minister, whom by the way, I happen to know, will be interested to hear you impersonated the SIS.'
'You could always complain to him. His Ministry is in Whitehall. Martin, why are you so worked up? I'm sure you have not yet told us your real motive.'
'What… do you mean?' Martin's mood had changed. He was now on the defensive. 'Real motive,' he sneered.
'What is it?' Tweed leaned forward. 'Better tell me now.'
'Tell you what?'
The change in Martin's mood under pressure from Tweed was startling. The raging accuser had become a frightened man. Unsure of how to handle the situation. Tweed gave him no time to recover.
'Your real motive. Money, isn't it?'
'Money…'
'Collecting the huge sums from Carpford sent abroad -then returned here.'
'Huge sums…'
'Thousands of pounds. So bulky they may have to convert them into Swiss francs. The Swiss have one- thousand-franc banknotes. Pecksniff was the link – he checked them when you brought the huge sums to him.'
'How did you…'
'How did I know?' Tweed finished for him. 'I have a lot of professionals digging up information, interrogating people. Including Pecksniff.'
'I want to leave,' Martin protested feebly.
Newman stood behind him, looming over Martin. His tone was savage.
'You can answer Tweed – or you can leave here. In handcuffs when Superintendent Buchanan and his men come to pick you up. They are not so gentle at the Yard as we are. So answer Tweed's question or I'll bloody well call the Yard now.'
'Pecksniff was working on behalf of al-Qa'eda when he arranged for you to fly abroad to pick up the money,' Tweed snapped.
'I had no idea Pecksniff was working for them..,'
He had slipped up badly. First, he had not asked who Pecksniff was when Tweed used the name. Second, he had now admitted he had had dealings with the Dickensian solicitor. Paula was fascinated by the way Tweed had, with flashes of inspiration, led Martin into the trap. Monica mouthed the word 'coffee' and pointed at Martin's back. Tweed shook his head. Nothing must disturb the mood.
'Well, now you know he was working for them,' Tweed continued. 'So you might as well tell us the huge amounts you brought over from the Bahamas trips you made.'
'Bahamas…'
'Get on with it, for heaven's sake. I'm losing patience.'
The phone rang. Monica answered, beckoned to Newman, who went to her desk. He kept his voice low.
'Newman here. Who might this be?'
'Recognize your voice. Rick Pendleton here, your friendly bank director in the Bahamas. Just got back from a great holiday. Mexico. What's your query?'
'I desperately need to know who has collected the money sent to you from Aruba. The New Age Development Corp. I know you don't like revealing details of accounts. Keep this under your hat. London is facing an imminent catastrophic attack from al-Qa'eda. That New Age money financed it. Who was the courier who collected the money – maybe made several trips?'
'Jesus! Hang on while I check. I remember the guy. The sums were so large it came over to me. Hold the line…'
