`When is this damned aircraft due?' Newman asked impatiently.
Tweed had gone to check the arrivals board. He came back in time to hear the question.
`Landing now,' he said. 'It was supposed to arrive this morning early on. Delayed at Dulles Airport in Washington due to a bomb scare. Turned out to be a hoax. Monica was keeping in touch all morning.'
`Let's hope Cord Dillon is in a good humour,' Newman remarked. 'Which he probably won't be after the delay.'
The American had a fearsome reputation for his short fuse. Enormously competent, he expected everyone else to live up to his exacting standards. Fifteen minutes later the passengers started to emerge – far more than Newman had expected. The 747 Jumbo must have been full up.
More passengers appeared and soon the area round the exit was milling with people. Passengers disembarking, drivers of cars holding up names for their customers, friends greeting the new arrivals. Tweed, Newman, and Paula were huddled together in the crowd. You couldn't tell who had just come off the flight and who had arrived to meet them, Paula noted.
`There he is,' said Tweed.
Cord Dillon was a tall, well-built man in his fifties, with a craggy face. He had a shock of thick brown hair, was clean shaven, and above a strong nose his eyes were a startling blue, and ice cold. One hand carried his bag, the other waved a greeting as he pushed his way up to them. He nodded to Newman, shook Paula's hand, gave her a broad smile, then turned to Tweed.
`Could we wait here a minute or two,' he whispered. `My companion is travelling by herself. Security. She's Hilary Vane. A key element in the catastrophe. Small and slim, she's wearing a light-blue raincoat, dark blue beret. Carrying a small tartan case.'
`Should be easy to spot,' Tweed said to Paula, who had been listening.
The melee of people became more dense and muddled. Paula saw a tall, elegant, slim woman wearing a wide- brimmed hat with a small veil. Her coat flapped open and revealed a Chanel suit.
Paula saw the small woman he had described. Blue raincoat, blue beret, tartan suitcase. Hilary Vane began to thread her way through the jostling crowd. The woman with the wide-brimmed hat bumped into her, dipped her head in apology. Vane said something, started to push her way forward again. Her face contorted in a grimace of agony. The case fell from her hand. She collapsed.
`Jesus!'
Dillon thrust his way through the crowd, pushing people out of the way. Tweed followed at his heels. The crowd was parting, staring down. Dillon and Tweed reached the inert body. Tweed, moving swiftly, bent down, felt her neck pulse, looked up.
`She's dead.'
`She can't be!' Dillon roared.
Even among the babble of voices his own was heard clearly. More people stopped, pushed forward to see. Paula looked round for the woman with the wide-brimmed hat. No sign of her. An airport guard holding his walkie- talkie pushed his way through. Tweed spoke quickly.
`I'm Special Branch.' He showed the card forged inside the Engine Room in the basement of Park Crescent. 'Use that thing. Get Jim Corcoran, Chief of Security. He knows me. Get him damn quick…'
They were all inside Corcoran's top-security office. The body of Hilary Vane was stretched out on a table. Bending over her was a doctor. He looked up, shook his head. He pursed his lips, looked puzzled.
'I could have told you she was dead,' Tweed snapped. 'I would now like to know the cause of death.'
'Oh, I couldn't possibly give an opinion on that.. `Well, maybe I can.'
Tweed pointed to a small tear in Vane's raincoat in the upper arm. Gently, he eased up the sleeve of the light material. He pointed to a small puncture on the outer side of the slim arm. Vane's lips were a bluish colour. A tinge of the same colour was spreading over her face. The doctor sucked at the arm of his glasses and Tweed lost all patience.
`Clear enough, isn't it? She was injected with a lethal dose with a needle. The arm is bruised at this point.'
`Only a pathologist…' the doctor began.
'I know one of the top ones in the country,' Tweed informed him. 'So, thank you for your attention. But I don't think we need your presence any more.'
`Really! I beg your pardon…'
`Time to go, sir.' Corcoran, a tall, burly man, took the doctor by the arm, led him to the door. 'I am the Chief of Security here. It might be better if you did not mention this tragedy to anyone. To anyone at all.'
`I can't promise,' the doctor said peevishly. 'I have a formal report to make and no one is going to stop me.'
`I am. I can.' Tweed showed the same card. 'Now have nothing to worry about. Of course, if you disobeyed you might find yourself in professional trouble. I am invoking the Official Secrets Act.'
`Oh, I see. Why didn't you say so?'
`I just did. So, again, thank you for your time and I hope you haven't missed any important appointments due to the delay. I emphasize that this incident involves a matter of national security.'
`Then there's not a great deal more I can do here.' `Nothing I can think of,' Tweed said in the same polite tone. 'But thank you for your assistance…'
Newman made an observation to Tweed as soon as they were alone. It seemed very quiet inside the confines of Corcoran's office. 'You bluffed him,' Newman pointed out. 'All that stuff about invoking the Official Secrets Act. He hasn't even signed it.'
`I know. But it will help to keep him quiet.' Tweed looked at Dillon who was still staring at the body on the table.
`Was Vane important, Cord?'
`Very. Most of what she knew was inside her head. She had a lot of guts. I blame myself. She insisted that it would be safer if we travelled separately – as though we were strangers. I thought it was a good idea. And it wasn't.'
Tweed was surprised. It was the first time he'd witnessed such a human reaction from the tough American.
`You haven't even a clue as to what she knew?' Tweed insisted.
`Yes. I have one tape of a recorded conversation with her. I'll play it to you in your office. Not here.'
`It could be urgent for me to have a hint.'
`Then this room has to he cleared of everyone except you and me.' Dillon had reverted to his normal abrasive tone.
He looked at Paula and Newman. 'And that includes you two.'
`We can all go into another office next door,' Corcoran volunteered. He grinned to lighten the atmosphere. 'Tap three times on the door when it's safe for us to come back.'
`You mentioned the phrase a key element in catastrophe,' Tweed said when they were alone. `Go ahead.'
Seated behind his desk Dr Wand picked up the phone, dialled a Brussels number. He waited, leaning back in his chair, adjusting his pince-nez up the bridge of his strong nose.
`Yes?' a throaty upper-crust voice answered.
`Dr Hyde?'
`Yes. What can I do for you?'
`This is the Director speaking. You recognize my voice? Good. Go to a public phone box and call me back. At once, please.'
Wand replaced the phone. While he waited he studied maps of Britain and Western Europe, marked with crosses in pencil. Easy to erase. After ten minutes the phone rang.
`Dr Hyde speaking.'
`I think you should now proceed to the next programmed stage with your patient. A hand will do very nicely.' `The patient is right-handed,' Hyde informed him. `Oh, well, let us be merciful. Remove the left hand and dispatch it as planned…'
Inside Corcoran's office Dillon was striding backwards and forwards. Tweed had never known him show such agitation. He remained silent, guessing Dillon was deciding how much to tell him.
Eventually the American came very close to Tweed. He began speaking in a whisper.
`Catastrophe is not a strong enough word. We are faced with a new ruthless enemy who could overwhelm western Europe – even annihilate the United States.'
'The identity of this enemy?' Tweed enquired.