'Mr Tweed.' Buller leaned forward, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. 'I would much appreciate it if we could talk in private. Please.'
Tweed called to Monica to ask if Howard's office was available. She told him it was, that Howard was not expected back for at least an hour.
Tweed stood up, went to the door, followed by Buller. He led the way upstairs to Howard's spacious office. He knew Howard was always careful to lock away any important documents when he was absent. They walked inside and sat down.
'I appreciate this,' Buller repeated. His whole manner had changed and he spoke politely with a warm smile. 'I think you should know that I visit the mosque in Finsbury Park, the one which is notorious.'
'I'm surprised they let you in.'
'Ah!' Buller smiled warmly again. 'I go dressed as an Arab. That is just between you and me. The Minister, Warner, has no idea I'm doing this. I know he wouldn't approve. He has Colombia and a drug cartel on the brain. I suspect that a number of Taliban have been smuggled into this country.'
'You have evidence of this infiltration?'
'Unfortunately, no. But I've seen several Arabs who have the appearance of having arrived very recently. In the end, it may come down to you and me. Not,' he added hastily, 'that I'm asking for cooperation. But I will attempt to keep you informed when I do have something solid. Now, I had better go.'
'Thank you for being so frank. Yes, do keep in touch…'
Tweed ran back down the stairs while Buller lumbered behind, heading for the exit. Tweed carefully closed his office door. He spoke rapidly to Marler, standing close to him.
'Buller is just leaving. He may separate from his partner. The man to follow is Buller – where he goes, anyone he contacts.'
'I'm on my way.' Marler grabbed his coat and was heading for the door. He called back over his shoulder. 'I have one of those small cameras, non-flash, which the boffins in the basement invented. Hold it in the palm of one hand.'
'Marler!' Tweed called out. 'Be careful. You could be walking into a cauldron…'
9
Inside the huge barn next to Oldhurst Farm in Berkshire the third milk wagon had eased its way inside. The English driver stepped down from his cab. He flexed his fingers, stiff with driving the large vehicle. He walked over to the leader he knew as Adam, who stood on a large sheet of canvas spread out over the floor.
'OK, mate. Another load of drugs delivered. What is it? Cocaine? And I'll take that two thousand quid you're holding in your paw.'
He was aware there were other men behind him but his eyes were on the fat wad of banknotes Adam was holding.
Adam was a small man, neatly dressed in English clothes. His skin was brownish, a tan from spending several months in the Seychelles. He spoke perfect English.
'By the mercy of Allah you have done well,' the little man said with a twisted smile.
'Allah!' The driver was appalled. 'You're a bunch of flaming Arabs. You…'
It was the last word he ever spoke, as a man behind him drove a wide-bladed knife into his back between the ribs. He twisted the knife, withdrew it, stabbed again and again as the driver, already dead, slumped on to the canvas.
No need to issue any orders. Several men with dark complexions stripped his clothes of all identification. They wrapped the corpse inside the canvas, rolled it up, then secured it with heavy chains. Three of them carried the rolled canvas out of a back door and across a field. It was dumped into a large septic tank, where it sank to join the two other bodies of English drivers dumped earlier.
Inside the barn other Arabs dressed in English clothes had already unrolled another large sheet of canvas, ready for when the fourth English driver arrived with his milk wagon. 'Abdullah' had planned very carefully.
The neat little man, Adam, whose real name was Ali, now gave fresh orders. The milk wagon was opened and an exceptionally strong Arab was lowered inside on a rope ladder. Equipped with gloves, he felt round below the surface, located the hook, then the cable wrapped round the container resting at the bottom of the wagon. It took him all his strength to haul up the container, its wrappings dripping milk.
He hauled it over the side where other hands waited to grasp it and laid it on the ground. The bloodstained knife which had murdered the English driver was used to cut through the layers of wrapping, exposing a metal container. At this point Ali took over.
Unlocking a huge padlock, he lifted the lid. He warned his helpers in savage language to be careful. A curiously shaped weapon was gently laid on the floor. Perched on a strong-legged base was a huge shell-shaped object, the warhead already in position in its nose.
Ali repeated for the umpteenth time the instructions he had given earlier.
'It is harmless now. When it reaches its destination, with the weapons in their different positions, I will give the order to press the orange button. Then the weapon is active, but still harmless.' He pointed, at the button. 'At the moment when the stupendous attack is launched you press the red button.' He pointed to another button embedded in a shallow hole. 'Then London is devastated, praise be to Allah.'
None of the Arabs listening had any idea of the destination the weapons would be taken to. The master planner had hired the drivers of the milk wagons by contacting men on the verge of release from prison for comparatively non-violent offences. They had been told they would, for the sum of two thousand pounds, have to drive certain vehicles transporting drugs.
They had also been told the original drivers of the milk wagons would be tied up when a truck, slewed across a quiet road, stopped them. What Ali had not told them was that the original drivers would have their throats slit, their bodies weighted and cast into convenient marshes en route. The master planner had also anticipated that in due course the companies owning the milk wagons would report their disappearance. But who would see anything sinister in the hijacking of five milk wagons?
Certainly not the police – or not until havoc had been created in London and thousands of bodies had been blown to bits.
10
It was two hours later and darkness had fallen. Earlier Monica and Paula had fetched lunches from a nearby deli for Tweed, Newman and themselves. When Newman had finished his meal Tweed had started pacing again. Paula watched him as he frowned. The momentum was building up again. He stopped by Newman, seated in an armchair.
'Bob, I want you to get moving. You know someone at the Daily Nation, someone you can trust?'
'I've several pals there. The most close-mouthed one is Ed Jenner, sub-editor. Why?'
'I want you to find out every little thing you can about Drew Franklin – where he lives in London, how much time he spends in his office at the paper, any rumours about new girlfriends. Every morsel.'
'That's easy,' Newman told him. 'And Franklin tucks himself away in a small office well away from Ed Jenner. See you all, some day.. .'
'Why has your attention switched to Franklin?' Paula asked when he had gone.
'Just a thought. I suspect he has great freedom of movement.'
Which tells me nothing, Paula thought. Tweed has got some bee in his bonnet.
Night had come later. Monica had been using the phone non-stop, scribbling on her pad as people told her things.
Tweed was studying his Carpford map again when Monica called across to him.
'I know you didn't ask me to check out Jasper Buller but I've done that among other people. Didn't think you'd mind.'
'Tell me.' Tweed was impressed. His staff knew him so well now they could guess what might be useful to him. 'Fire away…'
Before she could open her mouth Marler walked in with a vague smile. Paula knew he had succeeded in his mission to track Buller. He threw off his coat, lit a cigarette.