Cell

'I hit the bull's-eye, following Buller. No pun intended. I follow him to his pad in Pimlico. Then I wait, but not for long. The Bull can move. I've parked among other cars and what emerges from the flat? Buller, wearing Arab dress. Long flowing robe, the lot. He dives into a cab he must have phoned for. Where do you think we go to? The mosque in Finsbury Park. His cab waits round a corner. The Bull shuffles inside the mosque. Not there long. Probably kneels on the rolled-up carpet tucked under one arm, bows three times towards Mecca – that's a guess.'

'Oh, my God, who would have guessed it was Buller,' gasped Paula.

'Wait a little longer, my dear.' Marler squeezed her gently on the shoulder as he continued. 'Now we're off back in his cab to Pimlico. Pays the driver, disappears back into the flat. He's not there long. He comes out again, dives into another cab. This time he's clad in warm holiday clothes, carrying a suitcase. We set off again. Destination? Waterloo. Buller's heading for Eurostar when he swings round, catches me completely by surprise, talks straight at me. "Bit of a run-around for you, Marler. I want you to give a highly confidential message to Tweed. Tell him I'm on my way to meet a contact at Milan in Italy. I'm tracking the money route financing these hellish Taliban."'

'I'm staggered,' Paula commented.

'A bit more.' Marler took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, handed it to Tweed. 'That's the name and address of his contact in Milan. He said you should have it in case he doesn't come back.'

'I don't like the sound of that,' Newman said grimly.

Tweed was reading the neatly written words on a sheet obviously torn from a notebook. Mario Murano, Via Legessa 290, Milano.

'This opens a new front,' Tweed said quietly. 'Italy.'

'Buller also said he might get the routes they were using, then he had to dash before missing his train. End of the story.'

'As long as it isn't the end of Buller,' Tweed remarked.

'I would never have dreamt all of this,' Paula burst out. 'I thought he was just a stupid bully.'

'Which tells you,' Tweed said half to himself, 'what a complex mixture people – men and women – are. That act of posing as the Bull is remarkable cover.'

'I bet his lordship, Victor Warner, hasn't a clue as to what Buller is really doing,' Paula reflected. 'And no one else inside his organization.'

'Oddly enough,' Tweed told Marler, 'Monica was compiling a dossier on Jasper Buller. On her own initiative.'

'Well,' Monica addressed him, 'I haven't dug up anything like what Marler has told us. Only his address in Pimlico, plus the fact his staff really hate him, and the intriguing fact that he often goes off on his own for hours – despite insisting that employees sent out on a mission must always travel in pairs. Nothing about secret trips to the Finsbury Park mosque. That's the notorious one.'

'I passed the short time he was inside taking photographs of everyone else who went in there,' Marler told them.

He produced his tiny camera, which not only produced negatives but also converted them into prints. Extracting a roll of prints, he dropped it on Paula's desk. She started separating them into individual prints with a pair of scissors, then took them over to Tweed.

'Don't suppose they'll amount to anything,' Marler warned.

Paula went behind Tweed's desk and leant over his shoulder. Tweed checked each print carefully. Just a bunch of Arabs in Muslim garb. Paula reached for one, examined it under the magnifying glass she had brought with her. She half-closed her eyes.

'This figure reminds me of someone. Damned if I know who.'

'Let me see,' Tweed requested.

The figure was leaving the mosque. Probably a woman. The figure carried a stick and appeared to have a limp. Crouched well forward, it was impossible to assess its height. The face was covered except for the eyes.

'Doesn't ring any bells,' Tweed decided. He beckoned to Marler, pointed a finger at the crouched figure. 'Did you by chance notice where this one went to?'

'Heavens no! I just snap-snap-snapped. Had to be careful. Finsbury Park isn't the safest area in town.'

'File them,' Tweed said pushing the photos towards Paula as she walked round the desk to head back for her own corner. 'Marler, you have achieved a minor miracle -finding out about the real Jasper Buller.'

'Where is everyone else?' Marler asked.

'I sent Newman to check up on Drew Franklin. Pete and Harry are following Eva Brand.'

'You can't suspect such a lovely creature.'

'She's a woman, not a creature,' Paula snapped.

'She's a niece of Drew Franklin,' Tweed remarked. 'Plus the Hogarth brothers, Billy and Martin, being cousins of Drew Franklin. We really don't know who knows who out at Carpford. So we're going to find out. Beaurain used the word "base" about the place.'

Paula had checked her watch. 'Heavens, I've got to go to my flat and get ready for my dinner at the Ivy with Eva. That doesn't take five minutes.'

'How women compete with each other,' Newman remarked. He had just returned. Paula fled out of the room as he made his comment.

'You'd prefer them sloppy?' Tweed growled. 'It is one of their nice traits. I like it.'

The phone had rung while they were talking and Monica called out.

'That was a message from Jules Beaurain. He's landed back at Heathrow. Expects to be here in about an hour. Says he has important news, very important.'

Inside the barn at Oldhurst Farm the fifth and last milk wagon had arrived. The body of the English driver was already at the bottom of the septic tank. The weapon had been hauled up out of the wagon, was now transferred to the interior of a small white van bearing the legend Flourishing Florist on both sides of the vehicle. The three vans which had departed earlier bore a different legend, Fresh Fruit.

Ali, arms crossed, stood gazing with satisfaction inside the van where the weapon had been placed in position near the front of the vehicle. Its three strong legs rested on a metal plate which had holes drilled on four sides. Large metal screws were now in place, gripping the tripod tightly to the floor.

To any normal human being the device would have seemed sinister and menacing. The large shell, tipped with its warhead, perched on the brutal tripod holding it firmly in place, would have seemed horrific. Ali, on the other hand, was gloating as he visualized it leaving its platform when the red button was pressed. The special powerful explosive which, on hitting its target, would explode outwards and upwards to cause the maximum of havoc.

'Now fill the van with the camouflage,' he ordered in Arabic. 'Four of you get the job done.'

Huge bouquets of expensive flowers, including orchids, were piled up round the device, almost to the roof of the van. Large pots of flowers, secured inside boxes open at the top, were placed close together at the rear of the van. A number of very large pots, tipped backwards with wedges, were placed inside as the rear doors of the van were closed slowly.

'Abdullah' had hammered home this instruction to Ali. In the rare event that a van was stopped by a police car the driver would hand the keys to an officer, standing back.

When the officer opened a door an avalanche of heavy pots carrying plants would descend on him, possibly knocking him out. That would curb a patrol car's officers from probing any further into the van. Similar 'barricades' had been built up against the locked doors of the three 'florist's' vans.

Ali checked his watch. They were keeping to the timing. The master planner had insisted the vans, departing separately, should drive south so they would be caught up in the London rush hour. Hardly a time when police would be stopping vehicles and adding to the chaos. As with the planes which had flown into the World Trade Center in New York, everything had been thought of. London was doomed.