Cell

'Take you home, lady. Only a modest charge…'

She was already seated in the front passenger seat and he drove off as she fastened her seat belt. She looked back. Harry and Pete were still hammering at the two thugs who were now lying on the pavement. She had little doubt both of her attackers would be crippled for weeks.

'How come you were there? You saved my bacon, as they say.'

'Tweed's idea. He was nervous about that dinner at the Ivy, sent out Pete and Harry to wait for you. I decided to join the party.' He chuckled. 'Driver of that limo waiting to cart you off somewhere is having a smoke.'

'Sorry?'

'I chucked a smoke bomb inside his limo – after locking his door. Doubt if he'll smoke a cigarette for months. Now, how are you?'

'Shaken, but OK.'

'Park Crescent here we come.'

Arriving back at Tweed's office, they found him pacing, unable to keep still. He ran forward to hug Paula while Monica, noticing her ashen face, hurried out to make tea. Slipping out of her coat, Paula, in a state of shock, sagged into the chair behind her desk. Reaction had set in and she was trembling.

'What happened?' demanded Tweed.

Newman gave a brief but graphic report about the attack outside the Ivy. Monica returned with a cup and saucer, planted it in front of Paula.

'Sip that,' she ordered. 'It's sweetened tea. Know you don't like sugar but just get that inside you.' She watched over Paula as she grasped the cup in both hands, leaning over the saucer to take any spillage.

The door opened and Pete and Harry rushed in. Harry, who was especially fond of Paula, went over to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. She had stopped trembling and had finished her cup of tea. The colour had come back into her face. She sat up straight and looked round at the men in the room.

'I want to thank you all for saving me from what I imagine could have been a very unpleasant experience. What made you suspicious, Tweed?'

'Call it sixth sense.'

'I wonder why they wanted me,' she mused.

'My guess,' Tweed told her, 'was they were after information about how far we'd got in our investigation.'

'Investigation into what?'

'Could have been several factors. What interests me is how they knew you were at the Ivy. One answer is Eva Brand. Did she have a mobile?'

'She could have – in her handbag tucked by her chair. But she'd have to have worked fast. It was only minutes after leaving the table before I walked outside.'

'A brief call could have been made in seconds,' Tweed insisted. '"She's on her way out now."'

'On the other hand I'm sure I was followed in the cab taking me there. By a motor-cyclist in black leather with a huge helmet.'

Marler, standing against a wall when Paula and Newman had arrived back, had remained silent. Now he spoke.

'My bet is on Eva Brand. What sort of conversation did you have with her over dinner?'

Paula recalled, word for word, what they had talked about. Tweed frowned at one point. Paula saw the frown and asked him what had struck him.

'Her reference to Milan, to speaking their language. Italy keeps looming into the picture…' He fingered the piece of paper with the address Marler had given him. 'Marler, tell us all about your experience with following Buller.'

They listened while Marler repeated the report he had given Tweed earlier. He left nothing out. Paula had heard it before but now she sat up very erect, waiting until Marler waved a hand, indicating he'd finished. Harry had sat cross-legged on the floor. He whistled.

'The Finsbury Park mosque. That's the one where those rats who belong to al-Qa'eda are supposed to be brainwashed and given their orders.'

'And,' Tweed emphasized, 'Milan keeps coming into the picture. First, Buller is on his way there. He's a bit like you, Paula – gets an idea and follows it up on his own. Now we have Eva Brand linked with Milan.' He checked his watch. 'Bob, get any information on Drew Franklin when you went to the Daily Nation?'

'Yes – and no. Met my pal, the sub-editor. Took him out to a pub. He said Franklin isn't liked by the rest of the staff, but they all admit his column is so brilliant and snide they know a lot of their readers turn to it first. Doesn't talk to anyone, gives the impression they are all members of a lower class, that intellectually he's way above them, and shows it. Has a London pad not far behind Eaton Square – I've got the address. Drives off up to Carpford to type his column. Goes to a lot of parties in London – I suppose he's picking up gossip. He goes abroad in January for six weeks. No one knows where to. He only misses handing over the text of his column for one week. Behind his back they nickname him Snooty. Not a lot, but he seems a bit of a mystery man.'

'Paula, time for you to go home, get a good night's sleep after the Ivy business. Beaurain is still trapped at Heathrow – Security at Heathrow got an anonymous call that there was a terrorist aboard his flight. Beaurain is marooned there until they've checked everyone. He'll be here later tonight so I'll wait.'

'So will I,' said Paula forcefully.

Half an hour later, Marler was looking out of the window after pulling aside the curtain. Pete and Harry had earlier left to get something to eat. Marler whistled and grinned as he looked at Tweed.

'You're honoured. Prepare for a shock.'

'You'll never…' began Monica, who had answered the phone. She cut off the rest of her remark after a certain look from Tweed.

'You have a visitor,' she said quietly. 'Victor Warner, Minister of Security, wants to see you urgently.'

'We know by now what he is,' growled Tweed. 'Ask him up – by himself.'

'Arrived in a couple of black limos,' Marler reported. 'The second one is crammed with camel-hair coat types. They've jumped out, started parading round. Comedians…'

The door opened and Victor Warner, clad in a camel-hair coat – presumably to disguise his identity during the drive from Whitehall – dashed in, clutching a cardboard-backed envelope. He sat in the armchair facing Tweed.

'Thought it best to come over here. It's an emergency. We think we know the target – and who is behind all the rumours.'

'That would be a step forward.'

Tweed became silent as Warner extracted a photograph from the envelope. He slapped it down in front of Tweed. His expression was grim, his manner disturbed.

'What would you say that is?' demanded Warner.

'It is a photo of Canary Wharf, the main tower block. It is easy to identify.'

'Now look on the back,' Warner snapped.

Tweed turned it over. Scrawled in an illiterate but readable hand was one word. Next? Tweed raised his eyebrows, looked at Warner.

'Where did this come from?'

'Bit of luck. In my position you need a bit of luck. Learned that when I was with Medfords. A couple of policemen in that area saw a man taking photos of the building from different angles. They collared him, Buchanan phoned me, sent the pics over by courier. Chap taking the pictures is under arrest. A certain bigwig in the IRA. Released from prison a couple of months ago.'

Marler had glided over, appeared behind Tweed's back. Casually he picked up the photo and headed for the door. Warner swung round, furious.

'Where do you think you're taking that?'

'We have a chap on our staff who once worked at Canary Wharf,' Marler lied glibly. 'He can confirm positively that this is Canary Wharf.'