Cell

'Of course it is,' Warner roared. He stabbed a thick finger as he went on. 'And I forbid you to make any copies. Got it?'

Marler had gone. Tweed started doodling on a pad with his pen. He pursed his lips, then asked the question as though the answer wasn't important.

'What do you know about the track record of this IRA man, the bigwig?'

'Name is Tim O'Leary. Known to have been sent to the Mid-East at one time to try and get collaboration – arms – from groups out there. Speaks fluent Arabic. Believed to have spent three months out there, although the timing is vague.'

'And he was openly photographing Canary Wharf, despite the presence of two policemen?'

'Doubt if he'd noticed them. Probably thought if he took pics openly he wouldn't look suspicious. Bit of luck the police were there, spotted him.'

'So you think Canary Wharf is the next target of the Real IRA mob?'

'That and maybe St Paul's Cathedral at the same time. I have taken all precautions. Everyone who enters either building is thoroughly searched. More than that…' Warner was building up a head of steam. 'The RAF have fighters flying non-stop with orders to shoot down any airliner – even if crammed with passengers – if it enters the non-flying exclusion zone we've organized. We'll be ready for them if they come – on the ground or in the air. The PM has – albeit reluctantly – backed me.'

Marler had returned with the photograph, now inside a transparent evidence envelope, placed it on Tweed's desk. Warner glared at him, then spoke to Tweed.

'All this is confidential. I'd sooner he wasn't here. Nor that girl behind the word-processor.'

'Give us a few minutes alone,' Tweed said, thinking confidentiality was a bit late in the day. He pounced when Warner looked at Paula.

'Miss Grey stays. She knows as much as I do. If ever I was put out of action she'd take over command.'

Paula was astounded, even a little embarrassed. She had never before heard Tweed suggest elevating her to control of the entire organization. Warner nodded before continuing.

'So, I think, Mr Tweed, you'll agree I have everything under control. No need for you to concern yourself with this problem any more. And now, I had better love you and leave you,' he concluded, standing up.

'Thank you, Minister, for keeping me informed,' Tweed replied very quietly.

Paula walked to the door, opened it for Warner to leave. He hadn't even the courtesy to thank her. Tweed asked her to tell Monica and Marler. Newman, who had left without being asked to also came back.

A few minutes after Marler reported the two limos had left on their way back to Whitehall the phone rang yet once more. Monica reported that Jules Beaurain had just arrived. Tweed pulled a face.

'Now we know what has held up the poor devil so long. Warner's new security precautions at Heathrow. Tell him to come up now.'

Paula was expecting the Belgian to look exhausted after his long day, the irksomeness of hanging around forever at the airport. Instead, when he charged into the room he was bursting with energy and smiling broadly. He dumped the small case he had been carrying by the armchair, again sat opposite Newman.

He was wearing a neutral-coloured windcheater, corduroy slacks. Paula observed he was freshly shaven and guessed he'd tidied himself up inside the plane's toilet. Besides bubbling with energy he looked ready to start a new day. Don't know how you do it, she thought. He waved to her.

'I have news,' Tweed remarked, 'but I'm sure you have too.'

'Gentlemen first.'

Beaurain waved a hand in Tweed's direction. He settled himself into the armchair to listen. His eyes were fixed on Tweed's as he listened to the details of Warner's surprise visit. Tweed ended by shoving the evidence envelope across to the Belgian. He merely glanced at it, then pushed it back across the desk.

'Decoy.'

12

'Decoy!' Paula exclaimed. 'You used the same word when you were shown a drawing last time you were here.'

'Because I believe the only purpose is to lead Tweed in the wrong direction. They, whoever they may be, are conducting what the Americans call a campaign of disinformation. It is so obvious.'

'I agree,' Tweed interjected. 'I had the same reaction.'

'What's so obvious?' Paula demanded.

'Paula,' Beaurain explained, 'you have many talents and none of them is stupidity. Consider the scenario at Canary Wharf. This Tim O'Leary – chosen because of his previous connections with the Real IRA – stands out in the open, snapping away with his camera. A one-time terrorist – you think he wasn't well aware of the presence of two policemen?'

'And,' Tweed added with a smile, 'Victor Warner has swallowed the bait hook, line and sinker.'

'Just the man to be Minister of Security,' the Belgian said drily.

'Paula,' Tweed suggested, 'I want Jules completely in the picture. Could you describe the attack outside the Ivy?'

She took a deep breath, began speaking rapidly. She was almost reliving the speed and brutality of the incident.

Beaurain, his expression now grave, watched her intently. He nodded when she had finished, then said, his tone grim, 'Now that I do find significant. They were obviously going to kidnap you, interrogate you, maybe worse. I'll be thinking over everywhere you've been, who you have seen. With concentration on Carpford. You touched someone's nerve.'

'You mean…'

'I mean whoever is behind all this is worried that you saw – or heard in conversation – something dangerous. So, play back everything in your mind. Incidentally, it is important we discover who knew you were at the Ivy. Maybe the motor-cyclist who followed you on your way there. But I would like to meet this glamorous lady, Eva Brand, when I can.'

'Oh, you'll enjoy that. She's so attractive,' she chaffed him.

'Paula,' Beaurain said with a cynical smile, 'in Belgium I met a number of fascinating ladies and listened while they chattered on and on. They ended up in prison, which is where I put them.'

'Jules, your trip to Brussels,' Tweed said impatiently. 'I am waiting for the details of your visit to that banker.'

'He collapsed very quickly – when I showed him certain documents which could put him behind bars. The money from Carpford, which mounts up to a considerable sum, does not stay in Belgium. It is immediately transmitted by wire to a certain individual in Milan I happen to know. A certain Mario Murano. Here is his address.'

Tweed masked his surprise as he read the sheet of paper Beaurain had given him. Via Legessa 290. He looked up and told Beaurain about Marler's encounter with Jasper Buller, the new Chief of Special Branch, at Waterloo before Buller boarded the Eurostar.

Beaurain leaned back in his seat and studied the ceiling. It was several minutes before he straightened up and spoke.

'I hope Buller can look after himself.'

'He probably can,' Tweed assured him. 'Why?'

'Mario Murano is a very dodgy… right word? Good… customer. A battle-scarred con-man. He's in touch with the Mafia, who trust him. Then, for a fat fee, he reports to a top carabinieri officer – Italian police. When he has learned the hideaway of a top capo. But he also gives me info – again for a fat fee. One of these days he's going to trip himself up. Outcome? End of Mario.'

'Dangerous,' Tweed commented.

'I went to Paris from Brussels today,' Beaurain told them. 'I had to keep moving. I talked to your friend, Tweed, the Chief of the DST – Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire – or French counter-espionage. He sent you a message. Not polite, I fear.'

'Tell me,' Tweed said with a smile. 'The old brigand is reliable.'

'He doesn't think the Brits, as he called them, are. He was fuming. They know key members of al-Qa'eda have moved over here recently. He sent the data to the Ministry of Security. They replied with thanks – and have done nothing. Not even arrested them. He thinks we are crazy.'