Deadlock

'Isn't there somewhere else in the building Paula could work?' Monica asked. 'We're very cramped already in here…'

'Cramped!' Tweed stared round at the empty space. 'And you once liked her.'

'Paula in Norfolk is one thing, Paula taking up residence in this office quite another. It will never be the same again – our talks together about work, I mean.'

'She won't be here every minute of the day,' Tweed said irritably. 'And I've taken the decision. I've got enough on my mind without domestic problems. Wouldn't you agree?'

Monica checked her watch. 'Time you left for your appointment at No. Ten. You know how you hate rushing.'

Tweed stood up and silently went to the clothes rack, put on his Burberry. Monica fidgeted with her pen, drawing meaningless lines on her notepad. She spoke in a subdued, conciliatory tone.

'I wonder what all these alarming rumours are about?'

'Maybe I'm about to find out,' said Tweed and walked downstairs.

As arranged over the phone by Tweed before leaving Beresforde Road, Harry Butler arrived at Newman's flat on the dot of 6p.m. To Newman's surprise-and annoyance – he was accompanied by a second man.

'Pete Nield, you know him, of course,' Butler explained. 'Tweed decided on the phone this Cockley Ford is an unknown quantity – that we could do with back-up. Pete's brought his own transport – even managed to find a parking slot half a mile away…'

'The two of us could do this job,' Newman informed him.

'That's what I like,' Nield broke in. 'An enthusiastic reception. An immediate acceptance of the team spirit.' He grinned.

Newman stood in the living room, studying the two men. Butler was about his build and height, in his thirties, clean-shaven and his expression controlled. He wore an old check sports jacket, blue denims, carried a windcheater over his arm. Just the type of gear an SAS man on leave might choose. He used his left hand to smooth his darkish hair, staring straight at Newman.

Pete Nield was a different personality and build. Lighter weight, slim, a few years Butler's junior, he had black hair brushed neatly, a small trim moustache. His clothes were smart; a navy blue suit, striped blue shirt, dark blue polka dot tie. His manner was easy, he moved more quickly than the immobile Butler. Newman had observed previously they worked well together as a team.

'Welcome aboard, gentlemen,' he said, looking at Nield. 'What are you drinking? Then we can get straight to the planning stage.' He indicated a map of East Anglia spread out over the long Regency dining table. 'We're driving up to King's Lynn tonight. I've booked two rooms at The Duke's Head. I'll call them again to reserve one for you, Nield.'

'King's Lynn?' Butler was studying the map as Nield joined him when they'd decided on drinks. 'Excuse me putting my oar in – you're the boss – but wouldn't a hotel in Blakeney be a better operational

HQ?'

'No.' Newman had climbed the two steps into the kitchenette, was pouring drinks. 'That's where the bomb was planted. Whoever left the offering may be watching the place. At King's Lynn we can maintain the traditional low profile…'

'Christ! Why didn't I think of that?' Butler was appalled. 'You make us look like amateurs at our own game.'

'Amateurs is not the word I'd use about you two,' Newman remarked, fetching the drinks. 'Cheers! Here's to a successful partnership. I wonder what we'll find at Cockley Ford?'

'Something's terribly wrong. I can tell…'

Monica, feeling contrite for her earlier behaviour, stared at Tweed as he slowly looped his raincoat over a hanger.

He winked at her, went to his favourite place, the swivel chair behind his desk, sank into it.

'Good job other people can't read me the way you can – I am not supposed to reveal anything by my expression.'

'We have been together a long time. What has happened? Can you talk about it? Want some coffee?'

'Something has happened. I can talk about it – but only to you. It's extremely confidential. Coffee later. The PM has stunned me. I'm not even sure it's a good idea. And Paula is on the way – phoned her from a call-box…'

'What idea?'

'You won't believe it.'

'Try me…'

'The PM,' he said very deliberately, 'wants me to fly to a secret meeting with General Vasili Lysenko, Head of Soviet Military Intelligence, the GRU.'

'My God! You're not serious?'

'She is. Very. Gorbachev has been in touch with her -and he was the one who suggested the meeting.'

'What on earth for?'

'I'm not sure,' Tweed confessed. 'Apparently the Kremlin is worried stiff about the rumours of a gigantic terrorist outrage being planned.'

'Normally they'd welcome it. Their attitude doesn't add up. I don't believe a word of it. And surely the PM doesn't?'

'She was told something in complete confidence by the General Secretary-something she couldn't break her word by telling even me. I get the full details only when I meet Lysenko.'

'And where is this rendezvous? It could be a trap…'

'Hardly.' Tweed turned to stare at the large map of Western Europe attached to the wall. 'The rendezvous is Zurich. The Swiss already know about it. They're busy laying on security at this moment. Security for protection. Security to ensure total secrecy. They're pretty good at that.'

'It's amazing. I thought I'd heard everything. When are you supposed to fly there?'

Tomorrow. That's when Lysenko is flying in direct from Moscow. Any idea of flight times? It has to be Swissair…'

'Starting early, depart Heathrow 8.30, 9.50, then 13.50. I've left out BA flights.'

'Swissair will be more anonymous. I'll travel under the name Johnson. Lysenko is due to touch down at Kloten at three in the afternoon, local Zurich time. I'll catch the 9.50 – get there ahead of him.'

'I'll book it. What about the actual rendezvous, the place where the meeting will be held?'

'No idea. That's been left to the Swiss. They'll find somewhere quiet. Not too far from Kloten Airport would be my guess.' Tweed's mouth tightened. 'Charming. I'm to meet my old enemy for the first time face to face – with no idea of the agenda.'

'Not to worry. You think like chain lightning on your feet.'

Trouble is, we'll probably be sitting down,' he joked.

'Not a word to Paula, I assume?'

'She can know I'm flying to Zurich. But not why. And she should be due here soon,' he said, checking his watch. I see you've had a desk and chair brought in for her. That was thoughtful. She's completely under your jurisdiction, of course. On probation. For six months.'

Monica glanced at the desk against the wall, placed so when the new member was sitting she faced both Monica and Tweed. 'I thought I'd put the welcome mat out for her. She'll need help to pass with flying colours.'

'Up to you,' said Tweed. 'Not perfect timing – with the Zurich thing imminent.'

'And when has the timing ever been perfect?' Monica asked.

Paula came into the office and closed the door, then waited for instructions. Tweed introduced her to Monica who, he noticed, eyed Paula up and down as she walked with her to the new desk.

She had dressed cleverly for her baptism of fire. A severe dark blue two-piece suit, a blouse with a mandarin collar and plain beige tights. No little squirrels running up her shapely legs. She sat down.

'I'll make coffee,' said Monica, who had phoned Heathrow and booked Tweed's flight.

'Please let me do that.' Paula jumped up immediately. 'I'm the probationer. If you'll just tell me where everything is.'

'I'm afraid we keep it in the top drawer of this filing cabinet,' said Monica. 'Instant, too. Milk and sugar in the same drawer with the crocks.'

'How does everyone like it?' Paula was taking out equipment when Howard strolled in without knocking. He stopped in mid-stride at the sight of Paula. Checking the knot of his tie, he smiled broadly.