Deadlock

Her hand was reaching for the phone when it rang. She spoke briefly, her tone businesslike, then gestured towards Tweed's instrument. 'It's Bob Newman for you.'

'Tweed, a brief report,' Newman said crisply. 'Butler and I are going in to Cockley Ford this evening. I've found out…'

'Where are you calling from?' Tweed broke in quickly.

'A public phone box, of course.' Newman sounded irked. 'You think I've lost my marbles?'

'Sorry, a lot is happening here

'One or two things are happening up here, too. As I was saying, I've found out interesting data on the background of the good Dr Portch. Tell you when I come in.'

'Be careful at Cockley Ford, The place has a peculiar atmosphere. When do I see you?' Tweed asked.

'Tomorrow. Early afternoon at a guess.'

'Good. I want your company on a trip – to Paris. OK?'

'If you say so. 'Bye.'

'Paris?' Paula repeated as she wrote down phone numbers. 'Do I get to know why? Or is that indiscreet?'

'Not at all. I'm flying over to see another of my private contacts. Can't give you his name – even Monica doesn't know. I have a string of them, built up over the years. They expect me to respect their secrecy. I'll be staying at the France et Choiseul, rue St Honore…"

'I reserve two rooms? For you and Bob. For how long?'

'Two days, I think. Details of the hotel are in a file Monica keeps, bottom right-hand drawer. I may then go on to Antwerp – again to meet a contact. I'll phone you when I know.'

He broke off as the phone rang. 'One of those days, I can sense it,' he muttered as Paula answered, then looked at him, hand over mouthpiece.

'A Rene Lasalle of the French DSI wants to talk to you…'

'Tweed here. How are you, you old ruffian?' Tweed asked in English.

'Fine. I'm not sure I'm calling the right person…' In the pause Tweed could almost see Lasalle shrugging his shoulders. '… but it is a delicate matter. I know you will handle with the finesse. ..'

'Rene,' Tweed interjected, 'does it help if I tell you I've been appointed a temporary Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad?'

'You have! Back to your old days. And you are still…'

'I still hold my old position. This is on scrambler?'

'Of course…'

'Hold it!' Tweed pressed a button on his instrument. 'Go ahead, we're both on scrambler.'

'There are growing rumours throughout all France of a major outrage being planned…'

'I know. Look, I happen to be flying to Paris tomorrow – why don't we meet? I'll be at my usual hotel. At least I think so. My new assistant, Paula, who is helping Monica, will call later and confirm the booking.'

'Excellent. We will have much to discuss. But one thing. There is a girl, English, Lara Seagrave…'

'Hold on again, if you don't mind…' Tweed called out to Paula. 'A girl called Lara Seagrave. I've heard that name somewhere. Just briefly.'

'Lara Seagrave. Step-daughter of Lady Windermere. Good background, but wild. Bit of a rebel. Does her own thing. On bad terms with Lady Windermere. Used to appear in the society papers. Balls, parties. But not lately – as far as I know. Gutsy type from her pictures.'

'Bit of a rebel, you said. Drugs and drink?'

'Not Lara. Has her head screwed on…'

Thanks.' He resumed his conversation with Lasalle. 'I was getting information on her. What about Lara?'

'I'll tell you more when you come. You sound busy. I'm having her watched night and day. She's staying at The Ritz. She's mixing – possibly – with the wrong people. Could just be a lead, although I doubt it. See you, my friend. Revoir.'

'And that,' Tweed said as he put down the phone, 'makes a trip to Paris even more important. Meantime, try and set up an appointment with Lady Windermere if she's in London…'

'Eaton Square. If she's at home. I remember reading that in The Tatler. Who are you for this meeting?'

'Same as for Jacob Rubinstein. Special Branch. No mention of Lara.'

'Will do. Still think Zarov is a ghost?'

'Probably, yes. But we'll check a bit more.'

**

Klein phoned Lara from the Hotel Georges Cinq. He had never stayed at this Paris de-luxe hotel before. It was just after breakfast time and she answered immediately when he was put through to her room.

'Lara, listen carefully. We are going to play a trick on your husband…' Which was for the benefit of any nosy switchboard operator who might be listening in. 'First, we synchronize our watches. I make it 9.12.'

'I'm adjusting mine. Just a second. Done it. Go on.'

'My Volvo, registration… will be parked in the rue de Rivoli, close to the Place de la Concorde at precisely 9.30. Can you leave in a couple of minutes? Good. Stroll along the rue de Rivoli. Look in a few shops. Time it so you reach me at 9.30. Dive into the passenger seat and if your husband is following we'll give him the slip. Understand?'

'Yes. I'd better get ready now. See you.'

Klein, already wearing a dark coat and hat, put down the phone and left the hotel. He had no reason to suspect Lara was being followed. Why should she be? But he never ceased taking precautions. Always assume the worst. Another of his favourite maxims.

Lara stood in front of the mirror, wrapped the Gucci scarf round her long auburn hair, parted in the centre. She fixed the scarf so it concealed her hair completely, framing her oval-shaped face. That made her look different.

She also had no firm reason to think she was being followed, but Klein had earlier trained her to be careful. And during her train trip to Le Havre she thought she'd seen the same small man with the funny beaked nose twice. Once aboard the express, the second time when she was photographing the harbour.

She left The Ritz by the side entrance leading into the Place Vendome, pausing on the sidewalk of the eight-sided square to glance round. By the kerb, a short distance from the entrance, a motor-cycle was parked. A small man wearing crash helmet and goggles bent over the machine, fiddling with something.

She frowned. He seemed vaguely familiar. She walked quickly out of the Place, crossed the rue St Honore, continued down the rue Castiglione and turned right on the rue de Rivoli, the Fifth Avenue of Paris. Slowing down, she strolled along the wide pavement, stopping briefly to glance in a shop window, checking her watch.

Behind her The Parrot swore. He had almost missed her coming out. He was used to recognizing her by that long auburn sheen of hair. And she was dressed differently. A blue two-piece suit he hadn't seen before.

The Parrot was almost exhausted. Flu had struck down half the staff at the rue des Saussaies. He'd had to work without sleep for longer than he cared to recall. Lasalle himself, who cared for his men, had come to the Place Vendome to apologize, to ask him whether he could carry on a while longer.

'Of course,' The Parrot had replied, cursing himself the moment he had said the words.

He pushed the machine across the rue St Honore, straddled it in the quieter side street and kicked the starter. At least the scarf on the girl's head showed up. He cruised slowly, turned into the rue de Rivoli. Out shopping, it seemed. Still, he'd be relieved at lunchtime.

He was also worried about following her to Le Havre yesterday. His reflexes had not been too sharp and twice he'd wondered if she'd spotted him. The traffic was heavy and he kept in close to the kerb. Once she looked back after looking in a shop window. He pulled up behind a parked car and she went on, nearing the Place de la Concorde.

The traffic roared past him like an armoured division -the lights were green at the entrance to the vast square of Concorde. The Parrot blinked, his eyes twitching with fatigue. She was walking faster now. Afterwards he cursed himself for not being alerted by her increase in pace.

The lights were still green when she suddenly crossed the pavement, dived inside a parked car, slammed the door shut. Volvo. He tried to turn into the next lane but there was no gap. Couldn't see the registration plate. The lights turned amber. Good…