Deadlock

'Is that a threat?'

'Another fact of life. If you want someone present while we talk why not ask your husband to be here? Preferably today.'

'Oh, he wouldn't help at all. Rolly's far too wrapped up in his merchant bank. In any case, he's also too soft with Lara. Ask your questions.'

Too soft? Lara was Roland Seagrave's daughter, Tweed thought. Perhaps he should have gone straight to him. No, he'd come to find out Lady Windermere's attitude.

'Where is Lara now?' she asked.

'Somewhere in France,' Tweed replied vaguely. 'Now, had she any particular friend, close friend, she might have gone to see?'

'She was positively infatuated with some foreigner. I never knew his name, anything about him – except he could have been a diplomat. She met him at a party, I gather. And she did get phone calls from abroad. I answered one call and the man at the other end wouldn't identify himself. Just insisted on speaking to Lara.'

'Any photographs? Of Lara with this man?'

'No, I've looked…' She paused, then spoke aggressively. 'I did feel it was my duty to try and find out what she was up to.'

Which meant, Tweed thought, you went through her things while she was away. Sheer curiosity. Maybe something even worse – in the hope of finding pictures which would discredit Lara with her father.

'What jobs, if any, did she take abroad? She's good at languages, I understand.'

'Yes. And that's not always a good thing. It means she can strike up acquaintances with the wrong types. She had one job in Geneva two years ago. With one of the UN outfits, I think.'

'Could you be more specific? Which outfit?'

'No, I couldn't! I lead far too busy a life to keep an eye on an errant step-daughter. She moved on to another post in Luxembourg City – again with some UN organization. I do think that's it. No, just a minute, she was also in Paris afterwards. Don't ask me with whom. Now, you said Lara was in some sort of trouble…'

'No, Lady Windermere – you asked me if she was. I said she might just be in danger.'

'She'll squirm her way out of it. Now, if that is all?'

'For the moment.' Tweed stood up. 'I may have to come back if the situation develops the wrong way…'

'I'm relying on you to see it doesn't. She's a British citizen, you are Special Branch.'

'I'll do my best. No guarantees…'

'And no publicity of any kind.'

'Again, no guarantees…'

She fired her last shot. 'You must realize Lara is the most self-centred person. She thinks only of what she wants and gives no consideration whatsoever to other people's feelings.'

'Goodbye.'

And that, Tweed mused as he descended the front steps, was a perfect self-portrait of the woman I've just interviewed. He took a deep breath of fresh air, gazing up at the trees in the centre of Eaton Square. God, what a relief to get out of that house.

Timers. Scuba Divers. Marksman. Lara. Explosives. Banker.

After leaving Marler at the Hotel Panorama in Bouillon Klein had phoned Hipper from the Hotel de la Poste. 'Yes, the consignment was now ready for collection,' Hipper had assured him.

Driving to Larochette, Klein had collected a heavy case packed by Louis Chabot which contained the sixty timers and five control boxes. Driving on north to Clervaux – near where the Turkish Nestle truck driver had perished – he swung west, heading for the Belgian town of Dinant on the river Meuse. He had stopped at an isolated spot in the Ardennes and written out his list again. He sat looking at it now, satisfied with the progress he had made.

The timers. In the case behind him, ready for delivery via a means of transport safe from any Customs inspection. A means of transport already tested by the movement of the gold bullion stolen from the two banks in Basle.

Scuba divers. The whole team recruited and hidden away on two camping sites in Holland. And Grand-Pierre -Big Pierre – Dubois would keep them busy with training programmes. The whole assault team had carefully been chosen from French-speaking nationals-Belgians, Frenchmen and Luxembourgers – so they shared a common language. Essential for liaison when the operation was put in motion.

Marksman. The Monk, despite his arrogance, was the finest shot with a rifle available in Western Europe. Now he was in place in Bouillon. Not too long a drive from the target.

Lara. She'd be kept happy exploring Cherbourg until he returned to Paris. And the extra thousand pounds he'd dropped in her lap would keep her even more happy. No trouble from that direction.

Explosives. Again in place where they would never be found. And again not far from the target.

Banker. The key to the whole operation. And he had already arranged for the huge sum to be available. After despatch of the timers Klein would call again on the banker, make the final arrangements.

Klein ticked off the last item mentally, took out his lighter, set fire to the scrap of paper, dropped it into the ash-tray. He'd empty the curled and blackened remnants later into one of the many streams coursing through the Ardennes. Yes, he was satisfied he'd dealt with everything – and left behind no trace.

But the banker. That was the last knot to tie up before he launched the vast operation.

'Special Branch?'

Jacob Rubinstein, bullion merchant with headquarters in the City of London, studied the card. Sitting on the other side of his large mahogany desk Tweed studied Rubinstein. Small and neat, in his early sixties, Tweed estimated, Rubinstein had thinning brown hair tidily brushed above his high forehead. His eyes were alert under hooded lids, his complexion rosy, his face plump with a small moustache, his manner relaxed.

'You do realize, Mr Tweed,' he began in his quiet voice, 'I have an obligation to maintain discretion in my business? You might say my company's reputation is its major asset – if that doesn't sound pompous.'

'I understand completely,' Tweed agreed. He'd foreseen this was going to be difficult. 'But you might say my own organization is based on the same principles. Secrecy. I need information.'

'I feared that.' Rubinstein handed back the card, smiled, waited.

'I'm looking for a dealer in bullion – or a banker – who may not have the same ethics as yourself. Someone who cuts corners – to make a profit.'

'You mean in this country, Mr Tweed? I couldn't possibly point the finger at a member of my profession.'

'In this country just possibly. More likely on the continent.'

'We do a lot of business with Europe.' Rubinstein's tone was apologetic. 'The same ethics would apply.' He paused, rubbing his hands together. Probably the nearest he ever came to showing disquiet. 'Unless, of course, something of a definitely criminal nature was involved.'

Tweed signed inwardly with relief, seeing his opening. 'Now I have to ask you to practise the same admirable discretion you have displayed so far about your colleagues. Nothing I'm about to say must be revealed to another soul. I know I can count on you.'

Rubinstein cocked his head to one side, clasped his pink hands. 'You can rely on me. Please go on.'

'What I'm trying to find out is whether some vast terrorist outrage is planned. Not the people you'd immediately think of. Maybe something far more deadly. There were two bullion robberies in Basle a while ago. The gold has never been found. It could have been used to finance this gigantic operation. I've very few leads. If I could get a clue as to the banker – or bullion merchant – who handled that gold I might be in time to locate the gang involved. It's my only hope. A banker willing to take over that gold, provide a percentage of cash in return. You know such a man?'

'I might.' Rubinstein stared at the ceiling. Tweed kept very still, silent. The go-between is the man you're seeking?'

'Exactly.'

'I don't think you're a man who would exaggerate, Mr Tweed.'

Rubinstein had reached inside a small box, taking out a blank white card. He wrote on it slowly, lips pursed, then handed it to Tweed. 'I know you will never reveal where you obtained that information from. It is the best I can do for you.'