Deadlock

Tweed read the writing on the card. Peter Brand, Banque Sambre. Brussels and Luxembourg City.

'Sounds English,' he commented.

'He is. A brilliant banker – who also deals in bullion. He married the daughter of the man who founded the Banque. He has run it for a number of years. Only about thirty-five or so. He has complete control and has shown a spectacular rise in profits.'

'But surely the Banque belongs to his wife?'

'It does. She is only interested in enjoying herself. What I believe you would call a member of the jet set. Spends a lot of time in the Americas.'

'Which leaves Brand free to run things any way he wishes.'

'Quite right – so long as he provides her with the princely income she needs for her way of life. Which he does. An arrangement which suits both partners. I seem to be gossiping a lot, which is not my habit.'

'Gossip can underlie truth. And Brand deals in bullion, you said?'

'Yes. A brilliant man, as I said earlier. He has every talent you could wish for. Fluent in several languages. His personality is magnetic, a great charmer with the ladies, so I hear. Among the clients he has dealt with are the Russians.'

'Nothing illegal about that.'

'Except that the Kremlin is greedy for hard currency from the West. What better way of getting it than through obtaining large quantities of cut-price bullion.'

'Which makes the origin of the bullion suspect?'

'You said that. I didn't. On the other hand, I don't recall contradicting you.'

Tweed stood up, held out his hand. 'I'm very grateful for your help. You might just have supplied the breakthrough I've been searching for.'

'I just hope I've done the right thing.'

'I'm beginning to think I'm involved in a race against time.'

'Let's hope you're not too late, then.'

'As Wellington once said, it could be the nearest run thing.'

24

Paris, rue des Saussaies. Headquarters of French counter-intelligence is situated in a narrow winding street off the rue du Faubourg St Honore, close to the Elysee Palace. The entrance is a stone archway leading to a cobbled yard beyond and nothing outside indicates its occupants.

Tweed and Newman sat in Lasalle's cramped office, drinking coffee, very strong and bitter. Lasalle had listened in silence while Tweed recalled his conversation with Lady Windermere.

'Sounds a monster,' he commented. 'Why did you see her?'

'One reason only. I wanted to find out whether she knew where Lara was. She doesn't.'

'Why did you want that information?'

'It's a part of the vague picture building up in my mind.'

Lasalle looked at Newman, shrugged, waved his large hands in a gesture of resignation. 'He's playing it close to the chest. As always.'

'Is Lara still at The Ritz?' Tweed asked. 'Because if you still have tabs on her I want to fake a chance meeting with her.'

'Then you might like a brief report from the man who has been watching her. One of my best men. Leon Valmy.

We call him The Parrot behind his back. You will know why when you see him.' He pressed a switch on his intercom, gave a brief order and a minute later The Parrot entered.

'I want you to tell these two gentlemen from England all you know about Lara Seagrave. They both speak French…'

'I must first apologize for messing up my job,' The Parrot began. 'Losing the girl when she jumped into that Volvo near the Place de la Concorde was sheer carelessness…'

'You hadn't had sleep for God knows how long,' Lasalle told him. 'Now, tell them your story. Start with Marseilles…'

The little man with the funny beaked nose sat down at Lasalle's request and began. Tweed leaned forward, watching him intently. Again he felt himself back in his old Scotland Yard days. Some policemen could spend twenty years in the force and learn nothing from experience. The Parrot was a very different kettle of fish.

He spoke precisely, always explained why he had taken certain action. His opening words impressed Tweed. 'There were these rumours of a strange new organization being built up for some great operation. Maybe the hijacking of a ship. In Marseilles the best viewpoint for a terrorist to check the layout is Notre Dame de la Garde. I had been waiting there – on a hunch – for five days before this girl appeared. ..'

He ended with his losing her when she dived into the Volvo. A colleague had taken over the watch on The Ritz. Lara had returned to the hotel two hours later, walking down the rue St Honore, entering by the main entrance.

'One question,' Tweed said eventually. 'When you've had many years' experience tracking people you get a feeling about your target. What is your feeling about Lara Seagrave?'

'Oh, she is highly suspect. She even watches to see if she is being followed. Professionally, too. She uses shop windows as mirrors. She varies her pace. She has been trained.'

'Does she follow any routine?'

'Only one. She goes each day to Smiths' bookshop tea-room on the first floor – except when she visited Cherbourg. She arrives at 4 p.m. Has tea and a cake.'

'Thank you.' Tweed glanced at Newman. 'I think I shall be having tea at Smiths' at four this afternoon.'

He manoeuvred it carefully. The tea-room was filling up. Lara was pulling out the chair of a corner table when Tweed appeared, performing the same action opposite her. Pausing, he spoke in English.

'I do beg your pardon. I didn't notice you. I was dreaming.'

Lara studied him for a few seconds, then smiled. 'Oh, do come and join me. I'm on my own and getting so bored. It will be nice to have an Englishman to chat to over tea. I've spoken French non-stop ever since I arrived in France.'

'Thank you. After a while one gets homesick.' He picked up the menu. 'I see they have a selection of teas. I want something normal. ..'

'Try the Darjeeling. That's my tipple.' She smiled, offered him her pack of cigarettes and when he refused lit one for herself after asking his permission. 'And if you're hungry, they do a very good toasted tea-cake. English marmalade as well. All home comforts!'

'Paradise,' he responded. 'I'll have the same.'

She ordered for them both and he was careful not to ask any direct questions. 'You like Paris?' he enquired. 'By the way, my name is Tweed.'

'Lara Seagrave.' She extended her slim hand. 'Now we're friends.'

She was enormously attractive, he was thinking – with her long auburn hair, her excellent bone structure, the devil-take-the hindmost tilt of her chin, repeated in the humorous glint in her blue eyes.

'You look as though you enjoy life,' she remarked.

'I suppose I like my job. You'll think it frightfully dull. I'm in insurance.'

'What exactly do you do? Sell insurance? You don't look the type, if I may say so.'

'I'm chief claims investigator. Someone dies, a huge sum is at stake. The statistics show it's a most unusual way for a man to die as he did – a ten thousand-to-one chance. I have to check it. I know the wife benefits, I find she has been having an affair with a man who is a confidence trickster. I launch a full-scale investigation. That's an extreme case.'

'Sounds exciting, like being a detective.'

'I was once.'

They ate their tea-cakes, Tweed said she had good judgement. She poured more tea in both cups, then felt around inside her tote bag, producing two articles wrapped in tissue and handing him one.

'Something extra if you've still got space. Couques. They come from Dinant on the Meuse, just across the border in Belgium.'

Tweed unwrapped the tissue, examined the small gingerbread house. 'Quite remarkable. I've never seen anything so well-designed.'

'They're scrumptious.' She ate hers and watched Tweed wrapping his up in the tissue again.