The typical American woman would have said, 'I can do that for myself,' Tweed thought.
'I'm not offering you one because you don't smoke,' she went on.
'You could produce a file on me,' Tweed joked.
She frowned, then half-smiled. 'I told you I remember trivial things.' She used her other hand to push back a wave of hair.
Tweed knew she was a natural blonde. In Washington she had produced two colour photos of herself from her evening bag. One of herself at twelve and the other when she was eighteen. In both photos her thick blonde hair had jumped out at him. She had apologized for showing them to him.
'I don't carry these about with me,' she had explained. 'I want to give them to a man here who is good at framing photos. To remind me I'm getting old.'
'Hardly.'
'Thank you.'
'Why did you ask me over here?' Tweed now asked. 'Is there something I can help you with?'
'Yes, there might be.' Her eyes still gazed at him.
'Dillon apparently told the President's wife you were a key figure over here, that you know a lot of people. Washington is trying to strengthen the bonds between the two countries. I was hoping you'd introduce me to people who matter from time to time.'
Tweed's expression was neutral. He took his time finishing off his coffee, then refused more. He stared round the room. On a side desk was a pile of folders, some with a red tab attached. The furniture was expensive. The windows looked out on to a side street.
'They should give you an office overlooking the square,' he suggested.
'I prefer it back here – on my own. Osborne has an office the size of a tennis court looking out on the square. How is the insurance business? I suppose you are rich?'
'Not really. I certainly couldn't compete with you. Four husbands must have been a roller-coaster ride.'
'Something like that,' she said after a long pause.
'When I first went – was taken – to the States, I realized my English accent was a passport to successful men. When you're young you're easily flattered. I suppose I did exploit my accent. Does that sound awful?'
'No.'
'Money isn't everything.'
'How is it you still speak perfect English, after all that time spent over there?'
'I came back over here frequently. I have a small mansion in Dorset. Sometimes I think I'd like to live here for good. I find America raw. You glanced at your watch.'
'I've enjoyed our conversation. I hope you'll excuse me – I have an important appointment this afternoon.' 'Of course.'
A light had been flashing on her phone for several minutes. It had been reflected in a mirror close to the door. Tweed collected his coat from the hanger she had put it on while Sharon sat behind her desk. Picking up her phone she listened, then answered.
'Yes. Yes. Yes. Now don't bother me again.'
She got up and walked slowly towards him. Again it occurred to Tweed that she was an incredibly elegant woman. She shook hands with him.
'When you have the time perhaps we could meet again for lunch or dinner to chat some more.'
'It will be my pleasure.
He walked into the corridor, she closed the door and he felt very alone.
There was something about the atmosphere of the building which Tweed found disturbing. No sign of anyone. No sound. He'd have expected the Embassy to be a hive of activity. He had paused, was about to turn to his right when the door across the corridor opened.
A tall American with a smooth face and a blank expression stood facing him. Tweed had the impression of a man conscious of his position in the pecking order. When the American spoke he wondered how he had known Tweed would be in the corridor. Sharon Mandeville had finished speaking before she opened the door, which had not made a hint of noise.
'Tweed?' the American enquired.
'Yes. Who are you?'
'Chuck Venacki.'
The penny dropped. Tweed recalled Chief Inspector Buchanan's story of the encounter when Newman had rammed the Lincoln Continental on the edge of Park Crescent. This physically impressive man had said he was an attache at the Embassy.
'Main elevator you came up in is out of order,' Venacki said tersely. 'Turn left, end of corridor turn left again. Take the elevator there. There's a door to the side street.'
'Thank you.'
Veriacki didn't hear his reaction. He had closed the door in Tweed's face. A certain lack of warmth, Tweed said to himself. As though Venacki resented his presence. And there had been an air of hostility. Tweed turned right, heading for the elevator which had brought him up.
There was a notice hanging from the elevator's closed door. Out of order. He pressed a button. Nothing happened. Next to the elevator was a wide staircase which, presumably, led to the exit floor below. He was just descending the first step when he looked back along the corridor. Chuck Venacki was outside his office, watching him. He disappeared instantly, as though he had dashed back into his quarters. Tweed frowned.
He descended the several short flights of stairs slowly, listening. Still not a sound. Peculiar. The atmosphere now seemed menacing. He reached the bottom and the spacious hall was empty – except for the receptionist behind her desk. Her phone rang. She answered it, slammed down the receiver, got up, vanished through a door behind her. Tweed walked quickly to the door. When he tried to open it the door wouldn't move.
He turned round, headed for the revolving door leading out to the square. Close to it was a small desk with a phone. He was about to pass the desk when the phone buzzed faintly. Carefully, Tweed lifted the receiver. A man's voice he didn't recognize was speaking.
'The operation's under way. Double-check with Charlie.
What operation? And who the heck was Charlie? Tweed moved swiftly, pressed a hand on the revolving door. It remained stationary. He couldn't get out the way he had come in. He was trapped. Calmly he surveyed the reception hall. There was no one he could contact. No doubt about it – he was imprisoned inside the building.
He peered out beyond the immobile revolving door. A stretch limo had pulled in behind a blue Chrysler parked, at the kerb. Without waiting for his uniformed chauffeur to alight, a passenger jumped out of the rear seat, slammed the door shut, ran up the steps. On his arrival Tweed had noticed two video cameras aimed down the flight of steps. He recognized – from pictures in the papers – the lean energetic man running up the steps. The recently appointed American Ambassador.
Taking no notice of the man inside, the Ambassador pushed at the doors and they began revolving. Tweed walked out as the Ambassador walked in. The keen cold air hit him after the warmth of the air-conditioned building. Tweed paused at the top of the steps, scanning the street. Then he ran one hand over the top of his head, smoothing down his hair.
He had almost reached the bottom step when three tough-looking men emerged from the Chrysler. One opened the rear door. Another addressed him in a harsh American accent.
'Mr Tweed?'
'Yes..
'We'll drive you back to where you're going. Get in.' 'No, thank you…'
'I said get in, Buddy.'
Something hard and circular was rammed into his back. Two men took him by the arms, began to hustle him inside the rear of the car. On the far rear seat a small bald man was playing with a Colt automatic pistol, grinning unpleasantly at Tweed.
Tweed became aware of a commotion, a scuffle behind him. He was released from the hand grips. Newman hit one thug over the head with the barrel of his gun. Marler hit another of them with the stiffened side of his hand, the blow connecting with the side of his neck. Harry Butler pointed a wide-barrelled gun, aimed inside the car, pulled the trigger. The interior was sprayed with Mace gas. The bald man and the driver behind the wheel collapsed, choking, unable to see. Newman heaved one unconscious thug into the rear of the car, Marler bundled the second unconscious bundle inside. Butler, who had earlier broken the jaw of the third assailant, shoved him in, fired one more blast of Mace gas, slammed the door shut.