This United state

'Roy,' said Tweed briskly, 'in my office there are Newman, Nield and Marler. And, of course, Monica. Would you sooner they didn't hear what you have to say?'

'I'd sooner they did. At least they are trustworthy…'

When they were all settled in his office Monica suggested some coffee. Buchanan accepted the offer gratefully. Paula sensed that Monica had noticed the change in the Chief Inspector. Their guest normally lounged in his armchair. Now he was sitting bolt upright.

'Fire away, Roy,' Tweed invited.

'Something terrible is happening to this country,' Buchanan began. 'Like a monster octopus extending its tentacles round every key position. I've been told to lay off the Americans,' he said savagely.

'In what way?' Tweed enquired.

'For starters, no investigation of the outrage in Albemarle Street. No witnesses…'

'Oh, yes, there are!' Paula exploded. 'I'm a witness – that is, if Tweed agrees. But I can't reveal the identity of the man they tried to kill.'

'I know it was Cord Dillon, ex-Deputy Director of the CIA,' the Chief Inspector replied. 'Tweed called me at home from his flat. I gather he's in hiding and there are no other witnesses.'

'The street was empty,' Paula went on vehemently. 'It was a freezing night. And it happened just after ten o'clock. No one was about – which isn't surprising.'

'Then,' Buchanan went on, 'I've been told to destroy my report on the Lincoln Continental incident, when Newman rammed it outside here. Again, lay off the Americans.'

'Who told you this?' Tweed asked.

'The Commissioner himself. Had me in his office this morning. Just the two of us. He was apologetic, defensive. The trouble is there's a strong rumour he's going to be replaced. And he's the best man in the country to hold down the job.'

'He was adamant?' Tweed suggested.

'Not entirely. He was escorting me to the door and then said, "You must use your own judgement, Roy."' The phone rang. Monica had just returned and served Buchanan with coffee. She picked up the phone, listened, looked across at Tweed.

'Sorry to interrupt. Butler's on the line from the basement. Said it was urgent.'

'What is it, Harry?' Tweed asked on his own phone.

'Thought I'd better own up. While you were at Irongates I used a telescopic ladder to scale the side wall. Wanted to check you were OK. Then explored round the back, found a big garage. Padlocked shut but there was a gap in the old doors. Shone my torch inside and there was the Chrysler they tried to shove you into outside the American Embassy.'

'You're certain?'

'Same number plate.'

'You did well. I need that information.'

Putting down the phone, Tweed told Buchanan there was something he ought to know. He then described the attempt to kidnap him and Butler's Chrysler report. Buchanan's expression changed. He relaxed in his chair.

'Now I've got something I can get my teeth into. Kidnapping – or the attempt – is a major crime. And, if you agree, Tweed, I've got witnesses. Newman and Butler would do.'

'I agree,' Tweed said promptly.

'You can keep the SIS out of this?' enquired Marler, standing against a wall.

'Newman would make the perfect witness,' Buchanan pointed out. 'He's the best-known foreign correspondent on Earth. Butler works for the General amp; Cumbria Insurance outfit. Tweed is its chief investigator. His speciality is supposed to be the insurance of prominent men against being kidnapped. A clever counsel could link the whole thing up – someone Tweed has insured is in danger of being kidnapped.'

'Any idea why the Prime Minister was assassinated?' Tweed asked out of the blue.

'None at all.'

'I think I have. Normally we know who would have taken his place. But the Cabinet and the MPs rebelled. They chose someone else. An apparently neutral figure. Whoever paid for the assassination banked on their own man getting the job.'

'That's shrewd,' Buchanan commented. 'Incidentally, Interpol contacted me about the possible identity of the assassin.'

'Who did they come up with?' interjected Marler.

'I know why you've asked. If anybody eventually locates the bastard you will. Interpol told me it could be the Phantom. They're sure he killed that German, Keller, and the French Minister. They then told me – emphasizing it was no more than a rumour – that the Phantom could be an Englishman.'

`So what about the Chrysler?' Tweed prodded.

'You've been told to lay off the Americans.'

'Blow that. I'm getting a search warrant for Irongates so we can open up that garage. If I get the sack, then I do. I'll send a team down there. Think I'd better get moving.'

'Watch your back,' warned Tweed.

'I've been doing that for years – some of the people I've had to deal with.' Buchanan stood up, grabbed the overcoat Monica had put on a hanger in a corner near the door. 'And thanks, Monica, for the coffee. You make the best in London.'

With one hand on the door handle, he turned to look quickly at everyone. He pulled a wry face.

'Don't do anything I would. Otherwise you'll get yourselves into a proper pickle…'

'He's his old self,' said Paula when Buchanan had gone. 'Must be the coffee.'

'We gave him something he can get hold of,' Tweed asserted.

'Oh, I had an early morning phone call before I left my flat,' Newman announced.

'Give,' rapped out Paula. You look pleased with yourself.'

'Sharon Mandeville wants me to have dinner with her tomorrow evening. How she got hold of my ex-directory number I have no idea. She suggested Santorini's, the new place down by the river.'

'And you're going to oblige the lady?'

'Thought I might get some information out of her.' 'Of course. That ravishing photo of her we showed you had nothing to do with it.'

'I just wonder,' Tweed mused, 'whether she's had it up to here with America. Maybe she's decided to settle down over here. Hence her buying a house in Dorset. In which case she'll be keen to build up a circle of friends.'

'I've just found out about that, Monica intervened. 'She's actually bought a small manor in Dorset.'

'Which backs up my theory about her, Tweed remarked.

'I'd better get moving,' Newman said, standing up. 'I want to go home and freshen up. I'll need my wits about me. I'm meeting that slug Basil Windermere this evening.'

'Look forward to tomorrow,' Paula told him. 'Santorini's will cost you a fortune. The lady would make an expensive girl friend. Lucky you can afford it,' she continued to tease him.

'I'm getting out of here. I'm Paula's target.'

He was walking to the door when it opened. Butler walked in, carrying a cardboard box with a pink ribbon round it. He handed the box to Marler.

'It works,' he told him:

'What works,' demanded Newman.

'It does.'

'I'll come with you, Bob,' decided Marler.

He walked out, carrying the box under his arm. Newman warned him again on their way down the stairs that there would be hell to pay if Windermere recognized him.

Inside the American Embassy, in the large room overlooking the square, was a conference table. At its head sat Jake Ronstadt. Only five foot four tall, his presence nevertheless dominated the eight Americans seated on either side. Clean-shaven, he had a large head, a thin mouth, a short thick nose and a lot of jaw. His chest was like a barrel but his legs were thin, his feet small. He shuffled a pack of cards as he gazed from one man to the next, his eyes hard, intimidating.

'You guys had better work a damned sight harder for the huge pay cheques you get,' he growled. 'I'm having to do everything myself. Met a guy who gave me the data on Strangeways. He wanted five thousand bucks for what he told me. He's at the bottom of the Thames now. Get the message?'

'Sure, Jake.'