This United state

It was a chorus from the eight men assembled around the table. A fulsome chorus, motivated by fear. Jake continued to shuffle the pack of cards. No one had ever seen him play a game. It was just a weird habit he had, part of his forceful personality. His accent was New York's back streets and he spoke in a deep rumble, spacing out his words as though addressing a bunch of morons. All his subordinates wore black English business suits. Jake was clad in a leather windcheater, leather trousers.

'Charlie says the operation is moving too slowly.' 'Who is Charlie?' asked Diamond Waltz.

'Hank.' Jake paused. 'I guess you kinda asked the wrong question. How cold do you reckon it is at the bottom of the river?'

'Sorry, Jake.' The bald-headed Waltz was shivering with fright. 'I'm very sorry. I made a bad mistake.'

'Don't hire guys to make mistakes. Keep your goddamn trap shut. Maybe then you'll live longer, Baldy.'

'Are we still working with Chuck?' asked another man. 'Just want to get the score clear.'

'Chuck Venacki wasn't invited to attend our little meetin' – you check everything you find out with me. Here are your targets.'

Jake stood up, holding a sheaf of papers. He walked slowly round the table. Behind each man he paused and the man he stood behind was careful not to look round. Then he laid a sheet of paper in front of each man. The sheets were white paper, blank except for the names typed on them. There was no identification that they had originated from the Embassy. Completing the job, Jake lowered his bulk into his chair, picked up the pack of cards.

'You guys all have different names on your sheets. Your job is to dig up any dirt you can on your names. All are prominent people in this country. Baldy, the first name on your list is important.'

'Paula Grey.'

'That's great, Baldy. Really great. You can read. She's to have the full treatment – unlike all the other names on the lists. Do it quickly.'

'I make her talk first?' Baldy said eagerly. 'Then she goes overboard?'

'You've got it. Charlie says it will break the morale of her boss. When she's fished out of the river.'

'Her address in Fulham is here. Should be easy.' 'Nothing's easy.' Jake waved a warning thick finger, taking in everyone round the table. 'I've trained you all how to dig up dirt. Some guy with gambling debts, cheating on his wife, a pervert, open to a bribe. Anything that gives us a grip on them. So when-we say dance, they dance. To our tune. You all have addresses of your targets. OK?'

'Very OK, Chief,' said a thin-boned man with a hard face who sat nearest to Jake.

'Not OK, Vernon,' Jake snarled. 'You need more.' He shoved a bulky envelop at him. 'Don't see why I should take another walk round this table. Inside that package is an envelope for each gentleman present. Has his name on it. Inside is a photo of each target, man or woman. Why not get on your feet and deliver the goods.'

Jake sat shuffling his cards while Vernon stood up, opened the package, walked round the table, dropping an envelope in front of each of his colleagues. Baldy opened his, went through several photos, frowned.

'May I speak, Chief?' he suggested nervously.

'If you have anything to say.'

'No photo of a woman in my envelope.'

`So we didn't get a pic of the Grey twist. You've had to look before without a pic.'

'Sure, Chief. When I get her can I use the old warehouse in Eagle Street, down in the East End. Vernon showed me the place the day we arrived on Eurostar.'

'Sounds like a good idea. Wonder where that came from? Nobody will hear her screaming.'

'Paula,' Tweed suggested, getting up from his swivel chair, 'it has been a gruelling time. How would you like to join me for an evening at Goodfellows?'

'Lovely idea. Thank you. I could do with some relaxation – and Bob and Muter are off on a bar crawl with Windermere. I'll drive home to change, then come back here to join you.'

'I'm not changing. I put on a decent suit to see Strangeways,' Tweed told her.

He looked at Monica when Paula had left. She was talking to someone on the phone, making notes on a pad. When she put down the phone she nodded with satisfaction.

'That was a contact in Washington I was talking to. I'm still building up profiles.'

'I have an additional fact I'd like you to concentrate on. I need to know which of the profiles you're working on has a second name. Charlie. Or Charles.'

'English or American?'

'Could be either. I heard the name when I picked up a phone at the American Embassy and overheard a snatch of conversation. His identity could be the key to what is happening.'

'What is happening?'

'I'm not sure yet. I'm beginning to fear a gigantic operation is under way which bodes ill for this country. But Charlie can wait until the morning. Go home now and get some rest.'

'Not yet. The adrenalin is surging. I'm going to keep at it for a bit longer. You should enjoy Goodfellows. I hear it's a sophisticated nightclub. Expensive too. Nice for Paula.'

'I'm just hoping she won't be mad with me when she sees the clientele after we've arrived.'

'Why should she be?'

'Because it happens to be the in-place patronized by top Americans at the moment.'

Paula parked her car in the cul-de-sac off the Fulham Road. She was lucky – she had a permanent slot which went with her flat. She lived in the top half of a small elegant house divided into two flats.

She was standing under a wall lamp when she dropped her car keys on the cobbles. Swearing, she stooped to pick them up, then straightening up, she paused to smooth down her glossy dark hair. Then she ran up the outside staircase, paused again under another wall lamp to get out her two sets of keys to open the door.

Across on the other side of the Fulham Road, a man stood hidden in the shadows of a doorway. Baldy was dressed in an almost comic fashion. He wore a Borsalino hat, its wide brim well pulled down. It was partly a disguise and partly to shield his head from the intense cold.

'Got you, Paula Grey,' he said to himself. 'I guess you're not going to enjoy the last few hours of your life with me. Not one friggin' bit.'

8

'Cheers, my dear chap,' Basil Windermere called out.

Newman had just entered the ground-floor bar. He acknowledged the greeting with a wave of his hand. Windermere was perched on a bar stool. Walking slowly towards him Newman glanced at the couples dining at tables by the wall. No Marler. Quickly he averted his sweeping gaze. Marler was there, with a girl.

He's practically unrecognizable even to me, Newman thought. Marler was wearing a smoking jacket with a velvet collar. He also had a pair of large horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. It was the glasses which did the trick, Newman decided – he'd never seen Marler wear them before. For some reason his raincoat was folded over the empty chair next to him.

'Just finished a drink,' Windermere said as Newman sat on the stool next to him.

He wore his usual polka-dot bow tie, a pink shirt, a Prince of Wales check suit. It should have looked wrong but instead it looked smart. Windermere always took a lot of trouble over his appearance.

'Can you hold out a few more minutes?' Windermere said.

'Hold out?'

'Before you have a drink. This place is quiet tonight. I vote we go up the street to Goodfellows. Where the action is.'

'Where the rich ladies are?'

'Got it in one, chum.'

'Then we're leaving,' Newman agreed, raising his voice.

'At the double, as Rupert would say. Mockingly.' Marler leaned across his table, spoke quietly to his companion, his wallet in his hand. He extracted a fifty-pound note, left it on the table as he spoke.

'Sorry. Warned you I might only have time for a drink. Have to rush back to the office. My pager just beeped.'

'I didn't hear anything…'

'You weren't supposed to. I'll call you.'