This United state

'Which is the next objective? Maybe now we've started we oughta keep things movin' – scare the guts out of the Brits.'

'Maybe you ought to sit kinda quiet. I've sorta had enough of interruptions. In any case, it won't be Vernon and Brad who hit the next one. I handed out sheets of targets to you all. Raise your hands if you've now looked over those targets.'

Eight men raised their hands high in the air. They held them up until Jake made a gesture for them to lower them. He was shuffling his cards again. Vernon wondered if he ever played poker. He'd have liked to ask but knew that if he did he'd probably get Jake's fist in his face.

Leo, who had a head shaped like the moon, had once shot a baby in the back of the head. Afterwards he'd slipped away to down a couple of drinks in a bar. He was less afraid of Jake than anyone round the table. 'We haven't seen Ed Osborne at any of these meetings,' he remarked.

Ronstadt contemplated standing up, walking down the table and hauling the chair from under Leo. He knew Moonhead was independent-minded, that he was after his job. He decided to wait fora better opportunity to humiliate him.

'Ed is a very busy guy. Come to that, so am I. The idea to keep things movin' is crap. London will be swarming with cops hoping to get a clue, checking out their informants in the underworld. I'm sure Charlie will agree with me.'

He stood up in his brown leather jacket, his leather trousers. A man of limited height, it was his bulk, his large head, his personality, his expression which dominated the members of his team.

'Get the hell outta here,' he said, and left.

By lunchtime everyone except Monica and Paula had departed from Park Crescent. Paula had decided to skip lunch. After seeing the scenes on the TV newscast she didn't feel she wanted to eat anything. When the phone rang Monica spoke to the caller briefly, then said to Paula:

'It's Mrs Carson down at the Bunker. She's having trouble with Cord Dillon. Want to have a word?'

'Yes… Paula here, Mrs Carson. What's the problem?' 'Dillon is getting restless, feeling cooped up. He's even talked of coming up to London.'

'Can you hold him until I get there?' She had taken a swift decision. 'And have you see the news on TV? Heard it on the radio?'

'No. Dillon doesn't like either TV or the radio. Neither do I. Why do you ask?'

'I think Cord needs someone to talk to. Tell him I'm driving down there today, should reach you mid-afternoon. And both of you watch the next TV news broadcast. It's important you do.'

'I'll arrange that. And look forward to seeing you. It's quiet on the Romney Marsh.'

'Monica,' Paula said as she grabbed her fur-lined coat, picked up her motoring gloves, 'contact Pete Nield. Tell him I'll be back in time to accompany him to Santorini's this evening.'

'That's where Newman is having dinner with Sharon Mandeville.'

'I know. I've had a good look at Denise Chatel – seen enough of her to form a certain opinion. But I've had no chance to see Sharon. I'm not going to barge in on Bob, but I can observe the glamorous Sharon from a distance. Tell Tweed I've rushed off to the Bunker to soothe Cord Dillon. See you…'

Later, as she crossed the border into Kent, Paula took another quick decision. Parham was on her way. She could drop off at Irongates – in the hope of having a chat with Sir Guy Strangeways. She'd hardly exchanged more than a few words with the property magnate when she had visited the place with Tweed.

'Do come in, my dear. I'd love to see you.'

Paula stared at the speak-phone outside Irongates.

Strangeways sounded exuberant, in contrast to the previous visit, when he had barked down the instrument. He was waiting for her when she parked below the terrace. She gave one last look back at the closing gates.

On her way down from London she had felt sure she was being followed. Try as hard as she could, she had' not been able to identify a vehicle on her tail. It could have been imagination, but she didn't think so.

'Come inside. Mrs Belloc has prepared tea. A little early, I know, so just eat what you feel like and leave the rest.'

As he escorted her across the large bleak hall, into the library where she had waited on her last visit, Paula studied her host. Outwardly affable, she detected signs of strain. His eyelids were puffy, as though from lack of sleep. The crackling military-style voice she had heard before had disappeared. Instead, he spoke softly. He wore a sports jacket with leather patches on the sleeves, a heavy pair of beige slacks, gleaming brown handmade shoes. She waited until Mrs Belloc had poured tea, stared at her, then left the room.

'What do you think of this bomb in Oxford Street?'

'Dreadful. Truly dreadful.' His voice trembled. 'As you can imagine, when I was a soldier I stood on battlefields amid carnage. It didn't affect me. Can't do the job if you permit it to get to you. But those scenes on TV.'

'Who do you think is responsible? A splinter group of the IRA?'

'There are so many…' He paused. 'So many terrorist outfits in the world today. Could be any of them.'

Paula had the impression he wasn't happy with the subject. He drank tea, helped himself to a cake. Paula ate ravenously.

'I have another problem on my mind,' he began. 'Rupert. He's a terrible disappointment. I know he runs after every pretty woman in sight. Don't mind that. He grew up late. It's his gambling.'

'With some people it's an addiction.'

'I'm not going to pay for his bloody addiction!' he stormed. 'Sorry. I raised my voice. Bad language. Not in the presence of ladies. I'm old-fashioned that way.'

'I appreciate that.'

'I've had a phone call from a casino in Campione. That's an enclave of Italy inside Switzerland.'

'I know. You get there by taking a steamer from Lugano.'

'Well, this blighter in Campione phoned me, demanding that I pay Rupert's debt. A hundred thousand pounds! I told him to go and jump in the lake. He said Rupert had referred him to me. I'm not paying a penny. I could afford it but Rupert can get out of his own messes. I told Rupert before he left the house. Called me a miser. I rang him at his London flat later to give him hell. The phone wasn't answered.'

'It must be very upsetting.'

'Sorry, I didn't ask you in to grouch about my small problems. Eat up!'

'You've got big property interests in the States. Will you be going back there?'

'I'm selling the lot, getting clear out of America.'

'You're a busy man. I think I should go now. Actually I did call in on my way elsewhere. Thank you for the tea – and your company, which I have enjoyed.'

'What a charming thing to say. I'll accompany you to your car.'

Paula reached down to adjust her right shoe. Something about it wasn't comfortable, and she used that foot for accelerator and foot brake. Strangeways helped her on with her coat and they crossed the hall. He opened the heavy front door and they stood framed in the doorway. Again Paula bent down to adjust her shoe. As she did so there was a crack!.

The bullet hit the side of the doorway where she had been standing. It ricocheted across the drive into the distance. Paula felt herself grabbed by Strangeways, pulled back inside as he used a foot to slam the door shut.

'Wait here,' he barked. He was taking keys from his pocket. 'I'm going to the gun room. I saw the muzzle- flash. Came from the rooftop of the house opposite.

Paula took several deep breaths. In no time Strangeways was back, holding a rifle. His eyes were blazing but his manner was controlled and calm. He was about to open the door again when Paula spoke.

'If you don't mind, I'd like to make a brief phone call.'

'Of course you can. The library. I'll wait here.'

Inside the room she took out a small notebook. She had written down certain phone numbers she had obtained from Monica. One of them was Basil Windermere's flat in London. She pressed numbers, listened. His cultured tones came clearly down the line on an answer-phone.