This United state

16

Paula didn't sleep that night. She tried to but sleep wouldn't come. The briefcase stuffed with a fortune in dollars kept coming back into her mind. She had a long bath and that didn't help.

As she made coffee, knowing she would not get any rest that night; she kept recalling what Chief Inspector Buchanan had told them. How key figures in Britain were being bought with huge bribes. The technique used. How the Anti-Terrorist Squad officers, watching the Embassy, had seen Americans leaving, carrying executive cases, had followed them, seen them in pubs meeting their 'target'. Strictly speaking, in the episode inside the Raging Stag, it had been a briefcase Osborne must have propped against Tweed's chair leg.

Her mind moved in circles. Had Tweed decided they couldn't win? Had he gone over to the other side? It didn't seem to be possible when she recalled the years she had known him. It was far more likely there was another explanation – but she couldn't think of one.

'I'm bloody wrong. I have to be,' she said aloud.

But she was not convinced. Tweed had trained her always to deal in facts. And she had personally witnessed the 'transaction'. Edgy, she threw away half the cup of coffee, made herself some tea. Pacing round the living room, she smoked another of her rare cigarettes.

'I give up,' she said, again aloud.

***

She arrived very early at Park Crescent, was relieved to find she was alone. The briefcase with the dollars had disappeared. On Monica's desk a name was scribbled on a pad. Keith Kent. Basel.

She was seated behind her desk when they all arrived almost together. Monica came in first, settled herself behind her desk. She looked across at Paula.

'While you were down at Romney Marsh yesterday Keith Kent, the money tracer, called Tweed from Basel. Said he'd cracked the Zurcher Kredit account, wanted assistance urgently.'

'How did Tweed react?'

'Ask him yourself when he comes in.'

Paula welcomed the suggestion. It gave her something to say to Tweed. If she just sat like a dummy he'd quickly notice her silence. Newman came in. He was cheerful, positively buoyant. He grinned at Paula.

'Top of the morning. Isn't it a nice day.'

'It's a terrible day,' Paula replied. 'The temperature has gone even lower.'

'Helps to keep your wits about you,' he said with another grin, plonking himself into a chair.

Marler arrived, faultlessly dressed as always. He was wearing a new grey suit. He gave everyone a little wave. At that moment Tweed walked in, his step brisk, his manner businesslike as he settled behind his desk. He looked round the room.

'Monica has told me,' Paula began, 'that Keith Kent called you from Basel yesterday, said that he'd cracked the Zurcher Kredit account, whatever that means.'

'True. Everything is beginning to fit. Bob, how did you get on with Sharon Mandeville?'

'Fine. You know, she has no hint of an American accent. She struck me as a demure English lady.'

Paula stared at him, her lips pursed. Was Newman falling for Sharon? It certainly sounded so – from his manner and what he had just said. She lowered her eyes before he looked at her.

'Really?' Tweed paused. 'So you're getting on with her well. Any chance of a second meeting?'

'I would hope so. Yes, a good chance, I'd say.'

'Then you'll have another chance to try to extract information from her as to what is going on. If she has any, which she may not.'

'The lady asked me to write an article. Not her idea. Comes from someone higher up she couldn't name.' 'What kind of an article?'

'A plea for a much closer version of the special relationship between Britain and America.'

'Really?' A brief smile flickered across Tweed's face. 'The pattern is taking shape. Are you going to do it?'

'Haven't decided. If I do, I'll show you a draft first, of course.'

'And now we come to you, Marler,' Tweed went on. 'Did you enjoy your evening with Denise Chatel?'

'Very much. She's nice. She told me a very strange story. There's quite a bit to tell. It concerns the death of her parents…'

Marler had Tweed's full attention as the story began to unfold. From his excellent memory he reported every word Denise had said to him. Monica stopped using the phone and listened. Near the conclusion Marler waved a characteristic dismissive hand.

'I thought Cord Dillon was the man to make enquiries – that I could feed him the data and later he could phone America from the Bunker. Or you might think this is a diversion of energy.'

'On the contrary.' Tweed paused again. 'What I'm going to say is very confidential. Rene Lasalle of the DST in Paris told me recently – when I asked him – that Denise's father was officially sent out as an attache to the French Embassy in Washington. Actually he was a member of the Secret Service. He was trying to uncover details of some major operation Washington was planning. Before he could report back he was killed, with his wife, in a car crash. Sharon's mother and father were also killed in a car crash. As I said earlier, I don't believe in coincidences.'

'So I can get Cord to check this out?' Marler asked.

'You most certainly can. Tell him I want to know.' He leant back in his chair. 'Years ago, when I was at Scotland Yard…'

'As the youngest superintendent in Homicide up to that time,' Paula added.

'What I was going to say was – in more than one murder case I investigated I stumbled across the identity of the murderer by pure chance. But at. least I recognized the significance of what I'd stumbled over. I think Marler has done the same thing. I regard what Denise told him as of great significance to what we are dealing with now.'

'Bully for me,' said Marler, mocking himself.

'Also yesterday, a courier arrived from Paris with photos of Americans passing through that city on their way here.'

He took an envelope from a locked drawer, spilled out a number of glossy prints. He spread them methodically over his desk.

'I want all of you to gather round and comment if you see anyone you recognize…'

They formed a half-circle behind him. Paula, glad of something else to think about, studied the prints with care. Then she pointed.

'That's Hank Waltz, the man who tried to kill me at Eagle Street.'

Tweed turned over the photo. On the back was written a date. He looked over his shoulder at her.

'He came in by Eurostar four weeks ago. Go on looking.'

'That is Chuck Venacki,' Newman told them. 'Smooth faced, smooth manner. Officially an attache at the Embassy. A bit above people like Waltz in intellect.'

'I haven't seen him so far,' Paula commented.

'You may well. Yet.' Newman warned. 'He's intelligent, so could be dangerous.'

'Came in three weeks ago,' Tweed said, looking at the back.

'And that,' Paula pointed out, stabbing her finger at another of the prints, 'is Jake Ronstadt.'

'Came in five weeks ago,' Tweed noted. 'Which is interesting. He was in the vanguard, which suggests he came early to set up something. Maybe the Executive Action Department.'

'There are three people missing,' Paula observed. 'Denise Chatel, Ed Osborne and Sharon Mandeville. Maybe the French didn't photo them.'

'I don't think that's the explanation,' Tweed objected. 'I'd say they flew direct here from Washington to Heathrow. Just as Jefferson Morgenstern did.' He stood up. 'Which reminds me, I'm having dinner with Jefferson at the Ambassador's residence this evening. It's no more than a quick walk from here. Jefferson called me before I left my flat. I accepted immediately.'

'You need a bodyguard,' said Newman.

'I do not. Jefferson is one of the old school. A very devious man – has to be to do his job – and he has his own idea of honour. Monica, you're still booking seats for us on the Swissair flight, I imagine.'

'Day by day.'