This United state

'You don't.'

'And what a charming lady,' Windermere went on, gazing at Paula.

She had her head down, studying some papers. She appeared not to have heard him.

'Newman will accompany you to the door,' Tweed told him.

'Let's keep in touch, you beautiful people…'

Newman had the door open. As he closed it and followed their visitor down the stairs Windermere began talking over his shoulder.

'I say, Bob, maybe we could have a drink together one evening.'

'Maybe.'

'I frequent Bentleys in Swallow Street. You'd find me there about eight in the evening. In their sumptuous bar downstairs.'

'George,' Newman called out, 'our visitor is leaving if you'd unlock the door…'

Windermere paused just outside the exit to button up his coat. Newman stayed inside after glancing outside across the Crescent. As George was closing the door Newman ran back upstairs into Tweed's office. He looked annoyed.

'Why on earth did you let that gigolo get inside here?' he asked.

'To see if he'd provide me with any information. He did,' Tweed replied.

'You mean about someone insuring Sharon Mandeville for thirty million dollars?'

'No. That was nonsense. His excuse for coming here to check up on my staff, to identify as many as he could. Marler caught on and so did Paula. So who could be anxious to penetrate our organization?'

'Sharon Mandeville,' Newman suggested.

'Not necessarily. Windermere babbles on but is a stranger to the truth. He may not have even met the delectable Sharon, as he described her.'

'Well,' Newman retorted as he sat down, 'you might be interested to know that everyone who leaves this building is being photographed. This time a Lincoln Continental is parked out on the main road. I caught a glimpse of a man aiming a camera at Windermere as he was leaving.'

'Get a picture of you?' Tweed enquired.

'No, I kept well back.'

'I don't understand it,' protested Paula. 'First a Cadillac, now a Lincoln Continental. If it is an American gang you'd think they'd use British cars. Why American?'

'To intimidate us,' Tweed told her. 'I expect their campaign to get a lot worse, even more aggressive. But enough of that. Bob, you arrived back just in time. Marler has discovered who assassinated the Prime Minister.'

'Up to a point,' Marler drawled in his upper-crust accent. 'I'm just back from Paris,' he explained to Newman. 'While over in Gay Paree, as the Yanks used to call it, I met three of my informants in various seedy parts of the city. The first two couldn't give me the time of day.'

'They didn't know?' Newman queried.

'The question scared them stiff. Then I met the Ear in another low-down bar.'

'The Ear?' asked Paula, puzzled.

'That's his nickname in the French underworld. He has guts. He plays both sides. For money, of course. By both sides I'm referring to the police and the underworld. And what I have just said is utterly confidential.'

'He's playing a dangerous game,' Newman commented.

'With great skill,' Marler told him. 'He's helped the Prefect of Paris to put some very lethal saboteurs – especially from Algeria – behind bars. Bit of a patriot, the Ear.'

'And was he also scared stiff when you put the question to him?' Newman suggested.

'Not a bit of it. He just doubled his normal fee, which I was happy to pay. This assassin is pretty damned good. He killed that French Minister a few weeks ago, the one who made a powerful speech attacking the Americans, accusing them of trying to take over the world. A month before that he took out Heinz Keller, the German politician who is anti-American and might have one day become Chancellor of Germany.'

'Sounds as though the assassin is American,' Paula speculated.

'That's one thing he isn't,' Marler corrected her. 'It makes sense when you come to think of it. If he was ever caught Washington would take worldwide flak. Our friends across the Atlantic appear to have become more sophisticated. Diabolical might be the word.'

'Do we get a name?' Newman prodded impatiently. 'Why not?' Marler said offhandedly. 'He's called the Phantom.'

'He sounds very sinister,' Paula commented.

'Sinister,' Marler agreed, 'highly skilled and professional. He assassinated the heavily guarded Prime Minister. Afterwards Special Branch never found the rifle he used. Imagine smuggling that away with a horde of security men checking everyone they could find. And the devil's firing point was the rooftop of a warehouse used for storing books. A repeat of Dallas all those years ago.'

'Has the Ear any clue as to his nationality?' pressed Newman.

'He's European, could even be an Englishman. The Ear stressed that was a rumour. He didn't know whether it was true.'

'So his identity is completely unknown?' Newman asked.

'Completely. Rumoured he has a number of girl friends. Again the Ear emphasized that also was no more than a rumour.'

'So we have no name.'

'None at all. As yet. The Ear is going on digging. Speaks good English. He'll contact me here if he finds out more. Monica, he'll give the name of Maurice and leave a message. Maybe just an address and a time and day.'

'Any other clue?'

'Only one, which could be misleading. The Ear says it's known he's paid in dollars. That could be a smokescreen. Could be some other nation is his paymaster.'

'You've done well,' said Tweed. 'Now I think we should all hear what Bob has to tell us.' He looked at Marler. 'He has just returned from escorting Cord Dillon to the Bunker. Come to think of it, maybe Paula had better put you in the picture first. She had a bit of an adventure late yesterday evening.'

'A bit of an adventure,' Paula repeated ironically. 'That's one way of describing it. Here goes…'

Newman and Marler watched her as she gave a terse account of her experience with Cord Dillon. She started with her leaving the hotel in Albermarle Street. Yet again Newman thought that Paula was a very attractive woman. In her thirties, slim with a very good pair of legs, her black hair had a glossy sheen, falling just short of her collar. She had a face with strong bone structure and a determined chin. Her voice was soft but he could hear clearly every word she said. Smartly dressed in a two-piece navy blue suit she was a woman men in the street turned to look at. Above all else she was enormously capable and had great stamina.

'That's it,' she ended. 'And that's enough, I'd say.' 'Tough cookie,' said Marler, squeezing her shoulder. 'If you say so.'

'Now it's Bob's turn to bring us up to date,' Tweed suggested.

He made occasional notes as Newman outlined everything that had happened when he'd escorted Dillon to the Bunker. Monica was recording the entire story, as she had with Paula.

'That's it,' Newman concluded, 'to quote Paula.'

'It's a lot,' Tweed said. 'Some of it very disturbing. Now we have quite an array of players in; this grim game. Monica, in the morning I'd like you to start building profiles on these people. Jefferson Morgenstern, esteemed Secretary of State, whom I know. Ed Osborne, the new Deputy Director of the CIA. Both now in London. Sir Guy Strangeways, who lives at the mansion called Irongates at Parham. And…' He paused. 'Sharon Mandeville. Her whole history, which could be interesting.' He stared at the ceiling. 'Add Basil Windermere to that list if you would, please.'

'I'll start tonight,' Monica announced. 'New York is five hours behind us and some of my contacts work late. Then San Francisco – they're eight hours behind us so I'll catch my contacts there. Don't look at me like that. I'm fresh as a daisy '

The phone rang. Monica picked it up, frowned, put her hand over the mouthpiece, looked at Marler.

'It's for you. Maurice on the line…'

'Marler speaking. Where are you?'

'On a public phone at Heathrow. Need to see you urgently.'

'Hang on a moment.'

Marler put his own hand over the mouthpiece. He spoke to Tweed, spoke quickly.