This United state

Newman took it from her. Sitting down again, he studied the glossy print. Then he whistled before passing it to Tweed.

'She's a blonde stunner.'

'She's enigmatic,' commented Tweed. 'I met her at a party in Washington. Not the most recent visit. When I was there three weeks ago.' He passed it to Paula. 'What do you think?'

'Hard to say,' she said eventually. 'A photo can mislead.'

'If I could proceed,' Monica said impatiently. 'Sharon was born in Washington, DC. So she's an American citizen. Her mother was English, her father an American industrialist with money. Sharon was partly educated in England, partly in the US. When Sharon was fifteen the three of them moved here. Apparently her father thought he could make more money in Britain. Result? He lost everything on the stock market and they all returned to the States. Soon after they got back the parents were both killed in a car crash. Sharon was eighteen. A year later she married a Texan oil millionaire. There was a prenuptial agreement. Twenty months later she divorced him and was a rich woman.'

'Because of the prenuptial arrangement?' Tweed suggested.

'Exactly,' Monica confirmed. 'There's a pattern. To cut it short, she remarried three times, always to millionaires or, in one case, to a billionaire. Always there was a prenuptial agreement with a generous settlement for her. Now she may be the richest woman in America.'

`Gold-digger,' said Newman.

'Not necessarily,' Tweed objected. 'Didn't strike me like that when I met her. You have to remember it's a jungle in the US. Rich men treat their wives like trophies, but they can be mean and unreliable. Maybe Sharon spotted that – hence the prenuptial agreements.'

'If I may go on,' snapped Monica. 'So now she's single with four husbands behind her. After the fourth fiasco – if you can call it that – she bought an apartment in luxurious Chevvy Chase and mixed with high society in Washington. She became a friend of the President's wife and was given various jobs.'

'I'd say Newman was right. Gold-digger,' said Marler. He had come. into the office a 'few minutes earlier, nodded and now had taken up his usual stance, leaning against a wall. 'And very attractive,' he concluded, handing back the print.

'You can't always tell from the photo what someone is like,' Paula protested.

'Jefferson Morgenstern, Secretary of State,' Monica continued, 'is difficult. I'll get there but I concentrated on Sharon. Morgenstern, as I'm sure you know, originated in Europe. Not sure where yet. His real name is Gerhard Morgenstern. He's now at the American Embassy here, like Sharon.'

'You've done very well,' said Tweed.

'Haven't finished yet. Sir Guy Strangeways, who lives now at Irongates in the village of Parham, made his pile as a property developer in the States. An ex-Guards officer, I gather he's still very British. He was in America for twenty years and for some time he lived in Washington. Travels a lot all over the world. There are mysterious gaps in his whereabouts at certain periods. More later.'

'When did he come back here?' Tweed asked. 'He was still in Washington when I was there three weeks ago.'

'Came back two weeks ago. A sudden departure.' 'That's interesting,' Tweed remarked.

'Now, Ed Osborne,' Monica went- on. 'The most mysterious of the lot. He also had an English mother and an American father. He was born in New York, in Hoboken. Not the most salubrious part of that place. His father was an unsuccessful locksmith. His childhood was poverty-stricken. Then, Heaven knows how, he's at Harvard. Afterwards there are huge gaps in his life. No knowledge as to whether he was somewhere in the States or somewhere abroad. Then he joins the CIA and rockets up. I'm still digging.'

'Keep on digging,' Tweed suggested.

'Finally, Basil Windermere. Chucked out of Tonbridge when he was discovered with an under-age girl. I've only just started to build up his file. That's it for now.'

'So, Tweed,' Marler enquired, 'what's your reaction?' 'Menace.'

'How do you make that out?' Paula asked.

'Sixth sense.'

'Now you're going cryptic again.'

As soon as she had spoken it struck her that Kurt Schwarz and Tweed had one thing in common. They never revealed their thinking until they were sure. She guessed why this was. Tweed was careful not to point his team in any direction until he was sure he had worked out what was happening. This made his team think for themselves, come to their own conclusions.

'I simply don't have enough to go on,' said Tweed, answering Paula's comment. 'Incidentally, you'll find several key people here have disappeared. In the night I sent them down to the Bunker. A skeleton team, if you like.'

'You said that casually,' Newman told him. 'When you talk like that it usually means there's a major emergency.'

'There is.'

'I've had an idea,' Newman remarked. 'Basil Windermere came up with the suggestion that I meet him in a bar during the evening. I wasn't encouraging, but I think I'll have a chat with him. Might help Monica to build up her file on him.'

'Good idea,' agreed Tweed.

'If that's all, think I'll mosey off,' said Marler. 'Another good idea. I know you're all short of sleep. So go home and catch up on some rest.'

'Half a mo,' Marler replied. 'Your camp bed is pushed against that wall behind Paula's desk.'

'I noticed that too,' Paula agreed. 'Decided not to ask any questions.'

'Well, I've just asked one,' Marler insisted. 'Tweed, Bob told me you went home soon after midnight.'

'I did.'

'So why is your camp bed out of the cupboard?'

'My fault,' Monica piped up. 'I managed to get the linen to the laundry, then you all came storming in before I could put the bed away.'

'I'll confess,' Tweed said with mock humility. 'I came back from my flat by cab in the middle of the night. I wanted to supervise those members of the team who were going down to the Bunker. They'd been warned in advance.'

'So we wouldn't know,' Marler accused.

'So I didn't have a lot of questions asked in the middle of the move. Then I slept here instead of another trip back to my flat. Off you go, all of you.'

The phone rang before anyone had time to leave the room. Monica answered it, frowned before she looked across at Tweed.

'George says there is an Ed Osborne downstairs. The gentleman wants to see you.'

'Wheel him up, then. The rest of you stay for a while.' 'How the hell did he find out this address?' demanded Newman.

'Maybe Cord had no time to erase certain confidential information from the computer in Langley, Virginia.'

A restless, guarded atmosphere had spread through the office. Only Tweed seemed unaffected, undisturbed. He looked up as George opened the door and a six-foot aggressive American burst inside. It was as though a hurricane had entered. The new arrival was big in every way, radiating dynamic energy. His thick hair was grey-white, his expression dominant, and ice-cold blue eyes swept round the, room. Above them were shaggy white brows, below them a straight wide nose and below that a broad thick-lipped mouth. His gaze homed on Paula.

'Hi, baby, you're lookin' good. You and I could make music.'

'I don't think so, Mr Osborne,' she replied coldly.

'You must be Tweed.' He swung round, extended a large hand, looked surprised as he gripped Tweed's hand and squeezed it with the force of a power shovel. Tweed's grip was equally strong.

'You'd better sit down,' he invited his visitor. 'I do prefer people to phone me for an appointment.'

'Waste of time. I just crash the barrier.'

Osborne lowered his bulk into an armchair. Newman had already resumed his seat in his own chair close to the American's. The American lifted his legs, planted his feet encased in very large shoes on the edge of Tweed's desk. Newman leaned forward, grasped both feet by the crossed ankles, dropped them on the floor.