This United state

'Thank you, said Tweed.

He led the way to the elevator, pressed the button. The door opened and inside he pressed the first floor button. The elevator ascended, the doors opened and they stepped out into the wide corridor. Tweed stopped, smiled.

Denise Chatel had been walking towards the elevator. For once, Paula noticed, she was not carrying a file. More than that, she was stylishly dressed in riding kit, complete with jodhpurs and gleaming riding boots.

She gave them a great big smile. Coming forward she hugged Paula, kissed Tweed on the cheek and then gave Newman the same attention. To Tweed she seemed a different woman. Her attitude was buoyant and cheerful and warm. What could have happened?

'How do you like my outfit?' Denise asked.

She swivelled round in a circle. Her brunette hair swung over her shoulders. Her face was pink and full of life.

'Very fetching,' said Paula.

'The picture of happiness,' said Tweed.

'You look just terrific,' Newman told her. 'What have you been up to?'

'I've just come back from a ride in Hyde Park. It's a wonderful day. I even managed a gallop, which may be illegal, but I just didn't care. I was on top of the world.'

'Hence your high spirits,' Tweed remarked.

'You've hit the nail on the head,' Denise responded. 'And what else?'

'Why?' She hesitated. 'Nothing else.'

'You'll excuse us. We've come to keep an appointment.'

'What was all that about?' Paula asked as they proceeded along the corridor.

'No idea.'

A tall, smooth-faced man came out of a room, closed the door behind him. Dressed in a smart blue pin-stripe suit, he strode confidently towards them. Then he stopped, gave a broad grin.

'Chuck Venacki,' greeted Newman. 'The great survivor. How do you do it?'

'Do what?' Venacki asked amiably.

'Survive. The catastrophe at Schluchsee.'

'Where's that?' Venacki enquired, still amiable. 'Sounds as though it could be Austria, Switzerland, Germany?'

'Give the man the money,' Newman went on. 'Even though he didn't get it until his third try. Come off it, Venacki. You remember when we last met.'

'Sure I do. Outside Park Crescent a hundred years ago. When you rammed the Lincoln Continental with your four-wheel drive.'

'Nice try. At Schluchsee Ronstadt drove his car straight at me. Four men inside that car. You were sitting with Ronstadt in the front. Ronstadt, by the way, is dead, but you survive.'

'Guess you mistook me for someone else, wherever this dramatic car incident took place. Now, I have to get going.' He looked at Paula, then at Tweed. 'Enjoy yourselves. We try to make visitors feel at home here.'

'And that,' said Tweed quietly, 'sounded like the voice of the anonymous American who phoned me in my room at the Colombi. The call which told me Ronstadt had left.'

'I don't get it,' Paula commented. 'He seemed nice enough.'

'And this,' Tweed said in the same quiet voice, pointing to a door they were passing, 'is where Sharon lives. We'll come back later. The critical interview is the one with Morgenstern.'

47

'Do come in. Good to see you. I've had fresh coffee delivered. The receptionist told me you were here.'

In response to Tweed's knock Jefferson Morgenstern himself opened the door, ushered them inside. He locked the door, then gazed at his visitors with a smile. Tweed introduced Paula as his assistant and confidante. Morgenstern smiled even more broadly as Tweed turned to Newman.

'No introduction necessary here, Tweed. Bob Newman once interviewed me. And I don't give many interviews.' He shook Newman's hand warmly. 'You're looking great and maybe a bit tougher. Experience does that to us all – if we have the fibre. Come and sit down. I'll serve coffee.'

Paula had been studying Morgenstern closely. He was shorter than she had imagined, but his figure in a grey Savile Row suit was well padded. She had the impression of a man of great intelligence who enjoyed the good things of life – especially wine and food. His hair, neatly brushed, was greying and he emanated an aura of supreme self-confidence and dynamic energy – of power.

His large desk was a genuine antique, Chippendale, she thought. On it was a silver engraved tray with a silver coffee service. Three comfortable upright chairs were arranged in front of the desk and Morgenstern dragged his swivel chair round to join them. Not a man to flaunt his importance.

'You were looking at my coffee service,' he said to Paula after she had seated herself, which made her realize this man didn't miss a thing. 'When I was a poor student in Europe I was once invited to a mansion where they had such a service. I decided then,' he continued as he poured coffee, 'that one day I'd have one like it.' He smiled. 'It was a long journey before I was able to purchase one.'

His face was long, Paula noted. His nose was long, his features strong, and beneath his American accent she detected a trace of some European accent. When he had served coffee he sat down near Paula, drank half the contents of his cup, folded his arms.

'Tweed, I've been giving a lot of thought to what you said to me when we last met. At the time I was dismissive. Since then I have given your accusations more thought. I admit I'm a troubled man.' He looked at Paula, then at Newman. 'May I take it that anything we talk about today will be in complete confidence?'

'Quite definitely. These two are my right and left arm. I said recently I'd trust them with my life. That I had done.'

'Good enough for me. The weak link in what you said is a complete lack of evidence.'

'That is what I have brought with me. Overwhelming evidence. In photographs and documents. Some of it was supplied by Arthur Beck, Chief of Swiss Federal Police. I can supply you with his number in Berne if you want it later. While in Basel recently four of the men attached to this Embassy tried to murder me – along with Paula and Bob. Instead, they were killed. They all carried American diplomatic passports. Here is a photograph of the dead killers, supplied to me by Beck. Their names are on the back. And here are photocopies of the passports they carried. Beck has the originals.'

Morgenstern studied the photo of the dead Umbrella Men. He looked at the back, where their names were given. Placing it on his desk, he looked at the photocopies of the passports. His mouth tightened. He placed them on his desk.

'There's worse to come,' Tweed warned. 'There's a clear video picture of the man who left the bomb in the Oxford Street department store.'

'His name is Vernon Kolkowski,' Newman said quietly. 'He also had a diplomatic passport. Once, in New York, the police chief told me he was a professional who had murdered at least six men. They could never indict him. No witness dared testify. If one was willing to testify he'd been found dead in a side street.'

'Then,' Tweed continued, 'we rescued a poor woman who was being tortured by another American with a diplomatic passport. Name of Rick Sherman. He's dead too.'

'Could you pause?' Morgenstern requested. He took from his pocket a leather-bound notebook. 'I'd like to note down some of these names. What was that last one?'

'Rick Sherman.'

'Thank you. And Vernon someone. I'd like the surname.'

Newman spelt it out carefully. Morgenstern wrote it down in his notebook. Then he looked again at the video print of the man who had planted the bomb in the Oxford Street department store.

'As far as I can gather,' Tweed went on, 'I know you are handling the diplomatic side of this huge operation. But there is another secret section inside this Embassy called the Executive Action Department. That is staffed by what I would call the gangster level – and all the members have been given diplomatic passports.'