Blood Storm

38

'The Minister, Nelson Macomber, is downstairs and would like to see you.'

Tweed concealed his surprise. The rest of the team, except for Paula, had at Tweed's suggestion gone out to have a good supper. It was going to be a long night, staking out the Parrot's flat.

'Tell the Minister I welcome his visit and I'm at his disposal.'

Tweed had stood up. He walked to open the door to welcome his visitor. It was 8.30 p.m. and dark outside. Monica gave the message to George and then darted to the window, pulled back a curtain. Parked outside their entrance was a large black limousine with the uniformed chauffeur standing on the pavement. Tweed had opened the door and they heard the heavy tread of their visitor coming swiftly up.

'Welcome, Minister,' Tweed said with a smile, holding out his hand.

Nelson grasped it, beaming with the famous smile always present when press photographers were anywhere near him. At her corner desk Paula stood up, a file under her arm.

'I will leave the two of you to your discussions,' she said.

'No! No! Please do stay.' Nelson released Tweed's hand, used his own to wave her back. 'You are one of the two most important people in this organization. So you, also, will want to hear why I am here.'

Nelson had changed into a new blue suit with thin pinstripes. He looked larger than ever and sat in the chair facing Tweed's desk as his host sat in his swivel chair. He politely refused offers of coffee, tea or anything else to drink, then smiled at Tweed.

'Since my appointment you are the first person I am calling on, Mr Tweed.'

'I appreciate that, Minister.'

Paula thought she had never seen Tweed calmer or more relaxed. He sat, both elbows on his desk, his hands perched under his chin. His eyes never left those of his visitor.

'Nelson, please, since we shall all be working together.' He glanced at Paula who nodded, without smiling. 'Now let us dive straight into the core of the problem. Britain's moral structure has collapsed. Anything goes. On the TV we see filthy films showing explicit sex with no holds barred. Granted, many are shown late at night, but not always. Even late at night, at any hour, this filth must be controlled, banned. How many children under, say, twelve, are secretly watching this dirt while their parents are out at some wild party? Do you agree so far?'

'Of course I do,' Tweed said.

'This immoral poison is infiltrating the whole country. In London, after dark, it is not difficult to see couplings taking place against a wall. It is Sodom and Gomorrah in the open.' His voice rose to a powerful timbre. 'Decent women can no longer walk home in safety – even in daylight. Certain judges impose light sentences when a man before them is convicted of rape. Those judges must be removed and replaced by judges of sterner stuff. Are my views upsetting you, sir?'

'So far, not in the least. I agree with what you are saying,' Tweed replied.

'Child-molesters are convicted, put in prison, released when some psychiatrist pronounces them "safe". Within weeks, even days, the freed man commits the same foul crime again. Having deviated once they should be kept behind bars for many years, maybe for ever.'

'How do you propose to eliminate the moral rot?' Tweed enquired.

'One method, by training hundreds of selected men and women to patrol the streets on foot. To show a strong presence everywhere. At night. In daytime. Many will have to be trained in moral sense. We must change the entire moral atmosphere of this country to one of decency. New people must be appointed to control TV programmes. It will be a tremendous task but we must hammer away until we are no longer a cesspit. Still with me, sir?'

'Completely, so far. What about the proposed new system of the State Security?'

Nothing in Tweed's manner changed. Nothing suggested he was waiting at the peak of alertness for the reply.

'We went over the top on that one,' Nelson told him. 'We are toning it down. We may even drop the whole idea.'

'What about Noel?' Tweed persisted.

'Good point. He'll drop into line. If he doesn't we can get rid of him.'

Nelson stood up after checking his watch. He shook hands with Paula.

'I'm afraid I'm late for a boring meeting but one I must attend. Thank you for listening to me. We must keep in close touch.'

Then he was gone.

'Well, Paula, what did you think of that?'

'I was partly taken aback. He expressed some views which you hold strongly. But he's a politician. I just don't know.'

She had just finished speaking when the door opened and the team, led by Newman holding a large white cardboard container, flooded into the room.

'Time to go to Hammersmith,' Newman warned. 'We've had our meal. Here's yours. I'll drive and you can eat in the car. Sandwiches, a lot of fruit, a flask of coffee. OK?'

'Very,' said Tweed. 'And many thanks.'

'Well,' Newman said cheerfully, 'with a bit of luck we'll solve the last problem tonight and trap the murderer.'

'There is one other problem,' Tweed corrected him. 'Radek, the chief Slovak. I've been in touch with Interpol. Radek is wanted in four countries in Europe for assassinations. He is dangerous. He prides himself on always earning the huge fees he's paid. He's never failed yet.'

'He's probably skipped off abroad by now.'

'I think not,' Tweed told him grimly. 'And I am his target. I'm convinced he's in London, waiting for his opportunity.'

'We'll keep our eyes open, then. We're ready when you are.'

'I'm the cabbie,' Harry said. 'Cab's outside. And you'll be my passenger.'

'I expect you'll charge me a fortune,' Tweed joked to lighten the tense atmosphere building up inside his office. 'Start going down now.'

'Don't forget your dinner box,' Newman said as he left the office followed by Harry and Marler.

Under her desk Paula crossed her fingers, hoping she was right in secretly disagreeing with Tweed's decision.

As Newman left the building, entering the Crescent, he saw, parked by the kerb a few yards to his right, a motorcyclist, equipped in full gear, bent over his machine. The motorcyclist lifted his head, raised his helmet a few inches to call out.

'I do hope you will not mind my parking here while I see what is wrong with my machine. It is dangerous to park on the main route.'

'That's OK,' Newman called back. 'Hope you fix it soon.'

The motorcyclist waved a hand in acknowledgement, lowered his helmet and went on fiddling with the engine.

Newman walked to his car while Harry climbed into his cab. It was dark and cold, a typical April night. The only illumination was a street lamp midway between the entrance to the SIS entrance and the motorcyclist.

Newman settled in his car behind the wheel. His car was parked sideways on to the entrance and when he lowered his window he had a good view of Nield descending the steps carrying, as were the others, his 'tool-kit' bag stored with weapons. In his wing mirror Newman could also see the motorcyclist still toiling over his machine. Now they were only waiting for Tweed.

'… dangerous to park on the main route.' Surely most people would use the word 'road'? He had his Smith amp; Wesson in his lap as he checked it swiftly as he always did before action. Tweed appeared, carrying his dinner box, walking carefully down the steps.

Newman caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

The motorcyclist throwing his helmet over the back of his head.

Straightening up, legs apart.

Both arms extended, both hands gripping a gun.

Aimed at Tweed.

Newman's own hand, gripping the Smith amp; Wesson, was pointed out of the open window. He pressed the trigger. The motorcyclist's hands dropped. He staggered for a moment, then fell over backwards, his sprawled body still on the pavement.

Tweed, a Walther in his right hand, the dinner box clutched under his left arm, ran to the body, reached it a second before Newman. Still pointing his Walther, he bent down, checked the neck pulse, then stood up.

'Dead as the proverbial dodo. Thank you, Bob. For saving my life. I was careless. I did see him, had my Walther out. Two seconds late. It's Radek.'

George had come rushing out from his guard post, holding a gun. Instinctively, Tweed glanced up. He saw Paula's anxious face peering down at them. He grinned., waved a hand cheerfully. Then he gave terse instructions to George.

'Contact Commander Buchanan. Tell him someone tried to shoot me as I left the building, but Newman, who was outside, fired first, killed the assassin. Named Radek. Don't tell Chief Inspector Hammer anything. It must be Buchanan…'

'Are you all right?'

It was Paula who had practically thrown herself down the staircase and was shivering. Not from the cold. He repeated to her his instructions, adding something.

'Get a sheet of canvas to cover Radek's body. Be careful not to move it. Tell Buchanan when he gets here I had to leave in an emergency on my murder investigation. You don't know where. I must go now. See you…'

She left George to cover the body, told him to stand in the open door's shadow to watch over the corpse. Rushing back upstairs, she called Buchanan, reached him immediately on his mobile.

'Understood, Paula. I'm in the East End. I'm leaving now.'

Paula grabbed her windcheater, gave Monica a brief report on what had happened. She had put on the windcheater and explained quickly.

'I'm off to join the others and Newman has waited for me,' she lied.

Checking her watch, she saw she was late. She hurtled down the stairs. She paused in the empty hall to check the loaded Browning was OK, then checked the Beretta in her leg holster. Outside she paused to tell George she was on her way to join the others, then rushed to her car, dived behind the wheel. At that time of night there were no crowds in Park Crescent rushing out to see what had happened – they had all gone home. She started the engine and drove off as fast as she dared through fairly deserted streets to her destination. Covent Garden.