By Stealth

12

It was after eleven at night when Butler and Nield were let inside the headquarters of SIS in Park Crescent, close to Regent's Park. George, the ex-NCO, who acted as one of the guards, called out to them as they started up the staircase to Tweed's first-floor office.

`You'll find Monica still there, hard at it. She's having meals sent in. Doubt if she'll welcome you two…'

They opened the door and walked in. Monica, who was Tweed's faithful assistant, a woman of uncertain age, grey hair tied back in a bun, looked up from her desk. She had a collection of files spread out and her hand was reaching for the phone.

`Hello, Monica,' Nield said cheerfully, 'we've got a job for you. Stop you from getting bored.'

`Bored!' Monica expressed mock indignation. 'Tweed has given me enough work to last me a week. Building up profiles on Sir Gerald Andover, Brigadier Burgoyne, and Willie Fanshawe. My phone bill for calls to the Far East will be horrendous. I even managed to reach Philip Car- don, our agent in Hong Kong. He's flying home shortly. For your information I can do without your job.'

She liked Pete Nield. He often joked with her and she was secretly rather taken with his dark eyes and easy manner. Nield grinned and went on.

`Better make a note. Tweed will want the data on this. Ready? Moonglow Refugee Aid Trust International. 185 The Boltons. Everything you can dig up about them – and who runs the outfit.'

`Moonglow?' Monica crinkled her forehead, scribbled the full name on her pad. 'I've heard of them somewhere. The Boltons? High living for a charity organization.'

`We've driven a long way,' Butler intervened. 'A mug of tea would go down well for both of us.'

`Then you know where the kettle is. So make it yourself. I haven't got time to fuss over you. And while you are about it, I could do with a drink myself..

When they had left her alone Monica frowned again. She absent-mindedly sucked at the end of her pen.

`Moonglow,' she said to herself. 'I have heard of you – and something odd, but never proved. I'll dissect you down to the bone.'

Monica was not the only one working late. At No. 185 The Boltons Dr Wand sat in a room which served as a cinema. The lighting was very dim and no more could be seen of him than Butler had observed from the front door. Dr Wand preferred the dark.

He was not watching a film tonight. Mrs Kramer was feeding the tape reels into a machine and he was listening to conversations which had taken place at Prevent. His large head was tilted at a slight angle as he memorized what had been said.

At one stage Mrs Kramer glanced in his direction. Wand's gold pince-nez glinted in the low-power illumination provided by a wall light. He was smiling, a smile with pursed lips, a smile which had no human warmth. Even Mrs Kramer, who knew him well, was frightened by the smile.

When the last tape had been played Wand rose slowly to his feet. He gave her the instructions in his slow, soft-spoken voice.

`Contact Vulcan immediately. I think from now on we must keep a very close eye indeed on the man called Tweed. Convey my thought to Vulcan at once. I am going to my study to check further details about Operation Long Reach.'

`I will make the call immediately, sir.'

`See that you do, please.'

Mrs Kramer hurried out of the room to the telephone. She had no idea of the identity of Vulcan – only his phone number. She also had no idea what Operation Long Reach meant. And she had learned it was unwise to ask Dr Wand any leading questions. People who made that mistake had disappeared.

At Passford House the following morning Tweed announced he was leaving immediately for London. In Room 2 Newman looked at Paula in surprise. They were so often taken off-guard by Tweed's lightning decisions.

`I shall drive myself back,' Tweed continued, 'in the Ford Escort. Paula wants to check Mrs Goshawk, who apparently has a house for sale in Brockenhurst – according to that estate agent, Barton. I want her protected, Bob. Could you drive her everywhere in your Mercedes?'

Will do. But what are you after? Have you any idea what is going on?'

`List the facts.' Tweed counted on his fingers. 'One, Harvey Boyd, who was about to join us as a trained agent, was possibly murdered on the River Lymington.'

`Murdered?' Newman queried. 'What do you base that on?'

`The fact that the right side of his head was sliced off so neatly needs explaining.' He looked at Paula. 'And I trust your exceptional eyesight. I'm convinced you did see something in the fog just before the so-called accident.'

`As a reporter I still regard that as an assumption,' Newman persisted.

`It is not an assumption,' Tweed said sharply, 'that on two occasions someone has tried to exterminate us. The mobile concrete mixer, then the chopper which dropped oil on the road in front of us. Somewhere along the line I said something, asked a question -with Andover, Burgoyne, or Fanshawe – which triggered off those lethal attacks. So we have stumbled on to something. That is fact two.'

`You can't include Andover – after what's happened to his daughter,' Paula protested once again.

`I'm not crossing Andover off my list before I've seen the profile Monica is preparing,' Tweed said firmly. 'At the back of my mind I once heard something odd about the daughter, Irene. Fact three,' he went on briskly, 'I'm sure there is something odd about that isolated village, Moor's Landing.'

`That is an assumption,' Newman objected.

`Oh, really?' Tweed's tone was hard now. 'When we have an estate agent who isn't interested in selling us any kind of property? And they're trying to drive out old Mrs Garnett from the last remaining cottage. Strange that Barton didn't say her cottage might become available if we could wait a bit longer.'

`It was a weird place,' Newman agreed.

`Finally, fact four – Irene had apparently been kidnapped. Yet Andover whispers to me that no ransom demand had been received. After about three months.'

`You see any pattern forming?' Paula asked.

`I'm completely in the dark,' Tweed admitted. 'I have in my hand a number of pieces of a jigsaw – none of which seem to fit. I need more pieces to build up a picture. And now,' he picked up his packed suitcase, must get off to London. Take great care.'

`We'll see you in London,' Paula assured him.

Tweed turned suddenly. 'I missed out facts five and six. The file Andover handed to me. And the letter from Gaston Delvaux, Belgian armaments genius – and a member of that think-tank, INCOMSIN. I may be in Brussels within the next twenty-four hours…'

April Lodge, the home of Mrs Goshawk, was a small detached Victorian house on the outskirts of Brockenhurst. Newman and Paula had agreed it would be better if she visited the house on her own. Having driven past it, Newman parked the Mercedes on a grass verge.

Bearing in mind Tweed's request for him to protect her, Newman followed her at a distance along the country lane and waited by a copse of firs. As Paula disappeared he checked his Smith amp; Wesson.

Paula walked up the straight drive. On either side was a spacious lawn, neatly trimmed and covered with a heavy coating of frost sparkling in the sun. The house corresponded with the old photograph she'd examined in Barton's office. She entered the porch, pressed a highly polished brass bell.

`Mrs Goshawk?' she asked.

The door, with a stained-glass window in the upper half, had been opened by a well-dressed woman in her fifties. From her coiffured brown hair Paula guessed she'd just returned from the hairdresser.

`Yes.' Mrs Goshawk smiled. 'I hope you're not selling something?'

'On the contrary, I'm hoping to buy this house.'

`But it's not for sale. What on earth made you think it was?'

`It is shown – with a photo – as being for sale at Barton's, the estate agent at Moor's Landing.'

`This is ridiculous.' Mrs Goshawk flushed. 'I'm sorry, that was rude. I meant ridiculous of that rather rough type, Barton. I decided not to move. He was informed over a year ago and said he'd take it off the market at once…'

`Back to Moor's Landing, I suggest,' Newman decided after hearing Paula's story. 'I thought there was something not right about that chap Barton.'

`Something's wrong about the whole place. What it is I just don't know. Maybe another word with Mrs Garnett is a good idea.'

`Let's wait till we get there. See what the situation is.'

Newman was soon driving back along the road to Beaulieu. It was a glorious sunny morning with a clear blue sky and again very cold. The trees were clotted with frost and Newman drove past Prevent and the other two houses at top speed along the empty winding road.

Paula was studying the map. To reach Moor's Landing by car they had to drive through Beaulieu, cross the river, then turn south down a country road which eventually led to a village called Exbury. The turn-off to Moor's Landing was several miles earlier. She gave Newman guidance and within three-quarters of an hour they were driving past the lane to the landing stage and into the village. Newman parked as soon as they reached the first cottage.

'That's funny,' Paula said as she stood by the car.

`What is?' asked Newman.

`The estate agent's board has disappeared.'

`You're right. Maybe it's taken down for painting. It was peeling badly, I noticed.'

`So did I. Which struck me as peculiar at the time. I would have thought it would have been spick and span to be in keeping with the model-village effect.'

She walked down to the fourth cottage on the right and pushed open the gate. Newman followed closely behind her after glancing down the street. Once more it had a strangely deserted look. Paula tugged at his arm.

`Net curtains at the windows. They weren't there when we called yesterday.'

She raised the brass knocker and hammered several times. A strange man in a smart business suit opened the door and stared at Paula. About twenty-eight, she estimated, clean shaven and with a pleasant smile. A strong waft of perfume met her. Not one of those, I hope, she was thinking. She spoke briskly.

`We've come to see Mr Barton, the estate agent.' `Mr who?'

`Barton, the estate agent. He had a board up outside.'

`I'm sorry, I don't understand. I live here. Martin's the name. You must have come to the wrong village. No estate agent has been at Moor's Landing since the converted cottages were sold, so far as I know.'

`We were here yesterday,' Paula insisted impatiently. And we met Mr Barton.'

`Indeed we did,' Newman's voice confirmed over her shoulder.

`He has an office in this front room,' Paula ploughed on. `Hardly any furniture, blank walls, one with a board of houses for sale. A trestle table and fold-up chairs.'

`This doesn't make any sense,' Martin replied, a trace of impatience in his voice now. 'This is my home.' He looked at Newman. 'The lady is confused.'

`Then would it be too much, Mr Martin,' Paula pressed on, to let us just see the front room?'

`If it will convince you.' Martin shrugged. 'Walk right in. I'm sorry about the smell of perfume. My wife spilt a whole bottle on the table this morning..

Paula walked in, followed by Newman, who was holding an unlit cigarette. She stopped, stunned. She was looking at an expensively furnished living-room, mostly in the Scandinavian style. The walls were panelled in oak. She stared around helplessly. Newman wandered past her, dropping his cigarette close to a wall, bent down to retrieve it. Martin waved his hands.

`Satisfied? Try the village of Exbury. The roads round here are confusing.'

`Thank you, Mr Martin,' Paula said coldly.

She waited until they had reached the gate. She heard the cottage door close behind them.

`Am I going dotty?' she asked Newman. `It's the sort of experience you have in a dream.'

`No dream,' Newman said grimly. 'More like a nightmare. Let's have that word with Mrs Garnett. She knows what's happening round here – up to a point..

`What the devil's going on?' Paula asked. 'Just look at Mrs Garnett's front door. Bright purple. Yesterday the paint was peeling and it was no particular colour.'

`So we'll call on her.'

Paula marched up the path, touched the purple paint and it was bone dry. She pressed the bell and waited, stiffening herself. The door opened and another man dressed in a business suit stood regarding her. Not a day over thirty, she guessed. Dark-haired, he had a more distant manner.

`Yes, what is it?'

`I've called to see Mrs Garnett, please.'

`Well you certainly won't find her here.' A touch of an American accent. 'She left and went into some nursing home for old people, I understand. No idea where.'

`Left overnight, you mean?' Paula demanded.

`Good Lord, no. I've been here for quite a while.'

`I'm Porter,' Newman interjected. 'Could you tell us your name?'

`Hartford, if it's any of your business. Now, I am very busy, so if you don't mind..

'But I do mind,' Paula snapped. 'Only yesterday…'

`We've made a mistake,' Newman said and grasped her arm firmly. 'The roads round here are confusing. Obviously we've taken a wrong turning, got the villages mixed up. We are sorry to bother you, Mr Hartford.'

`Use a map next time.'

Paula was seething as the door was slammed in their faces. Newman, still gripping her arm, guided her down the path and back to the car. She burst out as he was turning the Mercedes, prior to driving back to Passford House.

`You didn't give me much backing. Damn all, in fact!'

`It's a very lonely part of the world here,' Newman reminded her. 'We don't know how many more men they had about the place. And people disappear from Moor's Landing. At times, discretion is the better part of valour and all that jazz.'

`Too bloody right they disappear!' she stormed. 'So what do you suppose has happened to poor Mrs Garnett? She was a gutsy old soul. Something unpleasant?'

Newman checked his rear-view mirror again. No sign of pursuit. He wanted to reach a main road as soon as possible. Paula repeated her question.

`Something unpleasant?'

`I fear it may be something permanent. Time we got away from this area. We'll leave Passford House today, drive back to London.'

`You mean they've killed her, don't you?'

`I fear that is very much on the cards. The question is who? And why?'

Driving up the motorway to London Tweed was well aware he was being followed. He'd been aware of the fact for some time. By a Land-Rover driven by a man wearing a crash helmet.

But there was something familiar about him. Like Nield, he couldn't place where he had seen him. Despite his tail's efforts to avoid being spotted, Tweed had detected him soon after leaving Passford House.

Which was interesting, Tweed reasoned: it strongly suggested that whoever had given the driver his instructions knew his quarry was staying at Passford House.

`Which,' Tweed said to himself, 'again brings us back to Willie Fanshawe, Brigadier Burgoyne, and Sir Gerald Andover. Not forgetting Lee Holmes and Helen Claybourne – since either woman could be operating independently under the control of some unknown fourth party.'

Tweed made no attempt to lose the Land-Rover. His tail was still with him. when he was deep inside London in the Baker Street area. Driving into the garage where he often bought petrol, Tweed got out, called out to the mechanic.

`Something's not right with the accelerator, I suspect. I may be wrong but perhaps you could check it. I won't need the car for a few hours.'

`I'll give it a thorough check, sir,' the mechanic assured him.

`Looks like rain,' Tweed remarked.

Opening the boot, he took out his rather shabby Burberry and a deerstalker hat. Handing the keys to the mechanic, he put on the raincoat and hat. Leaving the mechanic, he took off his glasses before emerging into the street. He walked towards Regent's Park without glancing back. A few minutes later he paused at a bus stop and pretended to study the timetable, glancing back. No sign of the Land-Rover or its driver.

`You'll have a long wait for nothing, laddie,' he said to himself.

Crossing the road, he walked along Park Crescent and up the steps of the building carrying the doorplate, General amp; Cumbria Assurance. Monica jumped up when he entered his office.

`Have I got news for you – and don't tell me you already know. Because I don't think you do.'