By Stealth

28

In London Tweed was hyperactive, dealing with half a dozen different problems before flying back to Brussels. Arriving at the Ministry of Defence, he showed his SIS card and was immediately ushered by a guard up a flight of stairs and down endless corridors. Colonel Fieldway, his contact and confidant at the MOD, rose behind his desk to greet him as the guard closed the door.

`I have checked the data we have on Brigadier Burgoyne, as he likes to call himself. Do sit down. That cup of tea has just been poured. Can't recommend it but if you want to wet your whistle..

Fieldway was a man in his mid-forties, tall and thin and sporting a trim brown moustache the same colour as his carefully brushed thatch of hair. He had a long face, alert blue eyes, and, Tweed thought, looked in the pink of physical condition.

`As he likes to call himself,' Tweed repeated. 'What does that mean?'

Fieldway settled himself in his chair behind his desk. Before replying he shuffled papers on top of a file. Tweed recognized the trait: John Fieldway did that when he was unsure of what line to take. He spoke briskly.

`He was Acting Brigadier, but his substantive rank is Colonel. Likes to overawe people by pulling rank – one he's not entitled to.'

`His history?' Tweed asked.

`Burgoyne was a brilliant young officer in the Korean War back in 1950. He gained rapid promotion – the sort that only happens in wartime. He was the only commander who out-manoeuvred the Chinese army when it crossed the Yalu river to support the North Korean lot. He got an MC. Brave as a lion. And a shrewd strategist. The two don't often go together.'

`So far so good,' Tweed commented, sensing a reservation.

`That's about it. In a nutshell.'

`What went wrong?' Tweed probed.

`Oh, you know about that? Very few do. It was kept a bit hush-hush. For the sake of the Army's name and all that.'

`Refresh my memory,' Tweed urged him.

He hadn't a clue what Fieldway was referring to. There was a pause before Fieldway resumed his crisp summary.

`Let's go back to that war. At one stage Burgoyne vanished off the face of the earth. He appeared four months later at his HQ. He'd been trapped behind enemy lines as the UN forces under General MacArthur retreated. He lay low, lived off the country, avoided being spotted. One of your natural guerrillas. Promoted again, he took over command of another unit and the situation stabilized.'

`John, I don't think that was what you had in mind when I asked you to refresh my memory. And, talking about nutshells, that's a pretty big one you've got in front of you. His file, I mean.'

`This is all rather delicate. Must you hear me go over it again?'

`Commander Noble of Naval Intelligence is interested in every aspect of the investigation I'm carrying out. And several people have already been murdered.'

`Good Lord! You do live an exciting life.' He paused again. 'All right, here goes. But this is confidential. Burgoyne resigned from the Army when the Korean business was over. I say "resigned" advisedly.'

`Go on. No point in leaving it there now you've started,' Tweed pressed.

`For one thing there were rumours – no more – that he'd embezzled Army funds on a large scale.'

`And for another?'

Fieldway, now looking unhappy, shuffled some more papers.

`Well, there were stories that he had contacts with the Chinese High Command after he'd left the Army.' Field- way was consulting his file for the first time. 'No proof. Just more rumours.'

`What would be his purpose in doing that – if the rumours were true?'

`He had formed several trading companies in Hong Kong and quickly became a well-known businessman. Mixed at the highest level with the so-called taipans in the colony.'

`So, how does that link up with the Chinese High Command?'

Fieldway looked up. 'I did say all this was highly confidential?'

`You did.'

Tweed was the soul of relaxation. Settled in his chair he sipped a little more of his tea. It tasted awful.

`The official version,' Fieldway explained, 'is that he was buying timber from Peking – Beijing – I do wish that these new countries, regimes, would stop mucking about with familiar names.'

`You were saying,' Tweed reminded him.

`Buying timber from the Chinese at prices way below the world market price. That put him in a position to make huge profits when he sold the timber to other countries.'

`And the unofficial version?'

`That the timber deals were a cover for smuggling banned high-tech equipment to Peking. And that,' Field- way emphasized, 'was a very vague rumour.'

`So what eventually brought Burgoyne home from the Far East?'

`He sold out his companies to locals at a high price before leaving Hong Kong at short notice. He was on a plane flying home before the buyers of his companies found out the catch.'

`Which was?'

`The Chinese overnight raised the price of the timber they were selling to world market prices. No more easy profits for the new owners of Burgoyne's companies.'

`So Burgoyne out-manoeuvred some of the shrewdest businessmen in the world.'

`Looks like that.' Fieldway closed his file with a snap. `That's all I have.'

`I'm very grateful.' Tweed rose, shook hands with Fieldway, who leaned across his desk, stood up. 'No, don't bother to show me the way out. I know the drill.'

Tweed turned round suddenly as he was opening the door. Fieldway was still standing up and looked uncomfortable, even embarrassed. Why?

As Tweed travelled back from Whitehall to Park Crescent in a taxi he totted up in his mind the data assembled so far. In a taxi no one could get at him.

On the flight to Brussels Burgoyne, Willie, and Helen Claybourne had been aboard the same plane. 'A coincidence? Tweed didn't believe in them. He remembered Paula and Marler telling him about the trip to the new village outside Ghent.

From their description it sounded like a Belgian replica of Moor's Landing on the Beaulieu River. Tweed's mind recalled a certain passage in Andover's file about the Mongol invasion of the West.

Then there was the macabre murder of Hilary Vane when she arrived at London Airport with Cord Dillon. The murder carried out by another woman, with a wide-brimmed hat. He played back in his mind Vane's report he had heard on the tape. Three top Stealth scientists vanishing to the Far East, according to Dillon. Always the road led to the Far East.

Dr Wand owned Moonglow Trading amp; Mercantile International – based in Hong Hong. No one knew what he traded in. Mercantile? That suggested shipping to Tweed. Then there was his verbal duel with Wand at the luxurious Waterloo villa. A more sinister man Tweed had never met.

First he had been glimpsed by Butler in London inside his mansion in The Boltons. Then he turned up in Brussels at a deluxe hotel, followed from the airport to the Bellevue Palace by Marler. A very mobile man, the mysterious Dr Wand.

And also the director of Moonglow Refugee Aid Trust International. Refugees? Hugo Westendorf, the Iron Man of German politics – before his sudden retirement – had had a tough programme worked out to stop Europe being swamped by refugees. According to Gaston Delvaux.

Andover. Delvaux. Westendorf. All outstanding among the brains of Western Europe. All now men broken by a hideous conspiracy of kidnapping – involving the maximum of psychological pressure to break them. A pattern was forming in Tweed's mind. But he still needed more data.

Prior to his visit to the MOD, Tweed had met Cord Dillon, American Deputy Director of the CIA – more important, he had been sent over as special emissary of the American President. During his brief meeting with Dillon he had reassured the American.

`I've been sitting on my ass waiting for you, Tweed,' Dillon had begun in typically abrasive fashion.

`So you had a chance to get over jet lag and the after-effects of your flu bout,' Tweed had responded genially. `No, wait until I've finished. I am tracking this vital Stealth problem…'

He had told Dillon frankly about the visit to Belgium, the bizarre murder of Andover in Liege, his conversation with Gaston Delvaux. Mollified, Dillon had nodded and stood up, grabbing hold of his suitcase.

`Then I can catch my flight back to Washington. I now have enough to tell the President you're on the job..'

What a responsibility, Tweed thought. He shrugged. It was part of his vocation. His mind flashed back to the interview with Fieldway. When he got the chance he must take Willie Fanshawe aside, question him about Burgoyne's view of life.

FAR EAST AIR CRASH. ALL DEAD.

He saw the poster next to an Evening Standard newspaper seller. Why did he immediately think of Paula and wonder how she was getting on?

Paula came out of the Brussels shop, the carrier containing her purchase looped over her left arm. She had just bought an expensive pair of knee-length leather boots. The weather had turned even colder.

Walking along near the kerb, she glanced into other shop windows. The green Lincoln Continental cruised slowly behind her. She saw its reflection in a shop window. Why did the Americans have to go in for cars as big as battleships? Gas-guzzlers, they called them – and they were.

The car parked a few feet in front of her. The rear door was thrown wide open. Pursing her lips, she moved to her right to avoid it. As she drew level two powerful hands grasped her by the shoulder. A rough voice growled in heavily accented English.

`Get into the car, lady. Take you back to the Hilton…'

Paula resisted the impulse to struggle. She remembered Harry Butler's instruction during the tough training course. 'The moment to stop being kidnapped is when an attempt is first made. Later is too late…' Relaxing her body briefly, she allowed herself to be thrust towards the interior. The driver, cap pulled well down over his head, was watching in the wing mirror, keeping his engine running.

Paula rammed her left hand on the roof of the car to gain leverage. Her relaxed body suddenly stiffened. With all her strength she rammed her backside away from her. It hit a flabby paunch. She heard her attacker let out a grunt. What happened next was so swift she didn't see it.

A scooter whizzed up out of nowhere. The rider jumped off and let it fall over. Nield, a knuckle-duster on his right hand, slammed his fist into the side of the roughneck's jaw. Blood smeared the assailant's face. A second later Newman came up behind him, slammed into his side with a vicious kidney punch.

The large fat man gave a horrible groan, started to sag to the pavement as Paula slipped out of the way on to the sidewalk. Newman grasped the thug by his greasy hair and the back of his pants. He threw him bodily into the back of the car, where he collapsed.

Nield had already darted round to the open window, where the driver had a dazed look. Nield hit him with less force, then hissed at him in French.

`Bugger off or I'll break your neck…'

Newman had slammed shut the rear door with the groaning body inside. The driver fumbled for the brake. His trembling hands grasped the wheel. The huge car moved away from the kerb as Newman noted down its registration number.

`No need,' Nield called out.

The Lincoln was zigzagging into the main stream of traffic. A juggernaut coming up behind applied its brakes. Not enough time. It hammered into the back of the car. Another car with 'Politie' in large letters along its side pulled up. Two uniformed policemen dived out and opened the doors of the Lincoln.

`Just stroll,' Newman said, taking Paula by the arm. `We're not interested in getting involved…'

Paula glanced back as she forced herself to walk normally. Pete Nield was astride his scooter, crawling along behind them. She hugged Newman's arm.

`Thank you, Bob,' she said. 'But I left you in the shop.' `And I followed you out at a discreet distance.'

`So I've become a target.'

`Tweed has become the ultimate target. Through you.

And you did well. But from now on you'd better be more on the alert than you've ever been in your life." `Understood.'

`And now, if Messrs Fanshawe and Burgoyne are still sitting in the Hilton with their aperitifs, let's see how they react. When they spot you.'

The four of them were still sitting in the lounge area with full glasses in front of them: Burgoyne, who sat next to Lee, Willie, who sat next to Helen. Newman reckoned they must be on their third aperitif. Paula watched them closely as they approached their table.

It was Willie, of course, who jumped up with a beaming smile and started fetching chairs. As he arranged them he chatted away.

`Looking in the pink. Both of you. Can't beat a walk in the sun. Used to stroll about a lot myself back in Hong Kong. Get brown as a berry in no time at all out there. In the season. Ah, for the old days of sunlight and swarming humanity. Really felt alive. Paula, you come and sit between me and Helen. This do you, Newman? There's a good chap.'

`I suppose you'd like a drink,' Burgoyne said in his usual offhand manner.

`If there's one on offer,' Newman replied, staring directly at him. 'What about you, Paula?'

`Mineral water, no ice, no lemon, please.'

`I'll have a double Scotch. Neat,' Newman decided.

Burgoyne summoned a waiter in his usual lordly manner – beckoning with an index finger. Undoubtedly, Newman was thinking, servants had come rushing forward in Hong Kong when signalled with the same gesture. Burgoyne ordered the drinks.

`Don't go away,' he snapped. 'I'm not finished. I'd like a cigar.'

The humidor was brought instantly. Burgoyne, taking his time, performed the ritual. After examining the array on offer, he lifted out a cigar, put it close to his ear, rolled it round in his fingers, sniffed it briefly.

`That'll do.'

`A cigar cutter, sir?'

`Got my own. And hurry up those drinks. My guests will die of thirst.'

`Maurice,' Willie protested mildly, 'you do rather trample on these waiters.'

Burgoyne glared at him. 'They deserve it. If they had any guts they wouldn't be waiters – spending their lives fawning on people.'

`I've met some very good waiters,' Paula contradicted him. 'Trained at the best hotels.'

`You wouldn't damn well think it – the time they take to bring a couple of drinks.'

`They haven't been long,' Paula responded, refusing to back down.

Burgoyne stared at her, his ice-cold eyes seeming to gaze right through her, to read her mind. She stared back. How many poor subalterns had dropped their eyes before that stare, she wondered. The man had the soul of an iceberg. Helen intervened to lower the tension.

`I see you've been shopping. Something nice?'

Her cool grey eyes watched as Paula pulled out from the carrier the pair of boots. Leaning forward, Helen ran her strong slim fingers over the leather. She looked at Paula as she commented.

`They're so supple. Even so, I couldn't wear them – boots always chafe my legs.'

`And a very choice pair of legs to chafe,' Burgoyne remarked, his expression more saturnine than ever.

`We're talking about the boots,' Lee snapped. She reached over, took one, smoothed her hand down its surface. To do so she had placed her fat jewelled cigarette holder on the table. Paula's hand stretched out to examine it. Lee snatched it up with her other hand. `Don't think me rude, but the jewels drop out easily. It was a present from a rich boy friend. When I didn't come across with what he'd expected he turned ugly. So I dropped him – but I kept the present.' She handed back the boot, inserted a cigarette in the holder without lighting it, and turned to Burgoyne.

`Maurice,' she said, throwing back a wave of blonde hair, 'you could buy me a pair like those.'

`I could,' he agreed cynically.

Quite clearly he had no intention of granting her suggestion. At that moment a waiter came up and spoke to Willie.

`A phone call for you, sir.'

`What a bore.' Willie stood up immediately, moved far more quickly than was his custom, beaming round the table. 'Please excuse me, I'd better take the call in my room. So much noise down here…'

Willie had scarcely left them when the waiter returned and spoke to Burgoyne.

`There's a phone call too for you, sir.'

`Must be Liege,' Burgoyne said to himself. He raised his voice. 'Transfer it to my room – my files are up there. You do know my room number by now, I hope. And I'll sign that bill for the drinks which were eventually served…'

A few minutes earlier, inside his study at the Waterloo villa, Dr Wand glanced up as the uniformed chauffeur he'd summoned entered the room. He was still wearing his dark glasses.

`Joseph, get me Vulcan on the phone, if you would be so kind. You know his hotel and room number…'

He had to wait a short while as the chauffeur talked to the switchboard operator at the Hilton. Wand's lips were pursed as he took the phone.

`I am here,' a man's voice said. 'Who is this?'

`I am speaking and I have to tell you I am most displeased. A young woman was to be our guest, collected by car. I have just heard that instead of having the pleasure of her company the invitation was mishandled. Very badly mishandled, if I may say.'

`My apologies…'

`I am, as you know, extremely uninterested in apologies. I am only interested in results.'

`It was a rush arrangement. I warned you when we last spoke that such hurried arrangements are dangerous.'

`Now, how right you are,' Wand said in a deceptively soft tone. 'I distinctly recall some such comment. I also recall that you assured me my instruction would be dealt with nevertheless. I would even go so far as to say you have created a complete fiasco. To such an extent, the next invitation will be that much more difficult.'

`I assure you…'

`I am also extremely uninterested in assurances. Your new instruction is to co-operate with Joseph. I feel that he may well succeed where you have failed. Would you feel offended if I asked whether you have grasped my instruction? I repeat, you will be so good as to co-operate with Joseph. He will be in touch with you in due course. In fact, my dear sir, very shortly.'

Wand put down the phone before the man at the other end had a chance to reply. He sat back in his chair and the chauffeur remained very still and silent. The eyes behind the gold pince-nez were blank as he studied Joseph.

His manner changed suddenly, became amiable. He waved a hand and the desk light flashed off a ruby ring.

`Paula Grey is the lady whose company we wish to enjoy. I have the utmost confidence in your ability to accomplish this small task. Study the lie of the land – as a successful commander always relies on first carrying out a thorough reconnaissance.'

`I will make my move at the earliest opportunity,' the chauffeur replied.