Cell

11

Paula, clad in a pale orange suit, glanced back through the rear window of the cab taking her to the Ivy. She couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she was being followed.

There were three cars behind her cab, but close behind the third car was a motor-cyclist. Black leather gear, a large helmet which concealed his face, the shape of his head. She'd thought she had heard a motor-cycle start up soon after the cab left her flat.

It was night, but the Strand was well illuminated. Street lights and shop windows glowing. They were close to the restaurant when she looked back again. The motor-cyclist was now behind her. She decided to pay the cabbie now, gave him a generous tip. As he pulled in to the kerb she threw open the door, jumped out, and ran to and inside the Ivy. The manager told her Miss Brand was already waiting, at their table.

She followed him into the spacious restaurant. Already the place was almost full. Eva wore a close-fitting dress of gold with a high collar. She jumped up to kiss Paula and a bottle of Krug was nestling in an ice bucket.

'You look ravishing,' Paula said as she sat down. 'Gold suits you.'

'And your suit is so smart,' Eva replied with a wide smile. 'Now we've told each other how good we look let's have a toast.' She raised the glass the waiter had just filled. 'Here's to crime.'

'I prefer here's to the destruction of criminals.'

'Excuse me.' Eva chuckled. 'That was the toast we used to drink at Medfords, the security lot. Without crime we'd have been out of business. Mind if I smoke? Thanks.'

'I was really thinking of Mr Warner. A disappearance is in a way even more disturbing than a body. You wonder and wonder. Victor Warner conceals his emotions well but he must be going nearly crazy.'

'I agree.' Eva played with her cigarette in an ashtray. 'She was a nice lady. Like me she was a linguist.'

'You knew her then?' Paula asked.

'I met her at several panics. She loved England. Said she'd travelled but there was nowhere in the world like it.'

'What languages do you speak then?' Paula asked, looking up from the menu.

'Oh, French, Arabic, Spanish and Italian.'

'Arabic? That's impressive.'

'Medfords once sent me to Cairo after a man who'd absconded with a large sum of money. Now,' she said quickly, 'see anything that appeals?'

They ordered. Both avoided starters and Paula ordered the salmon fishcake. She had the impression Eva wished to get the conversation away from Arabs and Arabic. Determined that they would not just indulge in chit-chat, Paula changed the topic.

'What do you think has happened to Mrs Warner?'

'Who knows?' Eva waved an elegant hand. 'Kidnapped?'

'Then why no ransom note? I happen to know that is the case. After three long weeks.'

'It's a mystery others must solve. I heard your people are working hard on the case,' commented Eva.

'Among other things. So you're also fluent in Italian. I imagine you've been to Italy?'

'Rome, Florence and Verona. And Milan.'

'So when were you last in Milan?' Paula asked with a smile.

'If I didn't know you have perfect manners,' Eva began, her smile gone, her large dark eyes staring, 'I would get the impression you are interrogating me.'

'Now why would I do that?' Paula enquired with a smile. 'Is there some significance about Milan? Do tell.' She sipped her champagne. 'This is wonderful. I suppose you can get it in Milan,' she persisted. 'I've heard in Italy they push their own vintages.'

Eva, her expression neutral, buttered a piece of bread. She ate it before wiping her wide mouth.

'Italy does have some excellent wines. But of course, if you stayed at a top hotel you could get anything you fancied.'

She's evaded my question, Paula thought. Why? They began to chat about well-known people occupying tables a distance from them. Eva showed a malicious side to her humour.

'I do detest that fat pig over there. I avoid pop stars like the plague. Why have they become so important -self-important might be a better description. Making a fortune out of a ghastly row they call music. The fat pig has just looked at me and then obviously turned his head away. Maybe he can lip-read.' She chuckled. 'I do hope so.'

A skinny young man in a white suit who was not completely sober came to their table, grasped Eva's wrist below her full cuffs. His sensuous lips were open in an inviting smile, exposing bad teeth.

'Miss Eva Brand, if my eyes do not fool me. I'm Joe Yorkie, lead singer with the Busy Bees. Got a yacht in the Med. I could fly you down there.'

'If you don't remove your hand off me this plate of omelette is going to end up all down that silly white suit.' She took hold of the plate with both hands, began to lift it.

'Don't… thin… think you're my type.'

'Then fly down to the Med, dive off the deck and don't bother to come up again. Shove off, you nobody.'

Eva's tone was vicious. Paula stopped eating, convinced the omelette would end up on the suit if the drunk didn't get the message. He did, staggering a little on his way back to his table.

Eva smiled, as though nothing had happened. 'Now, what were we talking about?'

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly, with both women chatting about this and that. Paula was careful to keep away from any more controversial subjects. After coffee she checked her watch.

'Eva, it has been an evening for me to remember, but I have to leave. A business appointment,' she fibbed, 'at this hour. Such is life. And thank you again.'

'Do you mind if I wait?' Eva suggested with her wide smile. 'A friend is coming to have liqueurs with me. I still do the odd job for Medfords. Damned if I know why…'

Paula was collecting her coat in the lobby as the girl was about to help her on with her coat. Hands appeared behind her, grasped the coat.

'Allow me,' Peregrine Palfry said cheerfully. 'Don't forget we're having dinner some time. You really do look so devastating I could melt.'

'Thank you very much, Mr Palfry…'

'All my friends call me Perry. Please.'

Palfry, his smooth skin gleaming in the light, was wearing a dinner jacket. His greenish eyes held hers as he kissed her on both cheeks.

'Have a care,' he concluded.

Paula pretended to take time buttoning her coat, stepping back so she could see into the restaurant. Palfry bent down and hugged Eva, then sat down opposite her and began talking animatedly, waving his hands.

'That's weird,' Paula said to herself and walked out into the freezing night. They were waiting for her the moment the door closed behind her and she stepped on to the pavement.

A short, heavily built man in working clothes, with a cap pulled well down over his swarthy face, grabbed her right forearm tightly. Since it was the right forearm Paula could not reach down for her Browning. Another even larger man with a bald head grasped her left arm.

'Got a limo to take you 'ome,' snarled the brute with the cap. 'Ups-a-daisy.'

Helpless, she knew her feet were about to be lifted off the pavement while she was carried to the limo. Harry Butler appeared out of nowhere, slammed a haymaker into the man with the cap.

'Shouldn't have done that, you piece of rubbish,' Harry rasped.

Her right arm was released and the grip on it had been so savage she could hardly move it. At the same moment, Pete Nield, also appearing out of nowhere, hit the bald-headed man with his stiffened right hand against the side of his neck, followed it up by a vicious punch into the kidneys. Blinking, but free, Paula stepped back.

This was only for starters. Harry's first punch had hit the attacker in the stomach and his target was bent forward, groaning. Harry jerked up his metal-rimmed boot between the man's legs. His target screamed, bent over the pavement. Harry rammed his head down on to the stone pavement. Paula heard something crack.

Pete now had a choke hold on Bald Head whose tongue was protruding from between his thick lips. While all this took place, Paula saw Newman running to the limo where a driver waited behind the wheel, his window up. Newman reached in through the open window with his left hand, pressed the button, closing the window. While it was partly open he tossed a smoke bomb inside. The driver stopped trying to release his seat-belt as acrid smoke filled the interior. He began to cough, spluttering, unable to leave his seat. Newman brushed his hands together, dived into his waiting car, drove it over to where Paula waited.

'Take you home, lady. Only a modest charge…'

She was already seated in the front passenger seat and he drove off as she fastened her seat belt. She looked back. Harry and Pete were still hammering at the two thugs who were now lying on the pavement. She had little doubt both of her attackers would be crippled for weeks.

'How come you were there? You saved my bacon, as they say.'

'Tweed's idea. He was nervous about that dinner at the Ivy, sent out Pete and Harry to wait for you. I decided to join the party.' He chuckled. 'Driver of that limo waiting to cart you off somewhere is having a smoke.'

'Sorry?'

'I chucked a smoke bomb inside his limo – after locking his door. Doubt if he'll smoke a cigarette for months. Now, how are you?'

'Shaken, but OK.'

'Park Crescent here we come.'

Arriving back at Tweed's office, they found him pacing, unable to keep still. He ran forward to hug Paula while Monica, noticing her ashen face, hurried out to make tea. Slipping out of her coat, Paula, in a state of shock, sagged into the chair behind her desk. Reaction had set in and she was trembling.

'What happened?' demanded Tweed.

Newman gave a brief but graphic report about the attack outside the Ivy. Monica returned with a cup and saucer, planted it in front of Paula.

'Sip that,' she ordered. 'It's sweetened tea. Know you don't like sugar but just get that inside you.' She watched over Paula as she grasped the cup in both hands, leaning over the saucer to take any spillage.

The door opened and Pete and Harry rushed in. Harry, who was especially fond of Paula, went over to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. She had stopped trembling and had finished her cup of tea. The colour had come back into her face. She sat up straight and looked round at the men in the room.

'I want to thank you all for saving me from what I imagine could have been a very unpleasant experience. What made you suspicious, Tweed?'

'Call it sixth sense.'

'I wonder why they wanted me,' she mused.

'My guess,' Tweed told her, 'was they were after information about how far we'd got in our investigation.'

'Investigation into what?'

'Could have been several factors. What interests me is how they knew you were at the Ivy. One answer is Eva Brand. Did she have a mobile?'

'She could have – in her handbag tucked by her chair. But she'd have to have worked fast. It was only minutes after leaving the table before I walked outside.'

'A brief call could have been made in seconds,' Tweed insisted. '"She's on her way out now."'

'On the other hand I'm sure I was followed in the cab taking me there. By a motor-cyclist in black leather with a huge helmet.'

Marler, standing against a wall when Paula and Newman had arrived back, had remained silent. Now he spoke.

'My bet is on Eva Brand. What sort of conversation did you have with her over dinner?'

Paula recalled, word for word, what they had talked about. Tweed frowned at one point. Paula saw the frown and asked him what had struck him.

'Her reference to Milan, to speaking their language. Italy keeps looming into the picture…' He fingered the piece of paper with the address Marler had given him. 'Marler, tell us all about your experience with following Buller.'

They listened while Marler repeated the report he had given Tweed earlier. He left nothing out. Paula had heard it before but now she sat up very erect, waiting until Marler waved a hand, indicating he'd finished. Harry had sat cross-legged on the floor. He whistled.

'The Finsbury Park mosque. That's the one where those rats who belong to al-Qa'eda are supposed to be brainwashed and given their orders.'

'And,' Tweed emphasized, 'Milan keeps coming into the picture. First, Buller is on his way there. He's a bit like you, Paula – gets an idea and follows it up on his own. Now we have Eva Brand linked with Milan.' He checked his watch. 'Bob, get any information on Drew Franklin when you went to the Daily Nation?'

'Yes – and no. Met my pal, the sub-editor. Took him out to a pub. He said Franklin isn't liked by the rest of the staff, but they all admit his column is so brilliant and snide they know a lot of their readers turn to it first. Doesn't talk to anyone, gives the impression they are all members of a lower class, that intellectually he's way above them, and shows it. Has a London pad not far behind Eaton Square – I've got the address. Drives off up to Carpford to type his column. Goes to a lot of parties in London – I suppose he's picking up gossip. He goes abroad in January for six weeks. No one knows where to. He only misses handing over the text of his column for one week. Behind his back they nickname him Snooty. Not a lot, but he seems a bit of a mystery man.'

'Paula, time for you to go home, get a good night's sleep after the Ivy business. Beaurain is still trapped at Heathrow – Security at Heathrow got an anonymous call that there was a terrorist aboard his flight. Beaurain is marooned there until they've checked everyone. He'll be here later tonight so I'll wait.'

'So will I,' said Paula forcefully.

Half an hour later, Marler was looking out of the window after pulling aside the curtain. Pete and Harry had earlier left to get something to eat. Marler whistled and grinned as he looked at Tweed.

'You're honoured. Prepare for a shock.'

'You'll never…' began Monica, who had answered the phone. She cut off the rest of her remark after a certain look from Tweed.

'You have a visitor,' she said quietly. 'Victor Warner, Minister of Security, wants to see you urgently.'

'We know by now what he is,' growled Tweed. 'Ask him up – by himself.'

'Arrived in a couple of black limos,' Marler reported. 'The second one is crammed with camel-hair coat types. They've jumped out, started parading round. Comedians…'

The door opened and Victor Warner, clad in a camel-hair coat – presumably to disguise his identity during the drive from Whitehall – dashed in, clutching a cardboard-backed envelope. He sat in the armchair facing Tweed.

'Thought it best to come over here. It's an emergency. We think we know the target – and who is behind all the rumours.'

'That would be a step forward.'

Tweed became silent as Warner extracted a photograph from the envelope. He slapped it down in front of Tweed. His expression was grim, his manner disturbed.

'What would you say that is?' demanded Warner.

'It is a photo of Canary Wharf, the main tower block. It is easy to identify.'

'Now look on the back,' Warner snapped.

Tweed turned it over. Scrawled in an illiterate but readable hand was one word. Next? Tweed raised his eyebrows, looked at Warner.

'Where did this come from?'

'Bit of luck. In my position you need a bit of luck. Learned that when I was with Medfords. A couple of policemen in that area saw a man taking photos of the building from different angles. They collared him, Buchanan phoned me, sent the pics over by courier. Chap taking the pictures is under arrest. A certain bigwig in the IRA. Released from prison a couple of months ago.'

Marler had glided over, appeared behind Tweed's back. Casually he picked up the photo and headed for the door. Warner swung round, furious.

'Where do you think you're taking that?'

'We have a chap on our staff who once worked at Canary Wharf,' Marler lied glibly. 'He can confirm positively that this is Canary Wharf.'

'Of course it is,' Warner roared. He stabbed a thick finger as he went on. 'And I forbid you to make any copies. Got it?'

Marler had gone. Tweed started doodling on a pad with his pen. He pursed his lips, then asked the question as though the answer wasn't important.

'What do you know about the track record of this IRA man, the bigwig?'

'Name is Tim O'Leary. Known to have been sent to the Mid-East at one time to try and get collaboration – arms – from groups out there. Speaks fluent Arabic. Believed to have spent three months out there, although the timing is vague.'

'And he was openly photographing Canary Wharf, despite the presence of two policemen?'

'Doubt if he'd noticed them. Probably thought if he took pics openly he wouldn't look suspicious. Bit of luck the police were there, spotted him.'

'So you think Canary Wharf is the next target of the Real IRA mob?'

'That and maybe St Paul's Cathedral at the same time. I have taken all precautions. Everyone who enters either building is thoroughly searched. More than that…' Warner was building up a head of steam. 'The RAF have fighters flying non-stop with orders to shoot down any airliner – even if crammed with passengers – if it enters the non-flying exclusion zone we've organized. We'll be ready for them if they come – on the ground or in the air. The PM has – albeit reluctantly – backed me.'

Marler had returned with the photograph, now inside a transparent evidence envelope, placed it on Tweed's desk. Warner glared at him, then spoke to Tweed.

'All this is confidential. I'd sooner he wasn't here. Nor that girl behind the word-processor.'

'Give us a few minutes alone,' Tweed said, thinking confidentiality was a bit late in the day. He pounced when Warner looked at Paula.

'Miss Grey stays. She knows as much as I do. If ever I was put out of action she'd take over command.'

Paula was astounded, even a little embarrassed. She had never before heard Tweed suggest elevating her to control of the entire organization. Warner nodded before continuing.

'So, I think, Mr Tweed, you'll agree I have everything under control. No need for you to concern yourself with this problem any more. And now, I had better love you and leave you,' he concluded, standing up.

'Thank you, Minister, for keeping me informed,' Tweed replied very quietly.

Paula walked to the door, opened it for Warner to leave. He hadn't even the courtesy to thank her. Tweed asked her to tell Monica and Marler. Newman, who had left without being asked to also came back.

A few minutes after Marler reported the two limos had left on their way back to Whitehall the phone rang yet once more. Monica reported that Jules Beaurain had just arrived. Tweed pulled a face.

'Now we know what has held up the poor devil so long. Warner's new security precautions at Heathrow. Tell him to come up now.'

Paula was expecting the Belgian to look exhausted after his long day, the irksomeness of hanging around forever at the airport. Instead, when he charged into the room he was bursting with energy and smiling broadly. He dumped the small case he had been carrying by the armchair, again sat opposite Newman.

He was wearing a neutral-coloured windcheater, corduroy slacks. Paula observed he was freshly shaven and guessed he'd tidied himself up inside the plane's toilet. Besides bubbling with energy he looked ready to start a new day. Don't know how you do it, she thought. He waved to her.

'I have news,' Tweed remarked, 'but I'm sure you have too.'

'Gentlemen first.'

Beaurain waved a hand in Tweed's direction. He settled himself into the armchair to listen. His eyes were fixed on Tweed's as he listened to the details of Warner's surprise visit. Tweed ended by shoving the evidence envelope across to the Belgian. He merely glanced at it, then pushed it back across the desk.

'Decoy.'