Cell

6

She was tall and slim, even seated in the armchair facing Newman, who leant forward in his own chair, their knees almost touching. Clad in a black trouser suit, her jacket was tight enough to reveal her good figure. Her mane of jet-black hair draped over her shoulders. Newman looked up, interrupting his animated conversation with the visitor. He was standing up and the striking girl joined him, inches taller than Paula.

'George told me a lady had brushed past him and come up after leaving a box of Fortnum amp; Mason chocolates on his desk,' Tweed said gruffly.

'This is Eva Brand,' Newman said hastily. 'The niece of Drew Franklin, the columnist.'

'Mr Tweed,' Eva Brand explained, her voice soft but with an underlying stronger timbre, 'you were pointed out to me by Drew at a party. He said you were the only man who could save Britain one day in a time of great peril.'

'Did he?' Like Paula, Tweed was stripping off his coat. 'Anything he says – or writes – usually has a snide touch. I expect he was mocking me.'

'No, he was very serious.' Paula was watching her warily. Eva's large dark eyes seemed to look through her as she assessed her. Eva extended her hand and Paula shook it, noting the strength in her shapely fingers. Tweed also accepted her handshake, but briefly, then went to sit behind his desk, gesturing for her to sit down. The stranger crossed her long legs, clasped her hands in her lap as Paula went to her corner desk.

'Mr Tweed, I'm sorry to gatecrash my way in but I've found that's the only way I can get quickly to a top person.'

'So you don't hesitate to push your way in anywhere you want to go,' Tweed remarked gently.

'No! Never! If it's important. And the reason I am here to see you is important.'

You're pushy, Paula was thinking. I'll bet you went to one of the best-known boarding schools – Eva had a cultured voice. Probably ended up as Head Girl. Paula also realized that with her personality and looks, whenever Eva entered a roomful of people conversation would briefly stop. The men would ogle her, the women would spit inwardly.

'Important to you or to me?' Tweed enquired, playing with his Carrier pen, another present from his staff.

'Important to you…'

'Does your uncle, Drew, know you've come here?' Tweed interjected.

'Heavens, no!' Eva lifted her hands in horror at the idea. 'He'd have a fit. So I shan't tell him.'

'Before you tell me what you think is so important I'd like to know a little more about you. Background, career, if any.'

She sat up very straight. Newman couldn't take his eyes off her. From behind her word processor on her desk Monica glanced across at Paula, raised her eyes to heaven.

'I was educated at Roedean, then Oxford. I know something about code-breaking – had a boyfriend who was in that area. I spent some time at Medfords Security Agency. That was a tough job – they asked me to get to know certain men, take them to bars and get them drunk so they'd talk. The trick was to get them chattering, providing secret information, then escape before the invitation to their flat.

I once used my knee to get away from a persistent character. Do you get the gist?'

'I think I do.' Tweed was smiling. 'A tough job, as you said.' He was careful not to look at Paula, who was gazing in astonishment. 'So why have you barged in here?'

'Barged in!' Eva laughed. 'I like that.' She assumed her serious expression. 'Every now and again I drive up to Carpford, an odd village way up in the North Downs. I clear up the mess Drew likes living in. Dusting and so on. I make occasional visits when I know my uncle is in London. Would you believe it – Drew never notices. Well, a week ago I was in his place alone at night and I heard a motor-cycle coming. It stopped outside. I had my pistol, loaded, in my hand in no time. A Browning…'

'A Browning?' Tweed enquired, concealing his surprise.

'Yes, a. 32. Surely you of all people must know about the weapon. I'm a member of a shooting club near the Thames. To continue, I watched from behind a gap in the curtains -watched this motor-cyclist carry an envelope to Drew's door and push it through the letter box. Then he roared off.'

'What did he look like?'

'Couldn't tell. Wore all the leather gear and a big helmet which completely concealed his face. Now, the envelope. It had no name or address on the outside. So, cheekily, I used a method for opening it I learned at Medfords – so you can later seal it and no one can tell it has been opened. I'd seen what was inside when the motor-cyclist came back. I stood to the side of the door with my Browning. He pushed open the flap of the letter-box and called out through the opening.'

'Same chap?'

'As far as I could tell. Again his machine was a Harley-Davidson. He spoke slowly and had a thick foreign accent. I decided that if he tried to break in I'd shoot him in the leg,' she said calmly.

'Why in the leg?'

'Then he could be interrogated later. He called out, "I delivered envelope wrong house. Push it back." I kept very quiet and he repeated the same words three times, then he gave up, rode away on his bike. Here it is.'

She handed Tweed a sheet of paper. It was good-quality bond paper and drawn in pen was a skilful picture of a cathedral with a huge dome. Tweed looked at her.

'St Paul's Cathedral,' she said. 'Very accurate. Good as a photograph.'

'I agree. What do you make of it?'

'The next target. This time in Britain. St Paul's is the supreme symbol of Christianity – which the fundamentalist Muslims want to destroy.'

'You're reading an awful lot into one drawing.'

'Am I?' Eva lifted her hand to push back a thick lock of hair away from her left eye. She had made this gesture several times. 'After the World Trade Center catastrophe in New York I asked Drew, who knows the Arabs, whether they really would be capable of planning such an intricate operation. He said it didn't really seem likely. Left it at that. I began to think about it, studying all the info I could get.'

'You came to a conclusion?' Tweed enquired off-handedly.

'I damned well did. I know the States. First they'd need one of those copious air timetables giving all flights – so they could pick out long-distance flights carrying tons of fuel. They'd have to decide which flights would be best. Then they'd have to check security. Find out where it was slack. Then locate quiet flats to rent where there was a mix of nationalities, so the killers wouldn't stand out. They'd have to visit the Trade Center several times, decide on the best place to hit both towers. Probably discover where the architectural plans were available so they could study the structure. And a whole lot more. I've been to Egypt, mixed with Arabs. They're not advanced enough to have planned September 11.'

'Who would be then?'

'My bet would be an American – or an Englishman.'

Eva was about to leave when Tweed asked her to wait a moment. He darted out of the office, ran upstairs to where he found Pete Nield and Harry Butler drinking coffee. He told them he wanted them to follow an Eva Brand who was waiting in his office. He described her vividly.

'I want to know where she goes, who she meets. You'll have to get cracking…'

Butler opened a cupboard, grabbed a beret and a cap which he shoved into his pockets. They wanted to take up positions outside before their quarry left. Tweed looked at Nield.

'Difficult for you to change appearance in that suit.'

'No it isn't,' Harry told him. 'He can turn it inside out and it's a boring grey colour. Seen him change in an alley. Timing? Thirty seconds. We're off…'

Like most of Tweed's staff they wore rubber-soled shoes, and without a sound slipped off down the stairs past the closed door of Tweed's office. Tweed slowly returned as the front door closed quietly. They would be in position well before his visitor left.

Whenever possible Tweed organized two people to shadow a target. The system worked well and made it very unlikely the target would have any idea he – or she – was being shadowed.

Eva was standing up, putting on her smart expensive grey coat. She smiled when he came in and checked her watch. Then she went close to him, kissed him on both cheeks.

'I have taken up too much of your time. Thank you so much for seeing me.'

'Didn't give me much choice, did you,' he replied with a warm smile. 'Do you want to give me your address and phone number?'

'Don't waste much time, do you?' she flashed back, smiling wickedly. 'But Paula has all my details.' She looked back at Paula. 'You take care. See you tonight at the Ivy.'

Then she was gone. With her absence the buoyant temperature inside the office seemed to have dropped. Even Monica seemed more subdued.

'What was all this business, Paula, about having dinner with her at the Ivy? You're developing expensive tastes,' Tweed remarked.

'It was Eva's idea,' Paula explained. 'She said it would be nice for just us two girls to go out and compare notes. I'm wondering whether she wants to interrogate me. I'll' be careful. But, that apart, I like her. She's clever. That business about who planned the atrocity in New York.'

'For weeks I have been wondering exactly the same thing myself. For similar reasons. Oh, I arranged for Pete and Harry to follow her.'

'So you don't trust her?'

'It's just that. As you know, I never take people at face value. Also I thought it curious that she never mentioned the disappearance of Mrs Warner. It has to be the main topic at Carpford.'

The door opened and Marler strolled in. He leant against a wall and produced one of his long cigarettes.

'Who was that devastating gorgeous woman I saw leaving here? The one with a great mane of dark hair and very tall.'

'You've just missed out,' Paula teased him. 'That was Eva Brand and Tweed has just sent Pete and Harry to shadow her. Now, if you had been here…'

'I don't think I like you any more,' he commented.

Paula had a point. Had Marler been available, Tweed would probably have sent him after her. An expert tracker, he always worked on his own and none of the targets he had followed had ever been aware of his presence. He lit his cigarette.

'What was Glamour Puss doing here?'

The phone rang and Monica looked surprised. She called out to Tweed. 'You'll never guess who is waiting to see you downstairs.'

Tweed hammered a fist on his desk, part of his new physical vitality. 'I don't want to guess. I want to know who it is.'

'Jules Beaurain.'

Wearing a blue bird's-eye suit, Beaurain breezed in. Tweed introduced him to Newman and Marler. Holding a posy of fresh flowers, Beaurain then walked swiftly to Paula's desk, laid down the posy.

'For an exceptionally intelligent and beautiful lady. It's a Belgian custom.'

'Don't believe that last bit, Jules,' Paula replied. 'They're wonderful. I can't thank you enough.'

'Then don't try.'

He sat down in the armchair facing Newman, stared at him as though he was some strange species. 'You're the reporter. I've read all your articles. Sometimes they're very good,' he chaffed, smiling.

'They're always good,' retorted Newman, returning the smile.

'Enough of this chit-chat. What brings you haring back to London, Jules?' Tweed asked.

'To give you information about Carpford I don't think you have yet. I phoned Buchanan. There are two more people up there you don't know about. You know where Margesson's house is?'

'Yes.'

Tweed had taken a large sheet of cartridge paper from his bottom drawer. Monica had earlier rushed to pick up the posy from Paula's desk, now she returned with a vase of water with the flowers carefully arranged. She placed them on Paula's desk. Paula extracted a rose, trimmed it with scissors, then went over to Beaurain. She inserted it in his lapel, using a safety pin to secure it. He looked up at her.

'With such appreciation next time I'll buy the whole shop.'

'Yes,' growled Tweed. He swivelled the sheet round. 'Have I got Carpford reasonably accurate?'

Paula leaned over Beaurain to study the drawing. She was amazed at how quickly Tweed had worked. Carp Lake was the centre piece. Around it he had drawn Garda, Warner's strange Italianate property; Drew Franklin's concrete blockhouse; Agatha Gobble's Cotswold cottage; Peregrine Palfry's round house and Margesson's Georgian horror.

'You missed your vocation,' Beaurain told him. 'You should have been an artist. Incredibly accurate. Now draw in two bungalows, well spaced apart, here, south of Margesson's house.'

Tweed drew two small oblongs where Beaurain's fingers had indicated. He looked up at Paula.

'I remember passing these before we met Buchanan again. I thought that, like every other dwelling, they were out of place.'

'In the first one lives a man called Billy Hogarth, like the painter. In the last one resides Martin Hogarth, the brother of Billy. They hate each other. Understandably.'

'What are they like then?'

'Billy is the black sheep. Half the time he's roaring drunk – when he's not driving off somewhere. Then he's sober. Bit of a thug. Ask him the time of the day and he's likely to throw a heavy clock at you.'

'And Martin?'

'English gentleman. Tall, in his fifties. Well-spoken. Good-looking. Polite. Master of chatting and telling you nothing.'

'And these two are brothers? Martin and Billy?'

'They are. And there's more to relationships up there than you might think. Both Martin and Billy – wait for it – are cousins of Drew Franklin, the columnist.'

'They are?' Tweed was taken aback. 'Do they communicate with each other? I'd have thought it likely.'

'Not according to Martin when I asked that same question. His reply, mind you, was vague as usual. He said, "We all live our own lives. Haven't you heard that old saying -'the bloodiest battlefield is the family arena'.'"

'Doesn't tell us much.'

'Which seems to be Martin's way of conducting a conversation. He'll chat for ages, but give you no information at all.'

'Talking about relationships,' Paula began, 'maybe we ought to tell Jules about our strange visitor this morning. Eva Brand.'

Tweed then gave Beaurain a full report of everything Eva had said – including the fact that she was a niece of Drew Franklin. When he had concluded, Tweed took out of his top drawer the drawing in ink of the cathedral the motor-cyclist had delivered. Beaurain studied it for a moment, threw it back on Tweed's desk.

'St Paul's Cathedral.'

'Exactly,' Tweed replied. 'Could it be significant?'

'Decoy,' Beaurain said dismissively.