Precipice

16

Philip was on the verge of leaving Eve's flat, reluctantly, when he closed the outer door and came back into the living room.

'That was a quick trip to the office,' Eve said perkily.

Her looked down at her, seated in an armchair, her shapely legs crossed. She was wearing dark blue trousers and a pale blue sweater, her arms rested on the chair's arms as he came towards her.

She saw a man in his thirties, dark haired and cleanshaven with thoughtful eyes. Philip was again in a state of inner turmoil – enormously attracted towards this lively woman but still grief-stricken for his dead wife. He wasn't sure where he was.

'Well, I've got your number…' he began, to tell her he would call her that evening.

'And I've got your number, Mr Philip Cardon,' she replied, meaning something quite different as she jumped up and kissed him on the cheek.

He was advancing closer when she held up both hands and waved him away. She stood, folded her arms.

'Maybe we could go away on holiday to somewhere really exciting. Bermuda. When I have the time.'

'That's a great idea,' Philip said.

'I did say maybe.'

'If you have to go abroad how long will you be away?' he asked.

'No idea.' She stood in front of a wall mirror, used both hands to smooth down her jet-black hair close to her head, then swung round to face him. 'Absolutely no idea at all. But I'll ring you. When I can.' she added. 'What is your office number? I may only be able to call during the day.'

'That I can't give you. They frown on personal calls at the office.'

'Stuffy old insurance bods. Then you'll just have to sit each evening in that empty house of yours in Hampshire and stare at the phone.'

The remark hurt, the reference to the empty house, but Philip didn't show a trace of his reaction. He watched her pick up a burning cigarette from an ashtray, use it to light a fresh one. He found himself admiring her slim figure.

'Giving me the once-over?' she enquired. 'You should know what I look like by now. Philip, I've got to take a shower.'

'I was just going…'

He closed the outer door behind him, walked slowly down the stairs, his emotions chaotic. Eve had a habit of lifting him up and then putting him down. He knew that some women used the tactic on men but Eve was an expert.

Tweed walked into his office to find only Monica and Newman there. Newman was just lifting the phone.

'Hello, Archie. Yes, it's Bob. How are you getting on?'

'News, Bob. I'm speaking from Geneva. Tricky city. People are trying to follow me. Think I've shaken them off. The news – Brazil appears to be compiling a list of all the members of Tweed's staff. So far he knows about you and Paula Grey – and he's got down Franklin as a possible member.'

'You're quite certain about this?'

'My informant is totally reliable. He doesn't even do it for money, which is reassuring. Must go now. I gather help is on the way

Newman stood up, gave Tweed, who had taken off his coat, the chair behind his desk. He repeated what Archie had told him.

'You think he's targeting my staff – Brazil?' Tweed asked slowly.

'Does sound like a hit list,' Newman agreed cheerfully.

Tweed stood up again, began to pace round the office as he counted on his fingers.

'Yourself, Paula – and Franklin possibly, who isn't on our team. The absentees are significant. Marler, Butler, and Nield.'

'I don't get you,' observed Newman.

'Dorset. There are only three people who could pass on that list. Franklin himself, Eve Warner, and Keith Kent.'

'Why would Franklin add himself to that list?'

'As a cover. I know it's thin.'

I'm still half asleep after my early morning.' Newman admitted, 'but I can't see how you come up with those three people as a suspected informant to Brazil.'

'Think! Dorset. Marler kept under cover all the time. None of my three suspects saw him – and when Marler was in the office when Franklin was here he refused to give Franklin his name. Also neither Butler nor Nield appeared.'

'It's creepy.' Monica commented.

'Oh, what was that bit about I gather help is on the way Archie ended up with?' Tweed asked.

'Archie phoned before Bob arrived.' Monica explained. 'You'd told me about him and he said he desperately needed back-up. Paula volunteered. She dashed off to Heathrow to catch a flight to Geneva.' Monica saw the expression on Tweed's face. 'She was excited about the idea…'

'You let her go! On her own!' Tweed exploded. 'She's going into the cauldron and won't be armed. Will she? I leave the office for a couple of hours and you allow this insanity to happen!'

Tweed was in one of his very rare rages. Monica looked appalled. In all the years she had worked for him he had never spoken to her like this. He was pacing round his office.

'I couldn't… have… stopped… her.' she stuttered.

Newman, calm as always, lit a cigarette. He watched as Tweed went round his desk and thudded into his chair. For a moment Tweed said nothing, then stared at Newman.

'Could I have a cigarette?'

Newman gave him one, lit it for him. Tweed, who hardly ever smoked, handled the cigarette in the fumbling way of people not used to smoking, taking short puffs.

'You've forgotten something.' Newman said.

'Have I? What?'

'Some time ago you gave orders that if you were not here Paula was empowered to act in your stead, to take any decision on her own without reference to anyone. You weren't here when the emergency came. Neither was I.'

'That's true. You are quite right.' Tweed had quietened down as swiftly as he had blown his top. 'Monica, a thousand apologies for my totally unreasonable outburst. I am very sorry.'

'Thank you,' said Monica. 'I appreciate what you've just said. But you are quite right – Paula couldn't have taken her Browning automatic when she was flying. But Archie covered that in his earlier call.'

'He did? How?' Tweed asked anxiously.

'He gave me the name and address of an illegal dealer in arms Marler uses. She'll go there first from the airport.'

'That's a relief.' Tweed studied the end of the cigarette he had hardly smoked, stubbed it in the crystal-glass ashtray Monica had perched on his desk. 'But how will she find Archie?'

'He covered that, too, in his first call. Whoever goes out meets him in a restaurant in the old city across the Rhone. A place called Les Armures. Archie said any cab driver knows it.'

'I know it,' said Tweed. 'You get the best kir royale in the world there.'

'Archie also said.' Monica continued, 'he'd be there from nine o'clock onwards this evening. So Paula does know how to contact him.'

'I'm still bothered. The Old City is a labyrinth of old alleys and narrow streets near the cathedral – where Les Armures is. And it will be very dark – that area is not well lit. What time does Paula fly out to Geneva?'

'She'll be in the air now.'

'What time is the next flight?'

'A couple of hours from now.' Monica said from memory.

'Well, in that case…"'

He broke off as Philip walked into the room clad in a heavy coat with a fur collar which he immediately took off. He looked at Tweed.

'I left my case packed for the Arctic downstairs.'

'Book Philip on that next flight to Geneva, Monica,' Tweed said with an air of crisp decision. 'Give him all the data Archie provided. Including the details about that underground arms dealer. Philip, Paula may be running into more trouble than one person can handle. The fact that she's a woman has nothing to do with it…'