Rhinoceros

Colin Forbes
Prologue

The first strange event was when Bob Newman, foreign correspondent, arrived at Heathrow to meet the American guest. He showed his SIS folder to pass through the formalities. Standing by the carousel, he checked the photo sent from Washington. On the back was a written description.

Six feet one tall, weight 190 Ibs, clean-shaven, thirty-five years old. Newman spotted Mark Wendover at once among the crowd waiting for their baggage. Coming up behind him, he laid a hand on his shoulder.

'Welcome, Mr Wendover…'

The American, built like a quarterback, reacted in a most unexpected way. As he swung swiftly round, Newman saw his right hand stiffen in the gesture of a potential karate chop. Newman spoke quickly.

'I'm Bob Newman, here to meet you. Didn't they tell you? We did send a message.'

'Great to see you. Thanks for coming. May I call you Bob?'

'Of course.'

'Then I'm Mark. Sorry if I startled you. Haven't had any sleep for over twenty hours.'

'Better watch the carousel…'

'You're right. And here comes my bag…'

They were in Newman's car, driving into London, sitting next to each other when Newman asked the question.

And if I startled you, he thought, you certainly startled me. You were on the verge of launching an attack. Why?

'We're not quite sure what your status is. Cord Dillon, the Deputy Director of the CIA, was in a rush when he phoned and a bit vague about you.'

'I'm vague myself about what to do next. I was with the CIA for five years. It was OK, but too much paperwork for my liking. I did fieldwork too,' he added quickly. 'Shot a saboteur in Denver once. Left the outfit – the Company as some of the oldsters still call it – and set up a private detective agency. That did well – I've left behind a staff of twenty.' He looked at Newman and grinned, but the grin did not extend to his cold blue eyes. 'But that isn't why I'm here.'

'I gather you're here because you have information about the recent suicide of Jason Schulz, top aide to the Secretary of State.'

'Except it wasn't suicide,' Wendover rapped back. 'It was cold-blooded murder, amateurishly disguised to look like suicide.'

Why, Newman was asking himself, don't I feel comfortable with this guy? And why am I sure he's nervous? The traffic had temporarily stopped the car and he looked straight at his passenger.

Wendover had corn-coloured hair, cut very short, a handsome strong face of the type which would appeal to a lot of women. His long nose was broken, which seemed to add to his good looks. He had a wide determined mouth and just enough jaw to suggest strength without aggression.

'If it was an amateurish-seeming job, why is it being called suicide?'

'That's the mystery. The FBI was hauled off the case. Its chief is raging – and mystified. Schulz was supposed to have driven to a park in Washington, walked into a copse, leaned against the trunk of a tree, taken out a gun and blown the side of his head off. He was a very important man in the State Department.'

'So what's wrong?' Newman prodded as the traffic moved again.

'First, Jason's wife swears her husband never owned a gun – and we believe her. The weapon, a Smith amp; Wesson revolver, had the serial number filed off. So, impossible to trace where it came from. Second, he was found slumped at the foot of the tree, still holding the gun. The trouble is, the way his fingers were clutching the gun didn't seem right. More like someone had placed his fingers there after he was shot. Third, no trace of his car in the park. They found it parked in his usual slot in an underground garage.'

'With all that evidence, who on earth called off the FBI?'

'We don't know. It's pretty mysterious.'

'We've booked you a room at the Ritz. If it's all right by you I'll call later and take you out to dinner. Would seven be too early?'

'Just give me time to take a shower. Seven is fine…'

The conversation lapsed until Newman was pulling up outside the Ritz. Before Wendover grabbed his bag he turned to Newman and asked the question.

'Jason Schulz died five days ago. I gather Cord sent me over because Tweed is worried. Right?'

'We can talk about that over dinner.'

He watched Wendover, carrying a heavy bag, leap up the steps to the hotel like a ten-year-old. That doesn't look to be a man who hasn't slept for twenty hours, he thought.

In time sequence the second event occurred earlier the same day. Newman's chief, Tweed, Deputy Director of the SIS, had driven down to East Sussex at the invitation of an old friend, Lord Barford. He had taken Paula Grey, his assistant, with him.

It was late on a brilliant sunny afternoon as he drove between the open wrought-iron gates and into the Barfbrd estate. Paula, seated beside Tweed, gazed at the spacious parkland. The ruler-straight drive extended across to a large, distant Elizabethan mansion. The sun had shone first after lunch and there were still traces of a heavy frost, islands of white on the beautiful lawn, which was an intense green.

'You've known Lord Barford for a long time, I gather?' she remarked.

'When I first joined the SIS he was in command of Special Branch. In those days we found them very cooperative. None of the bitter and stupid rivalry there is between the two outfits today. He's one of the old school. Very wealthy but he felt he had to serve his country. He's very shrewd.'

'Looks like quite a party,' she commented as they drew closer to the terrace running along the front of the mansion. An assortment of expensive cars were parked below the terrace. She counted a Porsche, four Mercedes, a Lamborghini, five Audis and two Rolls-Royces.

As they mounted the steps one of the massive double doors at the entrance opened. A tall man who had to be in his seventies came out with a warm smile. Despite being near the end of March, a bitter north wind blew along the terrace.

'Lord Barford,' Tweed whispered.

Their host had a long head with a beaked nose, lively grey eyes which, Paula thought, missed very little. Wearing a velvet smoking jacket, he advanced towards them.

'Welcome to Barford Manor. It's been too long, Tweed. Who is your delightful companion?'

'Meet Paula Grey, my right arm.'

'I'm pleased to meet you, Lord Barford,' she said as she shook his extended hand. 'If you don't mind my saying so, it's Arctic on this terrace and you're not wearing a coat.'

'Used to it, my dear. I was once shooting bear in Finland when the temperature had gone off the thermometer. Come in, come in.'

He studied Paula, saw an attractive woman in her thirties with a mane of glossy black hair, fine-boned features and a stubborn chin. He went on talking as they entered a large hall and a butler took their coats.

'You must be remarkably efficient and self-controlled to work for this young tyrant.'

'Young?' Tweed laughed. 'Your eyesight must be going.'

Barford stared at Tweed. He saw a man of medium height and uncertain age, well-built without any sign of a paunch and wearing horn-rimmed glasses. He was the man you passed in the street without noticing him, a characteristic he had found useful in his profession.

They were ushered into a large drawing room, luxuriously furnished but with great taste. A number of people seated with drinks on sofas and armchairs turned to look at the new arrivals.

'Introductions,' Barford announced. 'I told you Tweed was coming,' he began. 'The attractive young lady he has brought for my delight is his personal assistant, Miss Paula Grey. Now, this is Lance, my eldest son.'

A forty-year-old, still clad in riding gear, dragged himself up slowly. His arrogant face was long and lean but without his father's grace. Clean-shaven, he spoke in an extreme upper-crust drawl as Paula smiled, extending her hand. He bent down, took hold of it, brushed his lips across her fingers, a greeting she disliked.

'Don't often see the likes of you round here, my dear. I suggest you spend a few days down here. Plenty of empty bedrooms.'

'Thank you, but we have to get back to London tonight.'

'And this is Aubrey,' Barford said quickly, glaring at Lance. 'A little younger, a little politer.'

Aubrey had already risen out of his chair and was smiling. The smile was warm, welcoming. From his suit he looked like a businessman and he shook Paula's hand, not holding it too long.

'And this is our guest, Lisa,' Barford said with enthusiasm. 'She has brains as well as looks.'

Tweed agreed as he followed Paula in shaking hands with a slim, very good-looking redhead who was gazing at Tweed intently with a quirky smile, her blue eyes seeming to look inside him. She exuded intelligence and her movements were swift and graceful.

'I've been looking forward to meeting you, Mr Tweed. Please come and join me on the couch.'

'That would be my pleasure…'

Other people were introduced. Several women were looking Paula up and down with an admiration verging on jealousy. Tweed sat down next to Lisa and they began talking as drinks were served. Paula tried to avoid Lance but he took her arm and led her to an empty couch.

'I hear,' Lisa began in her pleasant soft voice, 'that you have a difficult job. In a very special form of insurance. To do with covering rich people against kidnapping – and then negotiating their release on the rare occasions when they are kidnapped.'

'Something like that,' Tweed agreed, secretly thanking his host for using his cover. 'But what do you do? I detect just the faint trace of another accent.'

'You have a good ear. My father was German, my mother English.'

'So are you a linguist?'

'Up to a point.' Lisa hesitated, gazed at him. 'I do speak German, French, Spanish, Italian and Swedish. What do I do? I'm a confidante. Silly word,' she said apologetically. 'People come to me when they have a delicate problem.'

She lowered her voice. 'I've got one now. Better not discuss it here. If I could come to see you some time. Although I expect you're very busy.'

Tweed took a card from his wallet, handed it to her. She cleverly palmed it, looked round casually, slipped it inside her handbag. The card he had given her gave his name, followed by General amp; Cumbria Assurance, the cover name for the SIS, with its Park Crescent address and the phone number for outside callers.

She had been nervous, he sensed. She seemed to relax when she had taken his card. They chatted about various places in Europe they both knew. The blow fell very late in the evening. It was after dinner and Tweed had a shock when he checked the time as Barford approached him, whispered.

'There's an urgent phone call for you. From no less than Gavin Thunder, Minister of Armaments. Silly name. Found out where you were from Monica, your assistant at Park Crescent. You can take the call in the library…'

When he eventually returned, Tweed kept an amiable expression on his face. He beckoned to Paula, then turned to Lisa.

'Sorry, but I have to leave now.'

'That's all right.' Lisa smiled. 'I also must go back to my flat in London. My sister is guarding the dog. Or maybe it's the other way round!'

'Do come and see me…'

'Do you know how to get to Alfriston from here?' Tweed asked as they drove away.

'Yes. Head back to the A27. I once visited Alfriston for the day. It's very old, has a lot of character. I'll navigate.' Paula glanced at him. His expression was now grim. 'Is there a crisis?'

'Jeremy Mordaunt, under-secretary to the Minister of Armaments, has been found shot dead. Gavin Thunder spoke to me himself. Arrogant type. I'm not sure why I agreed to his request.'

'Surely it's a police matter?'

'That's what I said. But after Thunder had rung off I called my friend. Superintendent Roy Buchanan at the Yard. He said the Minister had contacted him, told him he wanted me to investigate. Roy had checked with the Commissioner and Thunder had already called him, demanded that I investigate the suicide.'

'I don't like the sound of this. Smells of political overtones,' Paula suggested.

'That's what I think. And how does the Minister know that it is suicide? The body was only discovered about an hour ago. The local police called the MoA.'

'I suppose Thunder thought of you because you were once the youngest homicide superintendent at Scotland Yard, as it was called in those days.'

'Still doesn't make sense…'

They had left the Barford estate behind and joined the fast-moving traffic on the A27. The headlight beams of their car pierced the dark and when Paula checked her watch it was close to midnight.

'Where has the time gone?' Paula wondered.

'Well, we had a leisurely dinner before we returned to the drawing room and chatted some more. The signpost says Alfriston coming up, off to the left.'

'I was just going to warn you about the turn-off. We'll soon be in Alfriston. It has occurred to me why you did accept this weird, if not illegal assignment. You've had two calls from Cord Dillon about the suicide of Jason Schulz in Washington. So-called suicide, according to Cord, who even called you from a public phone outside Langley. Which suggests he doesn't trust his own outfit.'

'This mysterious Mark Wendover he's sent over has probably arrived by now. Newman was going to meet his plane. We will know more after we meet Wendover.'

They had turned off the A27, were driving along an ill-lit road which was little more than a lane. Paula decided it was time to lighten the atmosphere.

'You really seemed to get on well with Lisa, chatting her up before and after dinner.'

'Very intelligent, strong-minded,' Tweed remarked, 'but there is something odd about her.'

While Tweed was still in East Sussex, Lisa had driven back to her flat in town. She covered long distances at speed in her sports coupe. The roof was closed, the heating turned full up. The moonlit night illuminated the beautiful countryside once she left the A27 behind, but outside the temperature had dropped below zero.

After slowing to descend the curving road on the north side of the Downs she pressed her foot down again. There was no other traffic at that hour and on either side spacious fields covered with a blanket of glistening frost spread out. It is still not quite the end of March, she thought. And I have contacted Tweed.

Lisa drove at a sedate pace on reaching London. The last thing she wanted was to be stopped by a police patrol car. Taking her usual precaution, she parked in a side street near her flat. The car was her getaway in an emergency.

As she walked quietly along the deserted street to her flat she turned suddenly to look back. No one was following her. Glancing up at her first-floor flat window, she saw the light was on behind the net curtains. Helga, her sister, had not bothered to close the heavier curtains, which bothered her. But she could hardly expect her sister to take the precautions she herself always took.

As Lisa paused, taking out her key, she looked up again and frowned. The glass in front of the lighted window was fractured. Vandals? A brick hurled up? Tiger, her Alsatian, would have torn the culprit to pieces had he been able to get at him.

Once inside the hall, she closed the door quietly, locked it, put on the chain. She was uneasy. Without putting on the hall light she crept up the stairs, avoiding the treads which creaked. What was the matter with her? My nerves are tingling. Must be fatigue.

Lisa had the key to her flat door in her hand. As usual, she inserted and turned it quietly. Ridiculous with Helga and Tiger inside. She called out once she had closed the door, not wishing to startle her sister. Then she realized there was an ominous silence – normally Tiger would have heard her, come rushing out barking with pleasure.

She pushed open the half-closed door to the living room, then froze. Helga was lying on her back under the window, legs twisted from when she had fallen, a red patch on her blouse over her heart. Beside her Tiger was equally motionless, a large hole where the right eye should have been.

'Oh, no! Oh, my God!' she whispered.

Lisa looked at the torn net curtain, at the two jagged holes in the glass, at the scratches made by Tiger's paws close to the holes. She felt faint, sat down on a nearby chair, a lump in her throat.

'Get a grip on yourself,' she snapped.

Half her mind was paralysed by the horror while the other half worked out what had happened. Like herself, Helga, the older sister, had red hair, was about the same height. The fatal shots had been fired from a window across the street. The gunman had seen Helga – maybe standing by the window after nightfall – had assumed it was Lisa. Tiger had charged at the window, clawing at the glass. The gunman had shot him to keep him quiet.

Lisa went down on her knees, crawled across in case the gunman was still across the street, felt Helga's pulse.

Nothing. Tiger also was dead. She crawled back, only stood up out of view of the window.

'Do something. React!'

That was what her employer would expect of her. Not to crumble in an emergency. There was nothing she could do to help poor Helga. She had to get out of this flat quickly. Alive. She had a vital mission. She was the Messenger. She had to reach Tweed in the morning. To warn him of the terrible danger. That was why she was here.

She slipped into the narrow hall, went into the bedroom, blotting out the memory of the bodies in the living room. She packed her things in a small case neatly but quickly. Then she rolled back the carpet, used a screwdriver to lever up the loose floorboard. With mild relief when she saw that the file of papers with vital data was in the cavity. Grabbing hold of it, she stood up, slid the file inside the outer zip-up compartment in her case. Bending down again, she replaced the floorboard, rolled the carpet back in place.

She couldn't go back into the living room, but before leaving she stood close to the door and whispered.

'I'm so sorry, Helga. So very sorry. But I couldn't ever have foreseen this would happen…'

Swallowing, Lisa left the flat, closed the door, locked it and made her way carefully down the stairs. She had already taken the small Beretta 6.35mm automatic from her handbag and tucked it down the side of her belt round her trouser suit. With her case in her left hand, front door key in her right, she slowly descended the stairs, again avoiding the creaky treads. She paused before opening the front door.

'Get on with it,' she snapped.

She opened the door suddenly, went out, closed it swiftly, ran down the steps. Reaching the street, she kept moving but looked up at the first-floor window opposite. No lights in the building anywhere. The window from which the fatal shots had been fired, she felt sure, was half open. By the front railing was a notice board. FOR SALE.

Lisa hurried back to her car, seeing no one, and drove off, keeping an eye on her rear-view mirror. She was alone in the cold night.

Parking near Victoria Station, she walked until she saw a rank of phone boxes. She dialled 999, asked for the police. A sharp-voiced man answered her call. She reported the murder, gave the address, refused to identify herself, slammed down the phone, went back to her car.

'That's the best I can do for you, Helga,' Lisa said aloud to herself.

When renting the flat she had given one of her many false names, paying three months' rent in advance. Near Ebury Street she parked her car in a wide alley. Grabbing hold of her case, she walked back round the corner and into a small hotel which still had lights on. In the small reception hall, behind a counter, stood a fat woman widi purple-rinsed hair, arms akimbo.

'What have we here at this hour?' the woman demanded.

'I'd like a room…'

'Bit late to be comin' in off the street.'

'How much per night for a room?' Lisa had her wallet stuffed with banknotes in her hand. 'I'm an airline stewardess and my flight was delayed.' The woman unfolded her arms, her eyes on the wallet. She named an extortionate amount. 'I'll pay now for three nights,' Lisa snapped.

The room on the first floor was poorly furnished but the bed linen was clean. After locking and bolting the door, Lisa would have given anything for a shower but she hadn't the strength. So far she had held up but she was thinking, seeing Helga's body on the floor, Tiger beside her.

She had never got on well with Helga, who treated her husband like a servant, but now she gave way. Sobbing, the tears rolling down her face, she kicked off her shoes.

'I couldn't have done any more,' she choked. 'They'd just have taken her away, held me for questioning. And I am the Messenger…' She flopped on the bed, shuddering and shaking with remorse. When she woke in the morning the pillow was soaked with her tears.

Tweed drove slowly into the ancient village of Alfriston. By his side Paula tensed. Like entering the Black Hole of Calcutta. A police car stopped them in the High Street. In places, she remembered, it was so narrow two cars couldn't pass each other. The only illumination was a distant lamp attached to a wall bracket. Old buildings of stone walled them in. Tweed lowered the window, explained briefly to a middle-aged uniformed policeman who he was.

'I'm Sergeant Pole,' the policeman introduced himself. He bent close as Tweed emerged from the car. 'We 'eard a superintendent would be down from London.' Tweed nodded, avoiding correcting the reference to his rank. 'S'pose I shouldn't say it,' Pole went on, 'but we have a problem. Chap called Bogle, Assistant Chief Constable, has turned up. Throwing his weight about…'

He stopped talking as a small burly man wearing a dark overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat appeared. He reminded Paula of a pig and his manners fitted his appearance.

'Who the blazes are you?' he demanded.

'This is Superintendent Tweed from London,' Pole said quickly.

'And this is my assistant, Paula Grey,' Tweed added. 'Could we go straight to the body? I presume no one has touched it?'

'Course not. Sir,' he added as an afterthought. 'Know my job. I'm Assistant Chief Constable Bogle – from the next county. They're all down with flu at Eastbourne, plus a nasty accident on the A27. Happens all the time.

Pole, don't just stand there. Lift the tape so they can get through. I'll lead the way…'

Passing the walls of a few unlit houses perched at the back of the uneven stone pavement, they arrived at a tiny square like a large alcove. In the square was a dress shop, then a notice illuminated by a dim lamp away from the street.

Steps to the Church

Tye and

Clergy

House

Bogle didn't bother to warn them as he went ahead holding a flashlight. Parallel to the street there were two concrete steps, down past a wrought-iron gate pushed back against the wall, then a sharp right-angled turn to the left with six more steps leading down into a weird concrete tunnel with an arched roof. Paula, clutching her fur collar close to her throat, had produced a powerful flashlight that guided Tweed underground. The old concrete tunnel was only a few feet wide and disappeared into the distance, where it ended at a-moonlit archway.

'There he is,' growled Bogle. 'Damned queer places people choose to commit suicide.'

Despite the fact that the left-hand side of the head was blown away, Paula immediately recognized the late Jeremy Mordaunt. The body was slumped at right angles to the tunnel, seated on the floor, head sagged forward, blood down the front of his Armani suit, legs spread out across the passage. The visible back of his suit was smeared with concrete powder, the fingers of his left hand were tucked inside the firing mechanism of a. 38 Smith amp; Wesson revolver.

'Open-and-shut case,' Bogle rasped. 'Clear matter of suicide. He leant against the wall, pressed the gun against his head, pulled the trigger, went to kingdom come as he slid down the wall.'

'Really?' Tweed was crouched down, close to the body. 'No trace of powder burns on his hand.'

'But,' objected Paula, 'he was right-handed. I saw him at a cocktail party recently. He held his glass in his right hand, and when he smoked a cigarette he held it in his right hand.'

Mordaunt's passport, the old type with a black cover engraved with the gilt seal, was lying close to his slumped leg. It was open at the page which gave the holder's details. Tweed, still crouched, facing the corpse, pointed to the passport.

'Air Bogle' he asked, without turning his head, 'who first suggested to you it was suicide?'

'Obvious, isn't it?'

'Is it? Who did you phone when you reported this tragedy?'

'London.'

'London covers a lot of people. Who in London did you call?'

'Well, I saw from his passport who he was. So I decided it was a diplomatic matter. I called the Ministry of Armaments.'

'Naturally,' Tweed agreed amiably, still not looking at Bogle which was beginning to disturb the policeman. 'Precisely who did you speak to?'

'Can't see that this is relevant. I spoke to the Minister, Gavin Thunder. Must admit I was a bit surprised when he answered the phone.'

'Yes, that was a bit odd. Almost as though he was expecting the call. And who first mentioned the word "suicide"?'

'Well.' Bogle shuffled his feet. 'It was him – the Minister. Said something like "Oh, my God. Jeremy has killed himself, poor devil. Keep this under wraps. No publicity. I'll send someone in authority down immediately." Then he rang off.'

'And had you explained to the Minister what we see now?'

'There wasn't time. I've relayed to you the exact conversation I had with him before he slammed down the phone. I did tell him the body was inside an underground tunnel down here at Alfriston. Nothing more.' He looked away from Tweed, who was now staring at him. 'Hit the nail on the head, didn't he? Suicide.'

'When Miss Grey has just told you that Mordaunt was right-handed? Are you suggesting that a man using a heavy gun to kill himself holds the weapon in his right hand, then bends his arm across his face, somehow manages to aim the gun at the other side of his forehead, pulls the trigger, then transfers the weapon to his left hand?'

'The autopsy will settle the matter,' Bogle almost shouted.

'That reminds me. Any moment now an ambulance from London will arrive with Professor Charles Saafeld aboard to take the body to his laboratory. Our top pathologist, he will perform the autopsy. I phoned him before we came here.'

'Bloody hell!' Bogle stormed. 'I've called Eastbourne to send an ambulance. We do have pathologists from here…"

'Then perhaps,' Tweed suggested as he stood up, 'it would be an idea to get on your mobile and recall your ambulance. I see from the powder on the wall your scene-of-crime crew have already been here, checked the surroundings and probably taken their photographs.'

'Of course they have,' growled Bogle and stomped off, up the steps and out of sight.

'I think Saafeld and his ambulance have arrived,' Paula reported after a brief visit to the outside world. 'I'll show him the way.'

'If you would, please…'

An imposing figure appeared. For a man of his heavy bulk, Saafeld ran nimbly down the steps. His round, plumpish complexion had a pinkish tinge and he exuded an air of authority. He peered at Tweed over his half-moon glasses, nodded, took in the surroundings with swift glances.

'Hello, Paula,' he said quietly.

'This place is like a tomb.' She clutched the collar of her fur coat more closely. 'It's freezing.'

'A tomb,' Saafeld repeated. 'Complete with a body.' He looked back at a youngish man with a camera who had followed him. 'Reg. Take pictures quickly.' He bent down, hands covered with latex gloves, pressed a delicate ringer on Mordaunt's right hand. 'No rigor mortis yet, but we'd better hurry.'

'The local assistant chief constable swears it's suicide,' whispered Tweed, bending alongside the pathologist.

'Suicide, my hat. Just a first impression,' Saafeld warned. 'Don't like the way the fingers are holding the weapon. And if he was standing, back to the wall, he'd have toppled sideways when the bullet hit – not slithered down the wall. But it's early days.'

'Can I call you in the morning – this morning?'

'Try eight o'clock. I work through the night, as you know. I don't promise anything…'

Tweed borrowed Paula's flashlight. She followed him as he walked the full length of the tunnel. The floor was useless for give-away footprints. Emerging under the arch at the far end, he paused, took a deep breath. In the moonlight the view was entrancing. A wide stretch of grass, then a spired church, a gem. He swept the flashlight along a road immediately beyond the arch. Vague tracks of probably a dozen cars. Old houses stretched away to his left and right.

'He could have been brought here by car, tricked into entering the tunnel. It's as quiet as the grave.'

They retraced their journey through the eerie tunnel. Reg had taken his pictures, was putting the camera inside a case.

'Reg,' Saafeld called out. 'Bring the stretcher. We'll get him out now. It will be the devil of a job maneuvering him round and up those steps.' Tweed offered help. 'No, thanks – this is a two-man exercise. ..'

Tweed and Paula reached the small square to find Bogle waiting, standing by a car with an unpleasant sneer on his pinched face.

'I'm off. To write my report. A very full report covering all aspects of your intrusion.'

He jumped into the front passenger seat, snapped at the driver. The car took off, its tail lights receding swiftly. Tweed turned to speak to Sergeant Pole.

'You've been in this area a long time?'

'All my born days, sir.'

'Are there any important people round here? Maybe rich?'

'There's Lord Barford. Family's been here for generations.'

'Any more recent arrivals?'

'Well…' Pole considered carefully. 'There's a Mr Rondel, a foreigner. Arrived about two years ago. Very wealthy, I'd say. Travels abroad a lot. Had a big mansion built inside an old abandoned quarry up on the Downs. Place went up in no time. Imported German workers.'

'Can you describe this Rondel?'

'Only saw him once. Drove a red Bugatti along this street as though it was Le Mans. Only caught a glimpse of him. Blond hair, youngish. Has a helipad by the mansion. Arrives there by chopper.'

'Any idea where he flies to?'

'Girl who lives here worked as a stewardess once at Heathrow. Told me she'd seen him boarding a Gulfstream. Think that's what she called it. Private jet. Big job.'

'Any chance of our driving to his place from here? Now?'

'You could.' Pole sounded doubtful. 'When you meet the A27 after leaving Alfriston you turn left. If you're not careful you'll miss the turning to Eagle's Nest – that's what Rondel calls his palatial place. A short way along you come to a turning off left – just before you reach another one signposted Byway.'

'I remember that turning,' Paula interjected.

'One hell of a road… pardon me,' he said to Paula. 'Unmade, it twists and turns up over the Downs. Get to the top and the road levels out, then starts to go down. That's where Rondel's place is, way back to your left. Right inside the quarry.' He frowned as a car's headlights appeared, driving into the village, the lights on full beam. They flashed twice, then were doused. The car stopped, Bob Newman jumped out.

'Monica called me just as we'd finished dinner,' Newman explained as he drove along the A27 with Tweed beside him.

Behind them Paula was driving Tweed's car, thinking she should have been in front to guide them. Would Tweed spot the turn-off?

'Called me on my mobile,' Newman continued. I'd met Mark Wendover at Heathrow, parked him at the Ritz, took him for dinner to Santorini's.'

'Tell me later, we're coming to the turn-off. There are things you should know…'

Tweed talked non-stop, providing Newman with all the data about Lisa at Lord Barford's mansion, his arrival in Alfriston, what he had found there.

As he was talking, Newman's skill as a driver was tested to the limit as the track they had turned on to kept switching back and forth on itself in a series of bends.

Left, then right again, then left. All the time they were ascending rapidly, along a potholed track where many cavities had not been filled in.

Behind them Paula too drove with ease and skill, revelling in the warmth inside her car. Using a gloved hand, she cleared a hole in the steamed-up glass of her side window. The view she looked down on was staggering.

From the base of the Downs flatlands of frost-covered fields stretched away endlessly to the north. Then she saw a caterpillar of lights crawling westward, realized it was a local train which had to be returning to its depot. She felt the whole of England was spreading out before her.

Tweed was telling Newman he had found Lisa an extraordinary personality. He described her, emphasized her intelligence, voiced his puzzlement as to what her real role was and why she was so anxious to meet him again.

'Nearing the summit,' Newman warned. 'Didn't you tell me Pole said that the road levelled out, started to go down and Rondel's house was on the left?'

'He did,' Tweed confirmed.

They crested the rise suddenly. Newman slowed down and behind them Paula, gazing through her windscreen, almost gasped. On the other side of the Downs a vast panorama came into view. To east and west were vast slopes of rolling hills. A distance away to the south the sea, caught in the moonlight, glittered like an immense lake of mercury sweeping into the Channel. The road began to drop. They pulled up. Newman freewheeled a few more yards, stopped. He left the engine purring to keep the interior warm, jumped out after Tweed and joined Paula, who had already left her car.

'There it is,' said Newman. 'Weird-looking. Expensive.'

'Look at the name,' said Paula.

A large aluminium plate was engraved with the name in front of a high wire fence. Eagle's Nest. Two high wire gates barred the entrance to the curving drive beyond. At the far end of the drive it turned towards a very large white house built of stone. The architecture was surreal, like a collection of white blocks or cubes perched at different levels on top of each other. To one side rose a tall round tower. The entire edifice was located deep inside an old quarry, its steep sides overhanging the house.

'Look!' Paula called out. 'There's something emerging from the round tower.'

'I've seen it,' Tweed replied.

Somewhere behind them was the muffled sound of a machine. Paula glanced back – just in time to see the crouched figure of a rider on a motorcycle. The machine was steadily negotiating its way up a steep path which, she guessed, led to the top of the Down overlooking the house.

'That's Harry Butler,' Newman reassured her. 'He insisted on guarding my rear all the way from London…'

He stopped speaking as a slim mast, like a submarine's periscope, its top a tangle of wired dishes, continued elevating until it was about twenty feet above the rim of the Down. Paula nudged Tweed.

'Someone's coming along the drive at a rate of knots. Looks like an old woman carrying a rifle.'

The hurrying figure appeared with astonishing speed on the far side of the closed gates. She stopped, her weapon, actually a shotgun, aimed at them. Her voice was harsh.

'Who are you? Private property. Why are you here?'

'Which question would you like me to answer first?' Tweed enquired mildly.

She was wearing an old heavy 'dark coat. It almost reached her ankles and Paula wondered how she'd moved so fast in such a garment. She was hawk-nosed, bony-faced, in her sixties, a menacing figure.

'Stop pointing that thing at us,' Newman ordered. 'Shotguns can go off almost by themselves. Want to spend the rest of your life in prison for murder?'

'Can't frighten me,' she snarled, but she swivelled the gun to a port position and it fired harmlessly into the air.

'See what I mean,' Newman shouted at her. 'Who are you?'

'Mrs Grimwood. The… 'ousekeeper… if you must know.'

The shot had echoed a long distance in the cold night air, would have been heard inside the strange house. Tweed was ignoring the verbal confrontation, his eyes glued to the tall mast. Seconds after the shotgun went off the mast began to withdraw swiftly. It disappeared inside the tower, was gone.

'Private property,' Airs Grimwood yelled.

It was becoming like the repetition of an old gramophone when the needle had got stuck. Tweed shrugged, wondering why Paula had slipped behind him earlier. The old crone opened up a fresh barrage.

'That girl with you – 'as a camera. I want the film.'

'No, I haven't,' Paula lied. 'Can't you recognize a pair of binoculars? Get your eyesight tested.' Silly old cow, she added to herself as Tweed went back towards the cars.

They stood staring at the sea for a few minutes. Now it was like a sheet of crystal, flat, motionless. Paula heard the muffled sound of Harry Butler's machine return slowly down the path from the Down.

'I've got a suggestion,' Newman said as he joined them. 'Harry's had a long tiring ride. I could squeeze his small motorcycle in my hatchback, let him drive your car, Tweed – then the three of us could drive back together and talk.'

'Good idea,' Tweed agreed. 'Get your photo?' he asked Paula.

'Photos. Half-hidden in the shadow beyond the house I saw a helipad – with a chopper on it. I got that as well as the mast. They certainly want to keep that thing – whatever it is – secret…'

They were driving back along the A27, heading for the distant turn-off towards Petworth. Newman was driving the hatchback with Tweed beside him and Paula in the rear. Behind them Butler was driving Tweed's car. Unsettled by their visit to Eagle's Nest, the atmosphere up on the Downs, they were silent for a few minutes. It was shortly after they had moved on to the A27 when Paula peered through the rear window.

'There's a helicopter flying fairly high up behind us. The odd thing is it looks as though it came from Lord Barford's estate. Has he got a chopper?'

'No idea,' Tweed replied, his eyes half closed.

'Bob, what did you think of Mark Wendover?' Paula went on.

'Calls himself a freelance, which struck me as odd. What is he like? Only a slight American accent. His mother was English. Has a first-class brain, really knows his stuff. And he doesn't miss much. He's convinced Jason Schulz was murdered, then it was mocked up to make it look like suicide.'

'Two fake suicides,' Tweed mused. 'Three and a half thousand miles apart. Both men in top government posts – so both had access to top secrets. What's the link? I've no idea, but as you know I don't believe in coincidence. Could the assassin be the same person?'

'Easily,' Newman replied. 'The deaths took place roughly five days apart. Plenty of time for someone to do the job in Washington, then catch a flight over here from Dulles Airport.'

While they were descending the switchback road towards the A27 a quiet voice spoke by radio-telephone to the pilot of the chopper waiting by his machine.

'Follow two cars leaving Eagle's Nest. Report their route. They are probably heading for Park Crescent in London. Give regular reports of their position to Bronze…'

The owner of the same quiet voice then pressed fresh numbers.

'Listen to me carefully. And don't make mistakes or you know what will happen to you. A chopper pilot will tell you at regular intervals the location of the two cars. I'm sure their destination is Park Crescent. Bronze, move fast. Steal an unusual vehicle – the target is smart. You have his description. Tell Zero to kill Tweed.'

'That chopper is still with us,' Paula said as they reached the centre of London.

'Probably not the same one,' Newman told her. 'London has them flying all the time. And Tweed is fast asleep.'

'Perhaps we had better stop chattering.'

'You stop chattering,' Newman suggested. 'Park Crescent is very close.'

'Look what's coming towards us. At this hour. 3 a.m. I don't believe it.'

The vehicle moving towards them along an otherwise deserted street was an old-fashioned sightseeing bus with an open top. The notice above the driver's cabin seemed superfluous. NO'I IN SERVICE. Paula crouched down to get a better look as it crawled towards them. A pre-Second World War museum piece but tourists loved them. She saw the driver staring straight down the road, cap perched at a jaunty angle. Then she saw movement at the top of the bus, a man in the front seat aiming a barrel-shaped object.

'Look out!' she yelled. 'Gunman aboard…'

Newman turned the car across the path of the oncoming bus. Two sharp reports split the silence. Bullets tore holes in a side window, missing Tweed, who was slumped in his seat. Two more holes appeared in the side window opposite as the bullets continued their vicious track. Newman braked as the car slammed into a wall.

'Are you all right?' Paula asked Tweed anxiously.

'Yes. So who phoned ahead from Alfriston? Or Barford Manor?'