Rhinoceros

CHAPTER 6

Oscar Vernon strolled up St James's Street, malacca cane held under his armpit like a sergeant major's baton. He beamed at several women who stared at his clothes, not realizing they thought them bizarre. Turning along Piccadilly towards the Circus he checked the time, began to hurry.

He had arranged to make the call from phone box to phone box. The subordinate he was going to speak to would soon be waiting. Diving down into the Underground, he found an empty booth, made his call. At the other end, near Reefers Wharf, the phone was answered immediately.

'Who is this?' Oscar demanded.

'Delgado here. There's a queue waiting to use this phone…'

'So what! Listen very good to me. This night at ten o'clock you do the rehearsal. It's been agreed from high up. By me…'

'The men – and the women – will be outside targets.'

'They had better be. Now listen very good. They look, they see. But no violence. Only if they need to do it to go away. You hear me?'

'I do. I will tell

Delgado swore foully, slammed the phone back, pushed his way roughly past the queue. Oscar had again slammed the phone down on him. Bastard!

Tweed, when Paula had left him in a taxi, had walked all the way back to Park Crescent. Walking helped him to think and the sun was shining strongly, so much so that he felt its warmth on his face.

Entering his office, he found Newman reading a newspaper and Harry Butler, a cloth over his lap, reassembling a 7.65mm Walther automatic he had been cleaning. He handed his coat to Monica and sat behind his desk, took a new writing pad from a drawer and began doodling names. To his annoyance Monica broke into a verbal flood.

'You remember that very strange thing which happened on the Internet? While you were out I phoned as many of my contacts as I could reach. You are listening, I hope?'

Tweed grunted. Newman had closed his newspaper and listened to her as she went on.

'I wanted to find out if it was just a local breakdown. It wasn't. I called Birmingham, Manchester, then New York, San Francisco, Miami, New Orleans, Paris, Berlin, Oslo and even Prague. Every one of my contacts told me their systems had gone haywire at the same time ours did. That is, allowing for time differences. And they all described the same thing – the devilish screeching which deafened them, those missile-like lines shooting over their screens.'

'A glitch,' Tweed mumbled. 'Never did like the Internet.'

Monica was about to protest when Paula came in, her face flushed. She went to her desk, threw the loop of her shoulder bag over the back of her chair, sat down, her hands clenched.

'Enjoy your lunch with nice Aubrey?' Tweed enquired.

'Like hell I did!'

Tweed stopped doodling as she recalled every word of the lunch-time conversation, the state Aubrey was in, what he had told her. Tweed began adding names to his pad.

'I'm sorry you had such an unpleasant experience,' he told her.

'But I did get some strange information from him regarding his father's activities. And jolly active he seems to be. But what Lord Barford is doing I can't even guess. Let me see.'

She went over to his desk, stood behind him, stared down at the pad, at the names he'd written down well spaced from each other. Jason Schulz (dead), Jeremy Mordaunt (dead), Bogle, Lord Barford – Brussels, Paris, Berlin, Stockholm – Aubrey Barford, Gavin Thunder, Mark Wendover, fake Mrs Mordaunt, Rondel, Lisa.

'I was trying to link up one person with another,' Tweed explained. 'So far I've got exactly nowhere. No idea of what is going on, but something is.'

'That's why you've drawn large loops round each name,' Paula remarked. 'You've used this technique before. And the only loop with anything in it is Barford's – you've put in the city names I said Aubrey had overheard the Brigadier phoning.'

'All of which gets me nowhere.'

'Why put Lisa last?'

'Because at the moment she's my only hope that may lead us to what is happening. Assuming she does turn up at 5.30 this evening.'

'I'm sure she will.'

'Are you? We know nothing about her. She's a mystery woman.' He looked at Newman. 'And have you any idea why Mark Wendover hasn't arrived here?'

'Well, as you know, I had dinner with him last night. Then he asked me to join him again this morning for an early working breakfast. He went out somewhere soon afterwards.'

'A lot of use he is.' Tweed started cleaning his glasses. 'You had a so-called working breakfast with him. A long one?'

'Yes. Well over an hour.'

'And during that breakfast you told him everything you knew as regards our trip to Sussex – the visit Paula and I made to Lord Barford's, then the grim business in Alfriston?'

'Yes, I did.'

'I see.' He perched his glasses back on his nose. 'I just wonder. I really do.'

Early that same morning, Mark Wendover had a large breakfast with Newman, then immediately left the Ritz. He was wearing a white polo-neck sweater, blue jeans, trainers on his large feet and carried a trench coat over his arm. He was in a hurry to get the show on the road.

From a car-hire firm in Piccadilly he'd noticed when Newman had driven him from the airport the previous day he chose a cream Jaguar. His next port of call was Hatchards, the bookshop. He bought an Ordnance Survey map of East Sussex, studied it for at least two minutes, then hurried back to his car. He didn't need a map of London -from frequent visits he knew his way round the city as well as he knew Washington.

He was on the straight stretch to Petworth when a blonde in an Audi overtook him, waved a triumphant hand. 'Can't have that,' he decided. He increased speed, passed her, waved a hand. She soon realized she had no chance of repeating her earlier performance as the cream streak became like a toy car way ahead of her.

Later, when he turned off the A27 to Alfriston, he drove at a sedate pace. It was a glorious day, the sun shining out of a cloudless sky. When he parked the Jag on the outskirts of the village he threw his trench coat into the trunk.

His long strides soon took him into Alfriston and he walked into a pub which had just opened. In the country a pub was where you heard all the local gossip. Smiling at the barman, he ordered a pint of mild, sat down by the bar on a stool.

'You're my first customer today,' the barman told him. 'Here on holiday, sir?'

'Yes and no. Alfriston looks like the sort of place where nothing ever happens.'

'Don't you believe it. We've just 'ad a murder here. Up the road. Last night.'

'I like a good murder,' Wendover said cheerfully. 'Read a lot of thrillers. A local, I suppose.'

'No, it wasn't. A high-rankin' civil servant, so I hear.'

'Lived round here, did he?'

'No. Never seen down 'ere before. So why does he come down 'ere to shoot himself in an underground tunnel, of all places.'

'That sounds more like suicide.'

'Tell you something.' The barman leaned across the counter. 'The police is baffled. Show you where it 'appened if you'd come outside with me.'

Mark had only sipped at his drink. He carried the glass out with him. The barman pointed up the narrow street to where police tapes were still in place. Two farmers wandered past them into the pub.

'More customers. Excuse me…'

Wendover waited until he was alone. Then he poured the rest of his drink down a drain. He was careful about drinking and driving. Taking the empty glass back inside, he thanked the barman, walked out and a short distance up the High Street and into another pub. Except for the barman the place was empty. He ordered another pint of mild. The barman was a short, plump jovial type.

'Nothing wrong with startin' early, I always say. Just so long as you're not driving.'

'It's got a lot of character, this village,' Wendover remarked. 'But I don't imagine anyone important lives here.'

'Well, if I may say so, sir, you'd be wrong there. A bare five miles away Lord Barford lives. Got a big estate. Family's lived here for generations in the mansion, Barford Manor.'

'He does? I thought the aristocracy was being taxed out of existence.'

'Got a point there, you 'ave. Had two surveyors in here recently. One 'ad been asked to inspect the place. He was tellin' his friend his lordship's in deep trouble. Risin' damp, dry rot. He said the whole roof has to be replaced, and half the windows. Cost his lordship over a million. He lives well but he hasn't got that sort of money. And he's got a helicopter and a ridin' stable. Often rides over the Downs, he does. Towards the Eagle's Nest.'

'What's that?' Wendover asked, then sipped at his pint.

'One of these crazy modern houses. Very big. A chap called Rondel owns it.'

'Sounds foreign. Barford and Rondel are friends, then?'

'Don't think so. Lord Barford spent a lot of time abroad in the Army. Don't think he's keen on foreigners. Can't blame 'im.'

Wendover was aware that a few minutes earlier someone had come in and stood close behind him. He made a point of not looking round. The newcomer spoke, his voice unpleasant, arrogant.

'Mind telling me what you're doing here?'

'Yes, I do.' Wendover turned round. A short man stared at him with a hostile expression. He wore a dark, ill-fitting suit. 'Who are you?'

'Bogle. Chief Constable.'

'Assistant Chief,' the barman said.

'Barrow,' the policeman snapped. 'You keep out of this. I'll have a lemonade.'

'Boogie?' Wendover enquired. 'Like a bugle soldiers blow at ceremonies?'

'Bogle,' the policeman repeated. 'B-o-g-l-e. Got it?'

Here we go, thought Wendover. Newman had relayed to him over dinner Tweed's encounter with this character. He turned his back, sipped more of his drink. A hand tapped his shoulder. Wendover put down his glass, swung round.

'I don't like people who touch me.'

'And I don't like people who ignore me. I'm investigating a murder. You've been going into pubs and asking questions I find suspicious. I'd like to see proof of your identity.'

'Would you? You're going to be disappointed. Unless you can charge me with some offence. Incidentally, your lemonade is getting cold.'

With this parting shot Wendover walked out into the street. He was on his way back to his car, which took him past the open door of the first pub he'd visited. A shout from inside stopped him. The barman came running out.

'I think maybe you dropped this when you took your wallet out of your back pocket to pay me.'

He handed Wendover a small notebook bound in blue leather. Opening it, Wendover saw the letters MoA engraved in gold on the inside of the front binding. Riffling through the pages he saw a series of coded numbers and words.

'Thank you,' he said to the barman. 'Without this I'd have been lost at work.'

Slipping the book into his pocket he hurried back to his car. He knew from his time at Langley with the CIA that MoA was an abbreviation for the Whitehall Ministry of Armaments. He surmised that Bogle had probably dropped the book while he had been putting on his gloves, presumably to make himself look more official. Now he wanted to get out of the village before Bogle discovered his loss.

He had also decided to drive straight back to Park Crescent. It could be important to Tweed to hear about the information he had picked up.

Seattle, Washington State, Pacific Coast. The HQ of the World Liberation Front was located in an apartment overlooking Lake Washington. This location had been carefully chosen due to its upmarket situation. Successful, well-off Americans were happy to live in this area. No one – including the FBI – would dream that dangerous revolutionaries might be found here.

In the spacious ground-floor apartment at the end of a block with a view across a trim lawn down to the lake, a man sat in front of the Internet. His long greasy hair was coiled in a ponytail. On the back of a nearby chair hung the jacket of the expensive business suit he wore. Leaving the apartment – or returning to it – he always wore a hat with the ponytail tucked out of sight. His neighbours thought he was one of those whizz-kids, something in electronics.

It was the middle of the night when he checked the time, then clicked the mouse to a repeat program on fitness. This catered to insomniacs of both sexes who whiled away the dreary hours following the instructor, a big man who was all muscle and no fat. Standing on a platform, he faced a class of mixed sexes, demonstrating exercises.

Ponytail had a pad open in front of him, noted down every third word of the instructor, who spoke slowly. The moment the program was over he glanced at the words which had formed into a message. He picked up the phone and dialled an unlisted number in London.

'Oscar here,' a rough voice answered.

'You sound like a comedian,' Ponytail replied and connection had been verified.

'You have the business report?' Oscar enquired.

'With this takeover the minimum of pressure can be used. End of report…'

In his room above a little-used warehouse at Reefers Wharf Oscar Vernon sucked the end of his pen. The correct interpretation of the word 'pressure' was 'violence.'

'This, I thinks,' he said to himself, 'is what Brits call the escalation. London will have the rough night.'