This United state

47

'Do come in. Good to see you. I've had fresh coffee delivered. The receptionist told me you were here.'

In response to Tweed's knock Jefferson Morgenstern himself opened the door, ushered them inside. He locked the door, then gazed at his visitors with a smile. Tweed introduced Paula as his assistant and confidante. Morgenstern smiled even more broadly as Tweed turned to Newman.

'No introduction necessary here, Tweed. Bob Newman once interviewed me. And I don't give many interviews.' He shook Newman's hand warmly. 'You're looking great and maybe a bit tougher. Experience does that to us all – if we have the fibre. Come and sit down. I'll serve coffee.'

Paula had been studying Morgenstern closely. He was shorter than she had imagined, but his figure in a grey Savile Row suit was well padded. She had the impression of a man of great intelligence who enjoyed the good things of life – especially wine and food. His hair, neatly brushed, was greying and he emanated an aura of supreme self-confidence and dynamic energy – of power.

His large desk was a genuine antique, Chippendale, she thought. On it was a silver engraved tray with a silver coffee service. Three comfortable upright chairs were arranged in front of the desk and Morgenstern dragged his swivel chair round to join them. Not a man to flaunt his importance.

'You were looking at my coffee service,' he said to Paula after she had seated herself, which made her realize this man didn't miss a thing. 'When I was a poor student in Europe I was once invited to a mansion where they had such a service. I decided then,' he continued as he poured coffee, 'that one day I'd have one like it.' He smiled. 'It was a long journey before I was able to purchase one.'

His face was long, Paula noted. His nose was long, his features strong, and beneath his American accent she detected a trace of some European accent. When he had served coffee he sat down near Paula, drank half the contents of his cup, folded his arms.

'Tweed, I've been giving a lot of thought to what you said to me when we last met. At the time I was dismissive. Since then I have given your accusations more thought. I admit I'm a troubled man.' He looked at Paula, then at Newman. 'May I take it that anything we talk about today will be in complete confidence?'

'Quite definitely. These two are my right and left arm. I said recently I'd trust them with my life. That I had done.'

'Good enough for me. The weak link in what you said is a complete lack of evidence.'

'That is what I have brought with me. Overwhelming evidence. In photographs and documents. Some of it was supplied by Arthur Beck, Chief of Swiss Federal Police. I can supply you with his number in Berne if you want it later. While in Basel recently four of the men attached to this Embassy tried to murder me – along with Paula and Bob. Instead, they were killed. They all carried American diplomatic passports. Here is a photograph of the dead killers, supplied to me by Beck. Their names are on the back. And here are photocopies of the passports they carried. Beck has the originals.'

Morgenstern studied the photo of the dead Umbrella Men. He looked at the back, where their names were given. Placing it on his desk, he looked at the photocopies of the passports. His mouth tightened. He placed them on his desk.

'There's worse to come,' Tweed warned. 'There's a clear video picture of the man who left the bomb in the Oxford Street department store.'

'His name is Vernon Kolkowski,' Newman said quietly. 'He also had a diplomatic passport. Once, in New York, the police chief told me he was a professional who had murdered at least six men. They could never indict him. No witness dared testify. If one was willing to testify he'd been found dead in a side street.'

'Then,' Tweed continued, 'we rescued a poor woman who was being tortured by another American with a diplomatic passport. Name of Rick Sherman. He's dead too.'

'Could you pause?' Morgenstern requested. He took from his pocket a leather-bound notebook. 'I'd like to note down some of these names. What was that last one?'

'Rick Sherman.'

'Thank you. And Vernon someone. I'd like the surname.'

Newman spelt it out carefully. Morgenstern wrote it down in his notebook. Then he looked again at the video print of the man who had planted the bomb in the Oxford Street department store.

'As far as I can gather,' Tweed went on, 'I know you are handling the diplomatic side of this huge operation. But there is another secret section inside this Embassy called the Executive Action Department. That is staffed by what I would call the gangster level – and all the members have been given diplomatic passports.'

'How can I phrase this?' Morgenstern wondered aloud. 'While you were away I made certain enquiries here. I had the impression certain people evaded giving me answers to my questions.'

'Have you heard of the Executive Action Department?'

'No.'

'I'm certain it's located in this building. That it is responsible for the outrages. Individual murders and wholesale bombings.'

'I am good at assessing character, Tweed. I am sure you would not ever invent such horrific stories.'

'Is there any way you could check the names of everyone who has been issued with a diplomatic passport over, say, the past seven weeks?'

'I was thinking of that. Yes, there is. But first I must refresh your cups.'

Paula glanced round the large room while Morgenstern manipulated the silver coffee pot. The room was furnished in expensive but restrained taste. Heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains flanked the windows, curtains with a Regency stripe. The wall-to-wall carpet was a pale mushroom colour. The few pieces of other furniture were also antiques. The room had a restful atmosphere. On another desk the Stars and Stripes was suspended from a bronze column.

'I'm going to ask the Ambassador's personal assistant for the record of all diplomatic passports issued recently,' said Morgenstern.

'Mrs Pendleton,' he said on the phone, 'I require urgently the list of all personnel working here issued with diplomatic passports over the past seven weeks.'

Mrs Pendleton had a loud raucous American voice. Tweed could hear her end of the conversation clearly.

'Well, the list exists, but I can't supply it to you without the consent of the Ambassador.'

'Ask him now, then.'

'I can't. He is out.'

'Mrs Pendleton, do you recognize my voice?'

'Of course, sir.'

'Then kindly remember you are talking to the Secretary of State.'

'I do know that, sir.'

'Then I expect you to deliver the list to me within two minutes.'

'Some people,' Morgenstern smiled briefly, 'who have held down a job for years develop delusions of grandeur.'

Paula was struck by the brief smile. Since Tweed had started to produce his evidence a change had come over Morgenstern. Instead of his earlier amiability his expression had become one of gravity. He's taking this very seriously, she thought.

There was a tap on the door, Morgenstern called out to come in. A plump self-important looking woman in her late fifties entered. She was holding a green leather- bound ledger which she placed on the desk.

'I'm afraid I need a receipt before I release that ledger,' she said, producing a small pad.

'Really?' Morgenstern stared at her. 'Have you a short memory? If so, something could be done about that. Only minutes ago I reminded you I am Secretary of State.'

'I suppose I could make an exception.'

'Mrs Pendleton. Do you see the handle of that door you opened to come in here?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Go over it, take hold of it. That's right. Now turn it to the left.'

'I'm sorry, sir, if…'

'Now you keep hold of the handle. Pull the door open towards you. I see you've managed it. Now, walk into the corridor and close the door quietly behind you. It's not too difficult.'

Tweed smiled to himself. It was notorious that Morgenstern had an acid side to his nature. He couldn't suffer fools gladly.

'Now, we can do our homework,' said Morgenstern.. 'Excuse me if I go and sit behind my desk for a moment.'

Taking his chair back to its original position, he sifted through the photos and documents he had quickly arranged in a pile before Mrs Pendleton arrived, so she couldn't see anything. Taking out his notebook, he then opened the ledger. He had perched it on an inkstand so his visitors could not see its pages.

Using a pen as a pointer, he began to check the names provided by Tweed with the list inside the ledger. It took a while but often he stabbed at a name in the ledger with his pen. His expression became grimmer. When he had closed the ledger he sat staring at Tweed. Then he hauled his chair back to join his visitors.

'I have decided,' he said.

'What is your decision?' Tweed enquired.

'Can you leave with me all the items you have given me?'

'Certainly.'

'I have a Gulfstream jet standing by permanently at Heathrow. I like to be mobile. Soon after you have left me I shall drive to Heathrow, board the jet, and fly immediately to Washington. If you want to contact me, call this number.' He took a pad from a drawer, wrote on it, handed it to Tweed. 'I shall inform all my aides that if you call you are to be put through to me – even if I'm at the White House.'

'Sharon Mandeville next,' Tweed said when they had left Jefferson's lair. 'Might as well tie the lot up at once.'

'Do come in.' Sharon, like Jefferson, had opened the door herself to welcome them inside. 'What a pleasure to see you all again.'

She kissed Tweed on the cheek, shook hands with Paula and Newman. Then she escorted them across the spacious room towards a desk which was even larger than Jefferson's. As they followed her Paula glanced round the room. It was very expensively furnished – money had been no object – but unlike Jefferson's office, it was very modern.

Sharon's enormous desk was made of gleaming white wood, all the chairs were upholstered in white leather, the carpet was white and scattered across it were tiger- skin rugs. The coffee service on a tray on her desk was almost surreal in design. And the rims of the cups were six-sided, which made them very difficult to drink out of without the contents ending up in your lap.

Three chairs were arranged in front of the desk. Behind it was a high-backed chair which reminded Paula of a throne. Sharon gave Tweed a ravishing smile.

'Do sit down, all of you, please. Coffee for everyone?'

'Not for me,' said Tweed as he sat down.

'Me too neither, thank you,' said Newman.

'I'll also pass,' said Paula.

Sharon was wearing a navy blue trouser suit which suggested the high-powered businesswoman. Newman thought she had never looked more attractive. She was pouring herself a cup.

'Excuse me, but I need an ocean of caffeine to keep me going.' She sat in the chair behind the desk. 'Well, Tweed, I suppose we can say we have completed the Grand Tour of Europe.'

'Something like that.'

'Oh, come – ' she gazed at him over the rim of her cup – 'no call to be so serious. It isn't the end of the world.'

'Isn't it?'

Sharon's nails were painted blood-red, a varnish which Paula hated. She had a high collar, buttoned up to her neck. She went on gazing at Tweed, as though assessing his mood. He had taken off his glasses and was cleaning them on his handkerchief. He put the glasses on again.

'Now you get a clearer view of beauty,' Newman joked.

'I have a clearer view of a lot of things now,' Tweed replied.

'So why have you come to see me?' Sharon asked in her soft voice. 'How can I help you?'

'You can confirm certain information I have received.' 'You sound just like a policeman.'

'I was once a policeman,' Tweed told her. 'A century ago.'

'He was the youngest superintendent at Scotland Yard,' Paula explained. 'His speciality was Homicide.'

'What information are you referring to?' Sharon asked.

She was still her calm self. She was leaning back upright in her chair. Her half-closed eyes, glowing greenly, were fixed on Tweed.

'I have here a certain document.' Tweed took a thick envelope out of his breast pocket, extracted a sheet. 'This is a copy of your birth certificate.'

'Really? Isn't this rather personal? How, I wonder, were you able to obtain it?'

'By perfectly legal means. Such certificates are in the public domain, as you must know.'

'Oh, come on, Tweed.' She smiled, still leaning against the back of her upright chair, her body very erect. 'All the way across the Atlantic?'

'Precisely. All the way across the Atlantic.' Tweed unfolded the sheet of paper. 'You were born in Washington, DC. You are forty-two years old.'

'Not very gallant of you, to broadcast my age.'

'On this copy of the certificate it gives your full names. Sharon Charlotte Anderson.'

'So?' Her eyes were almost closed now. 'Where does this lead us to?'

'Charlotte. Sometimes abbreviated to Charlie. Even with a woman. You are Charlie.'

Paula had difficulty suppressing a gasp. She glanced at Newman. He looked stunned. She switched her glance to Tweed, sitting next to her. He looked very relaxed. Still holding the document, he was gazing back at Sharon.

'Charlie,' he said, 'we know masterminded the gigantic operation under way to absorb Britain into America as the fifty-first state. Do you deny you are Charlie?'

'Damn you! Nosy, insignificant little man. Friggin' two-bit so-called detective!' Sharon was standing up now, leaning over her desk as though about to leap at Tweed. 'You don't know what the bloody hell you're talking about!'

She continued screaming at the top of her voice, uttering a foul stream of obscene abuse. Her voice had completely changed. Her lung power was awesome. Suddenly she grabbed the certificate out of his hands, tore it to shreds, threw the pieces over her visitors.

'I do have other copies of that birth certificate,' Tweed informed her quietly. -

'Much good they will do you. You can't prove any of this friggin' nonsense you've been spouting at me. How dare you?' she yelled.

'Imminent events will prove me right.'

'Imminent events,' she screamed, 'will see you out of a job, you friggin' nobody. You'll be lucky to stay alive.'

'Is that a threat?' Tweed asked quietly. 'The kind of order you gave to Jake Ronstadt? Because he is no longer available '

'What do you mean by that?' she raged.

'Jake Ronstadt is dead.'

'Dead?'

'He tried to kill me in Strasbourg – under your orders, I'm sure. One of my people dropped a grenade into the launch Ronstadt was guiding along a waterway. Result? Ronstadt and the two men with him vanished when the launch sailed on into a wild sluice.'

'Tweed, you are a very inventive man,' she spat at him.

'Then there was Rick Sherman. He was torturing the wife of Kurt Schwarz – again on your orders, I'm certain. He's dead – with a knife through his throat.'

'You're lying, Tweed,' she said in a deep voice full of hate. 'You always lie.'

'I'm sure, when it is checked, that it will be found you organized the recruitment of this large gang of thugs front the back streets of New York. You must have sanctioned the issue of diplomatic passports to an army of killers. There has to be a record of who did that.'

'You're crazy,' she went on screaming. 'Stark raving mad. That is something which will be proved. Do you hear me? Do you hear me? Do you hear me?'

'I can hardly avoid hearing you, Sharon.' Tweed stood up. 'I suggest this interview is over, that it is time for us to leave.'

She picked up a cup, threw it at him. Tweed ducked. The cup hit the white wall on the far side of the room, broke into a dozen pieces. Tweed led the way to the door, opened it, stood aside as Paula and Newman walked into the corridor, then walked out himself, closing the door with never a backward glance.

'I'm breathless,' said Paula.

'I'm staggered,' said Newman.

'And you, Bob, once described her as. a demure English lady,' Tweed recalled as they headed for the elevator.

'Is Sharon really Charlie?' asked Paula.

Tweed hadn't the opportunity to reply. Walking briskly towards them was a familiar figure, a large man. Paula never ceased to be surprised that big heavyweight men often had small feet and moved with such agility.

'Hi, folks,' called out Ed Osborne. 'Great to see you paying us a visit. That's what I call real friendly.'

'Do excuse us, Ed,' responded Tweed, 'we're late for an urgent appointment. See you sometime.'

'Sure thing.'

'We have to keep moving,' Tweed warned as they approached the lift. 'Howard said the PM wants to see me. So, Bob, drop me off at Downing Street before you go on to Park Crescent.'

'We'll drop you off – then wait for you,' Newman said firmly.

When they stepped out of the lift on the ground floor the receptionist rose to her feet and called out to them, 'Have a nice day.'