Colin Forbes - Cell

'You know what this is,' he rasped. 'I see copies have been sent to all heads of security services. Even to the MoD.' His voice rose, was savagely harsh. 'You think I'm going to put up with this absurd idea? It means I have to take my orders from you! Well, I'm not going to. It is the most outrageous document I have ever seen since entering government. Christ! I'm a senior member of the Cabinet. Also I'm in charge of security – or I was!' he shouted. 'I am going to phone the

'That is your privilege, Minister,' Tweed replied equably.

Paula frowned. She was taken aback. She had expected Tweed to thunder back. Especially after his combative mood at Park Crescent.

'I'm glad you appreciate that,' Warner commented, his voice several decibels lower.'

'Minister,' Tweed leaned forward, his manner calm, 'I was hoping – still believe you will agree – that we can cooperate in this desperate situation. I look forward to a state of collaboration between us. We do have a common enemy. With our combined forces we will defeat that enemy.'

Warner was taken aback. He removed his pince-nez, exposing his hawk-like nose. He took out a cloth, polished the pince-nez, perched them back on the bridge of his nose.

'There is a lot in what you have just said,' he agreed, his voice now normal, verging on the polite.

Paula suddenly caught on. Tweed was being very clever. Realizing Warner was worried about his position in the Cabinet, he had just been provided with the perfect way to present the development to his colleagues.

Tweed has explained to me the meaning of the document. He says the meaning of the document is to encourage collaboration between all the security services.

'May I make a suggestion about one way forward?' Tweed asked.

'Certainly, my dear chap. I am all ears.'

'My Whitehall visitor had heard a rumour that Tolliver is now head of Special Branch.'

'That is so. With Buller disappearing I had to appoint someone to run that vital service. Tolliver is very able.'

'For some time,' Tweed continued, 'Special Branch officers have worn a kind of uniform – camel-hair coats. So much so that villains recognize them. I suggest a large number of Special Branch officers flood the main areas of Central London. Buckingham Palace, St Paul's, Canary Wharf, along the Thames Embankment.'

'What a brilliant, idea!' Warner smiled, as always an insincere smirk. 'I'll get that organized the moment you leave.'

'Then there are communications,' Tweed went on. 'Whoever is planning this attack has to communicate. It's possible he does so with radio. You have a section which monitors certain radio transmissions. They could be asked to listen for unusually heavy traffic. You have code-breakers. One is sitting next to Miss Grey.'

'You are full of good ideas, even if we are already listening. But I will direct that section to listen for any unusually heavy traffic. Tweed, I think it's time for us to seal our pact with sherry.'

Tweed stood up. 'Thank you for the suggestion. Another time, perhaps. I have to get back to Park Crescent.'

'Of course. Eva will show you out. I must deal with your suggestions urgently…'

They had left the study. The door was closed when Eva moved close to Tweed. She squeezed his arm as she whispered.

'I can see even more now why you hold the job you do. I'd never have dreamt you could turn him round the way you did.'

'The first rule,' Tweed told her, 'is self-control. You can then adapt your tactics to whatever situation confronts you.'

'I'm still stunned…'

They had left the building and were walking to where Newman had parked his car when Paula squeezed Tweed's arm.

'I'm wondering how Marler will get on at Carpford.'

Martin Hogarth's bungalow was a luxurious establishment. The walls were partly made of stone and above this expensive pine planks faced the wall. The front door, massive, was made of heavy oak and had three Banham locks. Pinewood shutters were closed over slit-like windows. In the dark lights from inside filtered through the shutters. Marler hammered on the iron door knocker, continued hammering.

The sound of locks being turned. A blinding glare light over the door was switched on. The door opened and a man in his late thirties was framed in the light, a man holding a gun. A 7.63mm Mauser with a long barrel, magazine capable of holding ten rounds.

'Marler, SIS.'

He was holding up his identity folder open. It could be clearly seen in the glare light. The slim man wore a polo-necked sweater, green slacks. No shoes, his feet were clad in white socks.

'Could you please stop pointing that thing at me?' drawled Marler. 'Guns are dangerous.'

'Didn't you know,' the man sneered, 'we live in a dangerous world. You come making one helluva row knocking on my door after dark. I have no idea what may be waiting for me when I open the door.'

'You know now,' Marler said, tucking away his folder. 'So put the damned gun away. We need to talk.'

'By that,' the man continued sneering, 'you mean you need to talk. Doesn't mean I need any conversation.'

As he spoke he placed the Mauser on a table next to the door. He nodded, indicating Marler could come in – nodded as he might to a tradesman. His thick brown hair was carefully coiffeured and below a sharp nose he sported a trim moustache. Marler had already weighed him up as a con-man, consumed with his own vanity. He walked into an expensively furnished drawing-room. Shaded wall-lights. The walls were painted a pale green. There were framed pictures of girls wearing nothing except inviting smiles. It all fitted in with the personality of the owner.

There was another performance as all three locks on the door were closed. Marler took the opportunity to pick up the Mauser by the barrel, to extract the magazine, putting it in his pocket.

'Just in case we have a disagreement,' he explained, placing the weapon back on the table. 'You are Martin Hogarth?'

'You knew that before you started trying to kick the door down.'

'It could have been a neighbour.'

'Let's get one thing clear from the start. I've already had a visit from your lot. When I was with my brother, Billy, that tart you employ wormed her way in.'

Marler hit Martin. A hard swift blow on the meagre chin. Martin went over backwards, ended up on the deep pile carpet, one hand nursing the chin. His shifty eyes were full of venom as he slowly clambered to his feet.

'I'm reporting this to the Minister, Victor Warner,' he hissed. 'An unprovoked assault.'

'Do that. Waste of time. Don't come under his jurisdiction.' Marler's voice was calm, indifferent. 'But clean out that mouth of yours. Maybe a good job I emptied the Mauser? You look put out. While we're on the subject,

Miss Grey is a very professional woman, also a very decent one. Now, we'll talk.'

Marler perched himself on a silk-covered upright chair. As he did so Martin opened a cupboard, brought out a bottle of fine Scotch, poured himself a stiff one, swallowed it. He returned it to the cupboard without offering his guest a drink.

'You have motor-cycle couriers calling on you at dead of night,' Marler began. 'They bring large envelopes.'

'Nothing to do with me,' Martin snapped as he sprawled in an arm chair, legs splayed out on the carpet. 'They park their damned machines against my bungalow wall at the side. A ruddy nuisance.'

'So why not go out and tell them to park their machines in Carp Lake?'

'I read the newspapers. Britain is as dangerous a place today as Afghanistan. They carry knives, not fussy about using them.'

'You've been to Afghanistan then?'

The shifty eyes flickered. Wandered about the room. Martin reached for his glass, realized it was empty.