Colin Forbes - Cell

'Miss Brand

'Eva, please.'

'Eva, I don't believe you. The swinger fairy-tale. Not your style.'

'Then that's your problem.' She waited until the barman, who had brought her a fresh glass of wine, went away. She drank half the glass at one go, then stretched out a hand and took hold of Tweed's resting on the table. 'We are friends, are we not?'

'I would hope so. I've just been doing my job.'

'Good. I asked you here to warn you. When the mandate from Downing Street arrived, appointing you Supremo in the present crisis, at first Victor was livid. Then he came to like the idea,' Eva explained.

'Why?'

'Because if al-Qa'eda launch a successful and devastating attack on London you get the blame, not Victor. He has always operated in this way – had a scapegoat tucked away in a cupboard, so to speak. After all, you are in charge of defeating al-Qa'eda – a point he has emphasized in the Cabinet.'

'So, secretly he's worried about an attack coming? Even though he pooh-poohs the idea in public?'

'Now you've caught on. Warnings about some terrible catastrophe being imminent are beginning to seep into the press. Our nice gossip writer, Drew Franklin, has seen to that. Sometimes I think Drew is not all he seems. He's suave, polite with women, natters them so he can get what he wants. Reminds me of a smokescreen.'

'You could be right,' Tweed agreed.

'He came after me. But I got the impression his main motive was not the bedroom. It was to pump me about Victor's security measures. I told him I couldn't talk about security- and I wasn't interested in having dinner with him. When he asked, "Why?" I said because I didn't trust him. You ought to pay attention to Drew Franklin.'

'I will. And I appreciate what you have told me. Scapegoat? Interesting.'

'He developed that technique at Medfords. If something didn't work out he had someone else ready to dump the blame on to. He is, in fact, your typical politician. Manipulation is the name of the game. He's an expert.'

'Then maybe,' Tweed suggested, 'you should watch your back.'

She squeezed Tweed's hand, which she was still holding. Leaning forward, she kissed him. Tweed smiled, squeezed her hand, then withdrew his.

'You know,' she said, 'I've come to prefer more mature men who have a lot of experience. I can't stand the young macho type who has only one thing in mind with a woman. Plus they're such a bloody bore.'

'I have enjoyed talking to you,' Tweed said amiably. 'But if someone we know comes in here tongues will start wagging and that might hurt your job with the Minister. Shouldn't we call it a night?'

'After I've had another drink.' She waved her empty glass. Marco hustled over. 'Same again,' she told him. 'What about you?' she asked Tweed.

'If you insist.'

'I do insist.'

'Ever been to the Middle East?' Tweed asked suddenly. 'Since one of your languages is Arabic.'

'Don't really fancy the place.' Her large eyes still gazing into his. 'I prefer Switzerland. Everything there works.'

'True.'

Tweed remained silent until Marco had brought the fresh drinks and left them alone. He sipped his wine as Eva swallowed half her glass. He could see no sign that she was getting tipsy. A hard head.

'Do you think you're going to defeat al-Qa'eda?' she asked.

'As the Duke of Wellington once said, a battle may be won or lost until it's over. Not an exact quotation, but it conveys his meaning. I have enjoyed your company, but do you mind if we go in a moment?'

'The man has a battle to be fought.' She drank the rest of her wine. 'I've got my Audi parked round the corner so you don't have to offer me a lift…'

'I have been seduced mentally,' Tweed told Monica as he sat behind his desk.

'Only mentally?' Monica was grinning. 'Shame!'

Tweed then told her about their conversation. With his power of recall he told her everything. Monica checked her bun of hair at the back of her head before she commented.

'So three questions arise. She cleverly evaded your asking her whether she'd ever been to the Middle East. She firmly evaded telling you anything about this mysterious father. Finally, the missing two years in her life worry me.'

'I agree. She has a very dominant – without being domineering – personality. Still on your list of suspects?'

'It's a long one. Victor Warner, Peregrine Palfry, Martin Hogarth, Margesson, Drew Franklin and Eva Brand.'

Tweed frowned. 'Come to think of it, we don't know all that much about Franklin.'

'So I'll work fast, put him under my microscope again using the contacts I've left out.'

'Good. You know I don't think you should have included Eva in your suspects list. The Arabs would never take orders from a woman, even one with her exceptional brainpower. '

'Unless they don't know their controller is a woman.'

Newman had decided he wouldn't drive up to the village. He wanted his arrival and presence to be secret. He parked his car in the triangular setback off the main climb. The Uzi machine-gun was taken out of its case, which he locked in the boot. He slung the weapon, now fully loaded with a magazine of forty rounds, over his left shoulder. A spare mag went into the pocket of his warm black overcoat. In his left hand he held his Smith amp; Wesson as he began yomping down the narrow sunken road Paula had called a rabbit warren.

Soon he was enveloped by the dense trees of Black Wood, growing above the steep banks. At intervals he paused to listen. He heard only the sinister silence of the wood. The moon was up but didn't penetrate down into the gulch. He was glad he had brought a pair of night-glasses, which turned everything he looked at green, but enabled him to see clearly. Sarge, who had trained him in the SAS when he was writing an article on the secretive outfit, had recommended them.

Two-thirds of the way down the gulley he paused again and listened. Only the sound of silence. He scrambled up the left bank and plunged into the wood. There was a mixture of big firs, the occasional pine and the leafless deciduous trees which reminded him of skeletons. Why think of that word at a time like this?

His sense of direction was good. He saw the glimmer of moonlight ahead, knew he was close to the edge of Black Wood. He proceeded more slowly. Then he was looking out across a field at the houses. Before leaving his car he had again studied the map Paula had provided. He had arrived just where he wanted to be.

A huge tall pine loomed above him. He began to climb, using convenient branches as rungs in a ladder. He was high up, near the top, when he found a natural settling place. Sturdy branches splayed out, concealed by the foliage. He perched the Uzi in a safe place, took out the water bottle from his satchel over his right shoulder, drank three modest swallows, capped the bottle. Now he felt full of energy. Sitting down, he pulled aside some of the pine's foliage.

There it was. About a hundred yards across a flat field. The bungalow to his right – Martin Hogarth's – appeared to have no lights. He extracted his monocular glass from the satchel, pressed it against his eye. Martin's bungalow jumped at him, its rear side. All the windows had shutters closed, but he saw gleams of light between the blades. Martin was still up.

He swivelled the glass to the next bungalow beyond the wide gap between the two buildings. Shutters again closed over all windows, but gleams of light filtering through them. Beaurain and Paula had taken up residence.

'They'll know we're up here somewhere,' Paula warned as she poured coffee. 'I know we drove slowly before we parked the car in Mrs Gobble's shed – where I parked mine when I ended up trapped in that horrible cellar.'

'That's all right.' The tall Beaurain was smiling as he gripped her shoulder briefly. 'We want to stir them up, worry them. That's when they'll make a mistake.'