Colin Forbes - Cell

'Any trace of al-Qa'eda?'

'Do let me tell this in my own way,' Buchanan insisted. 'Inside the smaller barn Mrs Sharp mentioned – not so small – we found a pile of used sleeping-bags.' He paused. 'Thirty of them.'

'Thirty?'

'You look taken aback. Thirty sleeping-bags – thirty men at least. They had cleaned up but we found this.'

Newman had been sitting in a hard-backed chair by Paula's desk. He had not spoken a word but he sat leaning forward, watching Buchanan intently. His mouth compressed when he'd heard this but he made no comment.

Tweed examined the torn piece of cloth inside the evidence envelope handed to him. Then he beckoned to Newman, who walked over, took the envelope. He pursed his lips, handed the envelope back to Tweed.

'I'd say that could have come off one of those black turbans worn by al-Qa'eda. Thirty is a powerful strike force.'

'That's my conclusion,' Buchanan agreed as Newman returned to his chair. 'We also found bits of food which I've sent for analysis. Bless Mrs Sharp. But there's more, down that track where we saw the white van and Mrs Wharton with Pooh.'

'How did you get there also in the time?'

'Flew back to City Airport.'Buchanan grinned. 'We must have landed just before you closed it down. Then waiting unmarked police cars took us to Mrs Wharton's bleak track. The white van is no longer there. Unfortunately a heavy mist was coming in off the river. We walked all the way down the track until we reached the Thames. There's a wide ramp leading to a long landing stage. Across the river, a bit further up it, we could just make out the new power station. Alongside it is a big wharf, Dick's wharf they call it.'

'See any trace of the enemy?'

'No, it was difficult. The mist was getting denser. I used night glasses but the result was a blur. I did see three huge barges moored on either side of the wharf.'

'You mean six barges altogether?'

'That's what I vaguely made out.'

'Any sign of activity at all?'

'None. Lights were on inside the power station, but you'd expect that.'

'I suggest we act at once,' Tweed said, standing up. 'You assemble a large force of heavily armed police, commandeer boats for us to cross…'

'Hold on. There were two big launches also moored to the wharf. And you don't know London as well as I do,' he said grimly.

'What's the matter? You don't look happy about my suggestion.'

'But,' said Buchanan, looking at Newman, 'you might like to see this.' He produced from his pocket a map which he unfolded and spread out across Tweed's desk. It showed the district they had visited when they encountered Mrs Wharton and her poodle. Beaurain stood looking over Buchanan's shoulder as the superintendent used a pencil to trace the track's route to the river.

'With me?' he asked.

'So far, yes,' Tweed replied.

'This building on the other side is the Dick power station. Now look at the large building very close to the station. It is St Jude's Hospital. Over four hundred patients, overflow from the collapsing NHS. When Dixon, the owner of the power station development, called Dick by the river men, obtained permission to build he had to sign an agreement that any smoke from the station would pass into the most sophisticated filter system. Nothing escapes. You see the problem?'

'I do,' said Beaurain. 'If al-Qa'eda have taken control of the power station we can be sure they have a vast amount of high explosives. If they see us coming they'll detonate those explosives. Can you imagine what they would do to that hospital? Over four hundred patients.'

'We can't risk it,' said Tweed grimly. 'We're checkmated.'

When Victor Warner returned to the Cabinet room he reported exactly what Tweed had said. To his great annoyance the PM was amused. He closed the folder on the table in front of him.

'Gentlemen, I think we ought to end this meeting now. No more gabble…'

Warner returned to his Ministry, fuming, a folder under his arm. He encountered Palfry just before entering his office.

'I'll complete this work at home. You do have my car ready for me, I presume…'

Arriving inside his penthouse, he walked straight into his large study. Eva was working at her own desk, decoding a signal as Warner plonked his file down on his own desk. Warner dragged a chair over and sat beside her. Clad in a black trouser suit, she sensed he was in a bad mood. She didn't feel at all prepared to put up with it. So his approach took her by surprise.

'When this crisis is all over I think we need a holiday.'

'Good idea. I'll be going off to France.'

'No you won't.' His strange mouth was twisted in a smile as though contemplating something pleasurable. 'Instead you'll be coming with me to Bermuda. How do you fancy that?'

He placed a hand on her forearm, squeezed it. She removed the predatory hand without looking at him.

'The Elbow Beach Hotel,' he coaxed. 'It's the height of luxury. Has an enormous swimming-pool. Two weeks.'

She gathered up her papers and the code-book. Standing up, she looked down at him, no expression on her face. She really is a beauty, he was thinking.

'I've booked for France,' she told him. 'They can take me whenever I phone them.'

'We can hire bicycles from the hotel,' he continued. 'Get away from cars for a change. Explore the scenic wonders.'

'I don't like cycling,' she replied.

'It's pretty flat. Not hard work. You glide along.'

'Sounds idyllic,' she said in an indifferent tone.

'You'll need new clothes. Just give me the bills and I'll cover the expense.'

'I'll have to think about it.'

'It's an expression of appreciation for how well you look after me. You are a decoding genius. In Arabic too. Has the missing code message turned up?'

'I think they've sent a second copy as requested. It's on your desk. Since it's marked highly confidential I've left it for you to decode.'

'Damn Embassy in Cairo is not very efficient. I'm going to complain to the Ambassador. Now, what we were talking about?'

'I'll have to think about it,' she repeated and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Warner moved his chair back to his desk to deal with the message. He was smiling to himself. Women were all alike. They played hard to get. She would come round to his viewpoint.

No. 50 Upper Cheyne Lane was secreted inside a short cul-de-sac of small houses. As they drove in Paula quickly realized they were all conversions.

'They used to be garages,' she told Beaurain. 'Now they're nice little houses which probably cost a fortune. I think she must be at the end – even numbers on our right, odd ones on our left.'

Beaurain drove very slowly, bumping over the cobbled lane. He pulled up at the end where No. 50 was on the right. Two storeys high, the frontage was slim and painted white. The front door was blue. It was a neat, well-cared-for house.

Paula jumped out, followed by Beaurain, and pressed the brass doorbell, which gleamed. Inside they heard a dog start barking its head off. Paula smiled. Pooh was on guard. She pulled the collar of her windcheater up. It was almost dusk and the temperature was falling rapidly.

Mrs Wharton opened the door and Beaurain bent down to stroke Pooh who, recognizing them, stood up on his rear portion, with his front legs dangling. He was panting, hopefully with pleasure.

'Sorry to bother you,' Paula began, 'but Jules has something vital he needs to know urgently.'

'How nice to see you again. Do come in…'

Closing the door, she led them down a short narrow hall into a very small room, tastefully furnished. Space was clearly at a premium. She invited them to sit down on tapestry-covered chairs, offered them tea, which they both refused.

'Time is now against us,' Beaurain explained. 'I wonder if you could describe again that machine carried from the white van to the motorized trolley?' He took out a sketchpad Paula had handed to him in the car.