Colin Forbes - Cell

'Stop worrying, Paula. We shall pull it off.'

At Carpford Margesson, wearing a suit, drove the four-wheel-drive he had kept concealed in a shed. The suit was necessary. Dressed in his robes, it would have been dangerous driving.

Skilfully, after leaving the village, he sped down the curving road. There was a wind, which rustled his beard. Above, the sun shone down out of a duck-egg-blue sky. His extraordinary face had a determined expression.

Anxious to reach his destination, he spun round curves at speed. He roared up the sunken tunnel with Black Wood above him on either side. Reaching the triangle he swung down towards the main road leading to London.

Inside a holster strapped under his jacket he carried a pistol, fully loaded. He had no illusions as to the jungle the world had become. At one deserted point he raised his voice, called out.

'Allah be praised.'

His tone of voice had a peculiar inflection.

Peregrine Palfry, faultlessly dressed, walked down Whitehall. He wondered why it was so deserted. No traffic. No people. He had even had to identify himself at a police checkpoint before he could enter Whitehall.

He was mystified and very worried. In one hand he carried the obligatory briefcase, part of the uniform. The other hand grasped a tightly rolled umbrella. Ridiculous considering the clear blue sky, the sun shining down on him.

He checked his watch. It was all a matter of timing. He ran up the steps to the Ministry, jammed his thumb into the bell. He was taken aback when, instead of the usual guard, a uniformed policeman opened the door. Furious, he had to show identification before the policeman would let him enter. This really was too much. He was personal assistant to the Minister. He glared.

'What on earth is going on?'

'Danger of major gas explosion, sir. Could bring down whole buildings.'

Palfry hurried up to the Minister's office. He wouldn't be there. A full meeting of the Cabinet was in session. He had to find out what was really going on.

Drew Franklin, wearing a white polo-necked sweater and white, perfectly creased slacks, left his office at the Daily Nation. Erect as a military officer, he walked into the editor's office without bothering to knock.

The editor looked up, frowning, then saw who it was. He smiled. Drew was one of their major assets, a reason why their daily sales kept climbing. Drew was also prickly and had to be handled with care. He opened his mouth, but Drew spoke first in his upper-crust, barking voice.

'You have to hold the front page for tomorrow,' he ordered. 'It will be fully occupied by a major story I shall be writing. Do make sure those clots downstairs understand.'

Saying which, he left the room before the editor could reply. The editor rubbed his eyes, picked up the phone and passed the news downstairs. He refused to explain the reason for this unprecedented decision. He felt better when he'd put down the phone. Had to be careful. Drew could be back asking if he had carried out the instruction.

The Cabinet meeting was coming to an end. Victor Warner was looking pleased, self-satisfied. They had approved the new mandate the PM had personally composed. No option really. The PM was presiding at the meeting. A copy of the mandate was already on its way to Park Crescent by motor-cycle courier.

A spanner in the works at a critical moment. He only wished he could be present when Tweed received his copy.

Inside the Minister's penthouse, Mrs Carson was irritated beyond endurance. Eva Brand, seated at her desk in Warner's study, was checking her watch yet again. She must have checked the time five times in the last hour.

'Mrs Carson,' Eva snapped. 'First, you have no right to be in here without permission. Second, if you had to deal with this heap of papers by a deadline you would worry about time.'

'But you keep on checking your watch,' Mrs Carson complained, repeating what she had said when she'd entered.

'The needle has got stuck in the track,' Eva retorted. 'You have said that once already. Now, tomorrow morning the Minister is holding a special meeting at Carpford. I have a lot to accomplish. May I, therefore, suggest you leave this room?'

'I am the housekeeper,' Mrs Carson replied, drawing herself up.

'Then go and keep house in the kitchen. Or the toilet for all I care. But get out of this study and stay out.' Her voice was hard. So was her expression. 'And close the door behind you. Quietly, please.'

'Well, I never

'No, you probably never did. Just go. Now!'

At this stage in her life the last thing Eva was prepared to put up with was impertinence from a housekeeper. As the door closed quietly she checked her watch once more.

It was a blockbuster. Tweed, together with Paula, Beaurain and Newman, had just settled in the office when Howard walked in. Moving slowly, he looked very unhappy. In his right hand he held a sheet of paper. Paula stared. Never before had she seen the Director look embarrassed.

'Sorry to intrude,' Howard began. 'I thought you ought to know right away, Tweed. The PM has revoked his previous order placing you in supreme command of the operation. This has just arrived by courier.'

For a short time there was silence. Then there were groans. Someone, under their breath, but clear enough for all to hear, questioned the legitimacy of the PM's birth.

Only Tweed remained undisturbed, his face without expression. He held out his hand to Howard who handed him the document. Tweed scanned it swiftly, then read it out aloud.

From now on I would appreciate dose collaboration between the SIS and the Ministry of Security. Whenever this may be necessary to facilitate the success of the operation. As and when Mr Tweed may consider it will ensure success.

Tweed looked up. It was signed by the PM himself. Below it detailed copies to the Home Secretary, the Deputy Commissioner of Scotland Yard, Superintendent Buchanan of Scotland Yard. Nothing more.

'It will be a disaster,' Newman burst out. 'A complete and terrible disaster.'

'I don't think so at all,' Tweed told him. 'You haven't noticed something is missing.',

'What is that?' Howard asked.

'No copy to me, listed at the foot of the document. This is a photocopy, doubtless sent by Victor Warner. The PM is simply soothing fevered brows. In no way does it change my original status.'

'Thank God,' said Howard. 'Sorry, I missed that omission.'

The phone rang. Monica called over to Tweed.

'Victor Warner is on the line to speak to you.'

Tweed switched on the new speak-box Monica had installed. He disliked it but had thanked her fulsomely. Now everyone would hear the ensuing conversation. He also pressed the record button.

'Yes, Minister.'

'That's Tweed, isn't it? I recognize the dulcet tones,' the voice sneered.

'What is it?'

'I have heard rumours – which I believe to be accurate -that a meeting was held in your office to which I was not invited.'

'That's right. You were not invited,' Tweed replied.

'Do you realize the Prime Minister has ordered the closest collaboration between all security services on the dreadful situation facing us?'

'Read the communication again, Warner. It does say, "As and when Mr Tweed may consider it will ensure success." So any decision is for me to take, as in the original mandate. You really should read communications from the PM more carefully.'

'Tweed! I consider you are exceeding your powers…'

'Then go on considering it. I am fully occupied dealing with the crisis…'

He switched off. Hand-clapping and cheers broke out. Tweed glared.

'That will be enough of that. We have wasted four minutes over nothing at all.' He turned to Howard. 'Thank you for keeping me up to date. I fear Warner is losing his nerve.'