Colin Forbes: This United state

'I think, Cord, we'd better get you out of London,' suggested Tweed. 'Right away. Bob, could you drive Cord down to the Bunker in Kent? You left your luggage downstairs, I presume, Cord?'

'Left it on the carousel at Heathrow. Decided I'd better get a cab out to Brown's fast. I remembered you use the hotel a lot. I was going to phone you from there. Didn't want to risk leading the people after me here. To hell with my case back at the airport.'

'Any personal identification on the ease – or inside it?' Tweed persisted.

'No. The label only gives the flight number and destination. Not a thing inside.'

'Then we'd better get moving down to Kent,' Newman said, standing up. 'We'll go in my Merc.'

'Not so fast. Wait.' Tweed took a pair of powerful night glasses out of a drawer, went towards the large window masked by drawn curtains. 'Monica, switch out the lights, please.'

With the room in darkness he opened a gap in the curtains, focused the glasses. His action had created an air of tension. No one moved but Paula was close enough to peer over his shoulder. The large office overlooking Regent's Park in the distance was full of an ominous silence.

'Did you get the registration number of that Cadillac?' Tweed asked.

'Of course.'

She recited it from memory. Tweed called over Newman, handed him the glasses. Then he quietly walked back and sat behind his desk before he spoke.

'The same Cadillac is parked on the main road at the right-hand entrance to Park Crescent. Four men inside. Obviously watching this building.

'I'll go out and move them. They're illegally parked,' Newman announced after checking through the glasses.

'You can't,' Tweed informed him. 'Paula, have you checked the car too?'

'Yes, it's the same one.'

She handed the glasses back to Tweed, having first carefully closed the curtains. Monica put on the lights again. Everyone stared at each other and Dillon then spoke.

'We're trapped.'

'I'm going out to move the bastards,' Newman insisted.

'You can't,' Tweed repeated. 'That Cadillac has diplomatic plates.'

'And the rats inside will all have diplomatic passports,' Dillon told them. 'Before I left Washington I heard the staff at the Grosvenor Square Embassy had been increased by two hundred. All with diplomatic passports.'

'You still want Cord taken to the Bunker?' Newman demanded.

'Yes. As soon as possible.'

'Then we'll leave now. We'll alter your appearance.' Standing up, Newman studied the American. 'We're about the same build – you can wear my trench coat. That camel-hair is a giveaway.'

'And Marler's beret is in the cupboard,' chimed in Paula as she fetched it. 'The fit may be a bit tight but it will do the trick.'

'And,' Tweed suggested, 'walk more slowly, Cord. Not your usual stride. Take shorter steps. Body language identifies anyone.

'I'll put your executive case inside a canvas holder,' Monica decided.'And I'll carry it,' said Newman.

'Harry,' instructed Tweed over his phone. 'A small immediate problem. We're smuggling someone out of the building into Newman's car. A white Cadillac with gunmen is parked on the main road. I don't think they'll risk opening fire on our visitor – although they did just that in Albemarle Street.'

'I'll wait outside with a smoke bomb.'

'Only use it if you have to. They're on their way down.'

'They'll shoot me if they can,' Dillon said over his shoulder at the doorway. 'And I have things to tell you…'

'Tell Bob on your way to the Bunker. He'll relay what you say to me. If necessary, I can call you down there on a safe phone. Go!'

The beret was a tight fit but it concealed the American's hair. The trench coat Newman had given him fitted better. The camel-hair coat was left on a chair. The horn-rimmed glasses, provided by Paula, perched comfortably on his broken nose. George, the guard, waited by the door after taking a brief call from Tweed.

'Where's Harry Butler?' Newman asked, the executive case tucked under his arm inside its canvas covering.

'Went outside,' George reported. 'Said he was going for a quick stroll..

Butler, a burly man, armed with a Walther 9mm automatic pistol inside his hip holster, had his right hand holding the smoke bomb concealed under his windcheater. He was halfway to where the Cadillac was parked when Newman emerged, unlocked his Merc, ushered Dillon into the front passenger seat. Unfortunately, the exhausted American forgot to disguise his normal way of walking.

As Newman started the engine Butler was in two minds about hurling the smoke bomb at the Cadillac.

Remembering Tweed's explicit order he resisted the temptation until trouble started. Newman drove at speed out of the Crescent, turned along the main road in the opposite direction to where the enemy was parked. As he did so the driver of the Cadillac, who had kept the engine running, purred after him.

'They're coming,' said Dillon, twisted round in his seat.

'Let them,' Newman replied. 'Plenty of time to lose them on the way south…'

'This sounds to be getting more dangerous,' Paula said to Tweed when the two men had left.

'It's certainly getting interesting,' Tweed responded, seated casually in his chair, hands again clasped behind his head.

'Interesting? Two hundred men sent to the American Embassy. A brazen attempt to murder the Deputy Director of the CIA in the middle of London in an American car carrying diplomatic plates. Another horde of thugs flying to Paris, then coming in here via Eurostar. And you call it interesting?'

'I need more data to work out what is happening. Cord Dillon may provide that when he talks to Newman.'

'Why did you take all that trouble creating the Bunker down in Kent? It's almost like a stand-by headquarters.'

'That's exactly what it is. In case we have to move out of here quickly.'

'This is getting scary. You only got back from Washington three days ago. But you didn't seem surprised when Dillon turned up.'

'I heard a rumour from a source that Cord was on his way out – that he was being replaced by a man called Ed Osborne. A very tough ruthless gentleman.'

'I meant to ask you,' Paula went on, 'where is Marler?'

'He's in Paris, meeting some of his informants. He'll be back any day now.'

'And you'll go all cryptic on me if I ask you what Marler is trying to find out.'

'Incidentally,' Tweed mused, 'I found Washington in a state of feverish activity. No one knew why – or they wouldn't tell me. Like a volcano about to explode.'

'You didn't answer my question about Marler.'

'Marler?' Tweed suppressed a yawn. 'He's attempting to discover who assassinated our Prime Minister in Manchester last week.'

'This traffic is as bad as I've seen in LA,' Dillon commented. 'And the Cadillac has picked us up again – it's three cars behind us.'

Newman was driving his Merc among an armada of speeding cars in the dark moonless night. He chose his moment carefully for the manoeuvre when a huge truck masked the Cadillac, then turned in to the left-hand lane. They climbed a hill via a slip road and the traffic had disappeared.

'We were on the M20 motorway driving south,' Newman explained. 'So much traffic at this late hour was due to the accident which held us up further back. Now the poor devils back on the motorway are ramming their feet down to get home hours late.' He checked his rear-view mirror again. 'We've lost the Cadillac '

'So where are we headed for?'

'Canterbury, eventually. Which is where we don't want to go. So at the next roundabout we'll turn back and rejoin the M20. I want to turn off it at Junction Eight. Are you too tired to talk?'

'Guess not. Strange things are happening in Washington. A heavy delegation is heading for Britain – some have arrived.'