Colin Forbes: This United state

'You two will be gabbling all night and the meal is ready,' Mrs Carson said severely.

'What do they think about the assassination of our Prime Minister in the States?' Newman asked as they followed her upstairs.

'The rumour they spread was it was the work of a splinter group of the IRA.'

'Who might "they" be?'

'Top-flight spin doctors. Incidentally, a team of them have also arrived at the Embassy. Experts in TV, radio and the Internet. Why, I don't know. Something very big is being planned.' Dillon drank the rest of his Scotch.

'When I said top-flight I meant it – recruited from private industry.'

'What do these spin doctors do in America?' Newman asked as they entered the kitchen-breakfast room.

'Brainwash people. Which is why the President is still in the White House.'

'Stop chattering, you two,' Mrs Carson ordered. 'Supper is ready. I hope you like roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, Mr Dillon?'

'Lead me to it. And call me Cord.'

'I must call Tweed from the office here,' Newman told her. 'I may not have time to eat anything. Back in a minute.'

Opening another door, he went into a small room after switching on the light. Closing the door, he sat in a swivel chair behind a desk. Its surface contained a phone, the machine Mrs Carson typed her reports on, but no fax. Security was very tight at the Bunker. When Monica answered he asked for Tweed.

'I'm on the line…' Tweed's voice.

'Be careful. I'm not sure this is any longer a safe phone.' Newman was recalling Dillon's reference to a team of communication experts arriving at Grosvenor Square. 'I've arrived here with the parcel.'

'Any important data?'

'Yes, but I don't think I should give you it on the phone. I propose to drive straight back. I can give it to you in the morning.'

'I'd like it tonight. I'll wait for you.'

'I'm on my way…'

Going back into the other room, he found Dillon ravenously devouring Mrs Carson's meal. She had refilled his whisky glass and was eating a small portion herself. The aroma made Newman suddenly feel hungry. Mrs Carson was an excellent cook, besides being a crack shot with a variety of weapons.

'Sorry,' he said, 'but I have to drive straight back to London. Cord, I have a full outfit of clothes down here, including pyjamas and shaving kit. You'll find everything you need.'

'Thank you, friend, for bringing me here.' Dillon had stood up, left hand holding his napkin, shaking New- man's with the other. 'How long will I be in the Bunker?'

'Until it's safe to come out. There are fifteen acres round the farmhouse. Mrs Carson will show you outside. She'll give you some old farmer's clothes in case anyone sees you. They'll think you're a yokel.'

'Better practise my yokel accent.'

Mrs Carson was putting the plates of food in a warming drawer. She produced her keys, ready to let Newman out.

'One more thing, Cord, before I go. All the things you have seen recently, what has happened to you. Any idea what it's all about?'

'The whole grim business is a mystery.'

Mrs Carson dimmed the lights before unlocking the main door. Newman hugged her, went out into the breathtaking cold air to his car. He drove slowly back up the track and Mrs Carson timed the opening of the gate perfectly.

Leaving the farmhouse behind, he turned his lights on full beam. As he navigated the maze of lanes half his mind was on driving the car, half on what Dillon had told him. Why did he have a sense of imminent doom?

When Newman walked into Tweed's office in the middle of the night there was a tense atmosphere. Paula and Monica sat silently behind their desks. Tweed was leaning forward in his chair chatting to a man in his thirties who Newman detested. Basil Windermere.

Leaning against a wall, smoking a king-size, stood Marler, a key member of Tweed's team, reputed to be the best marksman in the whole of Western Europe. Shorter than. Newman – he was five feet seven tall – Marler was slim and, as usual, smartly dressed. Wearing a grey suit with a Prince of Wales check, his trouser creases were knife-edged, his white shirt fresh from the dry-cleaner, his blue silk tie decorated with a subtle chain link design. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and his clean-shaven face had an expression suggesting he was miles away in thought.

'I think you know Basil,' Tweed said.

'We've met,' Newman replied without enthusiasm.

'Good to see you, old chap.' Windermere extended a hand which Newman ignored. 'What a bunch of night birds we are,' he went on in the soft voice which made many women fall over backwards. 'I'm here to put Tweed on to a good thing. Heard on the grapevine Sharon Mandeville is up for insurance to the tune of thirty million dollars.'

'Thought she was in America,' Newman lied.

'My dear chap, you're the world's greatest foreign correspondent. Thought you kept up to date. The delectable Sharon is in town here. Some big job with the American Embassy. Thought of Tweed at once. His insurance company handles protective cover against eminent souls being kidnapped.'

Which confirmed to Newman that Windermere had no idea the General amp; Cumbria Assurance plate on the., door at the entrance was a cover for the secret HQ of the SIS. He simply nodded. Windermere turned back to Tweed.

'I'm a bit short of the readies.' He flicked index finger and thumb. 'Some of the folding stuff for the tip would most certainly not come amiss.'

'Who is proposing to pay this enormous premium?' Tweed asked.

'Presumably her latest billionaire boy friend back in the US of A.'

'Presumably? The boy friend has a name?'

'Sorry, I haven't got that far.'

'Maybe this anonymous boy friend hasn't got that far either. He could just hope to.'

'Mind if I smoke?'

Windermere extracted a gold cigarette case from his pocket and selected a Turkish cigarette with a flourish. On the outside was engraved a royal-looking crown. Undoubtedly a fake, Newman decided. Just like the owner.

Windermere was known to live off rich women. Once a male model, he was six feet tall, and took care to keep his weight down at a health club. This was one place where he encountered female prospects. He was wearing a white linen suit, which was ridiculous for the time of the year. He hardly ever stopped smiling, which Newman described as a smirk. He had a head of thick hair and too-perfect features.

'How did you come by this information?' Tweed probed.

'Met her at a party, didn't I? She's something else again – a real knock-out. Intelligent with it. Told me during the course of our long conversation. Think she rather liked me. I took the liberty of mentioning your organization.'

'Who mentioned my name?'

'She did, as a matter of fact. Hope you don't mind.' 'Don't do it again,' Tweed said. 'I don't tout for any of my business.'

'Any chance of a small advance for the tip?'

'None at all. Too vague.'

'A couple of hundred pounds would make me happy.'

'Try your luck with the lottery.'

'Suppose I'd better love you and leave you.' Windermere stood up. The hostile reception has at last penetrated his thick skull, Newman said to himself. 'I had a coat.'

Monica was already taking down his white coat from a hook. She simply handed it to him without making any effort to help him on with it. Windermere stood very still, glancing round the spartan office. Newman could see why he would be attractive to a certain type of woman.

'Don't think I know you,' Windermere remarked, addressing Marler.

'You don't.'

'And what a charming lady,' Windermere went on, gazing at Paula.

She had her head down, studying some papers. She appeared not to have heard him.

'Newman will accompany you to the door,' Tweed told him.

'Let's keep in touch, you beautiful people…'