Colin Forbes - This United state

'Her father who was killed with his wife in a car crash somewhere in Virginia a year or so ago?'

'That's right – Jean Chatel. Sent over officially as an attache, but really a member of the French Secret Service.'

'Why are you so interested in him?' she asked as Tweed overtook a convoy of three large trucks.

'Because he was sent to find out what the Americans were up to – and especially because Jean Chatel and his wife died in a car accident at exactly the same bridge where years before Sharon's parents died in a car accident.'

'I don't see the connection.'

'Neither do I,' admitted Tweed. 'But I have a feeling there is a connection – and that it might be the key to what is going on now. I'm hoping Rene will be able to give me more information.'

'Does he know you're coming?'

'Yes. I called him briefly on Beck's mobile from my room when I went to collect my case before we left the Hotel Regent.'

'We're getting low on petrol,' Paula warned.

'Yes, I had noticed. And I think I see the lights of an all-night service station ahead. While we're filling up I want to call Roy Buchanan.'

'I'll deal with the petrol,' Newman called out.

'I can do that myself,' said Kent. 'I feel like stretching my legs, making myself useful.'

'You've been of invaluable help already, Keith,' Tweed assured him. 'But if you feel like that you can tank us up. Here we are.'

While Kent was filling up the tank Tweed used the mobile to try to contact Buchanan. He was lucky:- The familiar voice, taut and grim, answered immediately.

'Who is this?'

'It's Tweed. Roy, if you can, I'd like you to do something for me. I'm going to see Jefferson Morgenstern when I get back to London. Have you any evidence that the Americans were behind the bombings in London?'

'Yes. A security video in the Oxford Street outrage survived the blast. We have a very clear picture of the man who planted that bomb. A very tall thin man with a hard bony face…'

'A very tall thin man with a hard bony face,' Tweed repeated, looking back at Newman.

'Vernon Kolkowski,' Newman said promptly.

'We know – knew – him,' Tweed reported to Buchanan 'He's dead as the proverbial doornail. Name of Vernon Kolkowski. I'll spell that… Got it? Good. He was probably based at the American Embassy while I was still in London.'

'He was. We secretly photographed him when he re-entered the Embassy. Couldn't do a thing about it. They all carried those diplomatic passports.'

'What I'd like you to do is to compile a file of evidence – including what you've told me, with pics. I'd like as fat a file as possible to show Morgenstern when I get back:'

'Consider it done. No more bombings. Our drastic security precautions are working. Touch wood,' he added. 'When will you be back?'

'At a guess, within the next twenty-four hours.' 'The file will be waiting for you.'

The connection was broken and Tweed sank back with relief. He smiled as Paula asked the question he'd been expecting.

'Why do you want to talk to Morgenstern?'

'I said quite a while ago that I was convinced that the Americans are operating at two different levels, in watertight compartments. Sharon confirmed that. I don't think the diplomatic side has any idea of what the Executive Action Department lot have been up to, the crimes they've committed. And Morgenstern is greatly respected not only globally but also inside the States. To the American public Morgenstern is Washington.'

He glanced in his rear-view mirror. Marler's Audi was parked behind them while Butler filled up its tank. Kent reappeared out of a large cafe attached to the petrol station. Paula lowered her window as he handed her two large paper bags. He leaned into the car.

'Mineral water in one bag, fresh croissants in the other. Most of the customers sitting inside are truckers. Their vehicles are parked out at the back. In France bakeries work through the night to produce fresh croissants. The French insist on them, as you may know. In the morning housewives make a trip to the nearest source of supply. Must have fresh croissants for breakfast.'

'Keith, you're an angel,' Paula purred.

She leant out of the window, kissed him on the cheek. At that moment Marler strolled up to Tweed's window. He was stretching his arms.

'Got a moment?' he asked.

'A few minutes only. Think I'll get out and flex my muscles…'

Paula was drinking water out of the bottle. When she'd quenched her thirst she wiped the neck of the bottle with a clean handkerchief. Then she handed the bottle to Newman.

'Excuse my unladylike manners. When you've had a drink I'll pass you some croissants. Don't forget Keith,' she went on as Kent got back in beside Newman.

'While I was marooned back at the Schwarzwalder Hof in Freiburg,' Marler began, 'I went out, found a public phone, called Alf.'

'Alf?'

'Alf Rudge. Top man in that cockney mob I once mentioned to you. In my spare time, for several weeks I've been training them as a reserve. Tough lot. All cab drivers. Took them out into the wilds of the Chiltern Hills. Seven of them, including Alf. Set up a makeshift shooting range in the middle of nowhere. Trained them with handguns, grenades, and machine-pistols. Three of them already knew their stuff – veterans of the Gulf War. They're all pretty much crack shots now.'

'Could come in very useful,' Tweed mused. 'The Americans have unlimited manpower. How can they afford the time if they're cab drivers?'

'Easy. They all own their cabs. Alf has one or two Americans as friends, but like the rest of his mob he does not like the Yanks. Can I tell you quickly a story about Alf?'

'In five minutes – at the outside – we must head for Paris again.'

They were walking about, working their legs in the glare of lights. Nield, a grenade concealed in one hand, his Walther in the other, was outside, watching the highway.

'Alf,' Marler explained, 'flew to LA for a change. One night he's out for a walk when three thugs approach him, demand his money. He takes out his wallet, shows them it has only a single one-hundred-dollar bill. Tells them he has more back where he's staying nearby. If they promise not to harm him they can have all the money. Leads them back to the run-down hotel where he's staying, up to his room. The chief thug has a gun barrel pressed into his neck, the other two stay downstairs in case police appear. Alf says if the chief thug takes the gun off his neck he'll tell him where to get the money. The thug obliges, Alf tells him to open a heavy drawer. The thug does so, Alf jams his hand inside, ramming the drawer shut. Alf slams him one on the jaw, the thug collapses, semi-conscious. Alf calls down to the others. They arrive, Alf uses the chief thug's gun to hammer their heads. He topples all three down the stairs, out into the street. Sleazy owner turns up, Alf pays his bill, tells him he's going to Malibu. Packs his case, flags down a cab, goes to the airport, catches the first flight home.'

'Alf can take care of himself,' Tweed commented. 'I see Butler, like Kent, has taken a bag of goodies to your car. Now, we get moving. Fast.'

'Shove your ruddy foot down,' snarled Rupert. 'This car's moving like a snail.'

'Some snail, my dear chap,' replied Basil, behind the wheel. 'I'm driving right on the speed limit.'

'To hell with the speed limit. I wanna get to Paris.' 'That's where we're going, dear boy.'

'Don't you "dear boy" me. We're the same flaming age. Thirty-two. In case you've forgotten,' he sneered.

'I had not forgotten. Exceed the speed limit and a patrol car nabs us. We end up in the Sante Prison in Paris. Heard of what it's like inside there, have we? They shove you inside and throw away the key.'

'I'll take over the wheel. Stop the car,' Rupert raged.