Colin Forbes - This United state

'This is wonderful news, Roy. Congratulations.'

'We've beaten the so-and-sos,' Buchanan said jubilantly, a man Tweed had never before known to show emotion.

'Hold on, Roy,' he warned. 'I think the monster crisis is yet to come. How about the bombings?'

'None since I surrounded the American Embassy with plain-clothes men.'

'Thank Heaven for that. Just don't relax your efforts one inch.'

Tweed had just put down the phone when it started ringing. He picked it up quickly.

'Hello, who is it?'

'Rene. I'm back. Could you come now to rue.. Lasalle paused. 'Is this phone safe?'

'Yes. I'm on a hacker-proof mobile.'

'Then could you come now to rue des Saussaies? I have news for you.'

'Can you dig out your file on Jean Chatel?'

'It will be waiting for you, my friend.'

'I'm on my way. Oh, can I bring Paula and Newman with me?'

'They will be most welcome.'

Tweed kept his word. He phoned Paula and Newman, asked them to come to his room immediately.

Very few people know about – or notice – rue des Saussaies, the headquarters of the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire. In other words, French counter-espionage. A short narrow street almost opposite the Elysee Palace, it is passed by without so much as a glance by tourists. The entrance to the nondescript building is halfway along on the left, approached from the Elysee end. Newman stopped the car at the entrance and Tweed showed the guard his passport. The guard waved them inside.

'M. Lasalle is expecting you, sir.'

Newman parked the car in the small cobbled courtyard at the end of a short stone tunnel. An officer in plain clothes led them inside and up an old stone staircase to an office on the first floor. Lasalle rose from behind an old wooden desk to greet his guests.

'Coffee?' he suggested.

'It would help,' Tweed agreed.

Rene Lasalle, in his fifties, was small and slim and sported a neat moustache. He was dressed in a dark business suit and he pulled out a chair for Paula, then, returned to sit behind his desk. A shabby green file was the only object on its surface apart from a telephone.

'The bullet arrived from Chief Inspector Buchanan some time ago,' he began. 'I'm sure you know which bullet I'm referring to.'

'I know very well,' Tweed assured him.

'We have had time,' Lasalle explained in his excellent English, 'to compare it meticulously with the bullet extracted from our late French Minister. It is a perfect match.'

'Then it's the Phantom again.'

'I would like your permission to send this bullet to my colleague in the German police at Wiesbaden, Otto Kuhlmann. For comparison with the bullet extracted from the body of Keller, also assassinated, as you know.'

'Send it by all means,' Tweed urged. 'Is that the file on Jean Chatel?'

'It is. I would ask you to treat its contents with confidentiality. In fact, officially you have never seen it. The Secret Service is very prickly about its documentation. Rightly so, you might agree.'

'Of course.' Tweed read the first few paragraphs, typed in French, then began to comment. 'This states that the real purpose of Jean Chatel's assignment to Washington is illumination. Specifically, is it true the Americans are preparing a plan which would change the geopolitical balance in Europe? Important that this includes the state of Great Britain…' Tweed went on reading.

'It was just over a year ago roughly when Chatel went to Washington, wasn't it?' asked Newman.

'No. Twenty months ago. But it was just over a year ago when he and his wife were murdered in the fake car accident in Virginia.'

'Murdered? You have evidence?' Newman queried. 'Let Tweed read on. You will see then.'

'This,' said Tweed, 'is a summary of a report sent to Paris by Chatel fifteen months ago. Chatel has reported he is followed everywhere by a team of American agents. He fears for his life, but asks to be allowed to continue his investigation.'

'It's getting grimmer,' commented Paula.

'It gets even grimmer,' Lasalle told her.

'The next report from Chatel,' Tweed went on, 'states that there is a highly detailed plan for the Americans to occupy Great Britain by subterfuge, employing every ruthless technique which will help to bring this objective about.'

'Why didn't you warn us?' Newman demanded.

'I wished to do just that,' Lasalle said bitterly. 'But it was argued by my superior that we had no concrete evidence, no documentation. He said the British would simply think it was a device by the French government to drive a wedge between Britain and the United States. I protested vigorously. The issue went up to the President in the Elysee. He agreed with my superior's decision.'

'Here we come to it,' said Tweed. 'Chatel reported that the momentous operation had been devised and was being directed by an individual called Charlie…'

'My God,' exclaimed Paula.

'Let me go on,' said Tweed. 'Chatel reported that he had made all efforts to identify the individual, Charlie, but so far had had no success. He ends by saying he thinks he is very close to locating Charlie.' Tweed looked up at Lasalle. 'How recent was this final report?'

'One week before he was killed in the so-called road accident.'

'Would it be possible, Rene, for me to have a copy of this final report? If so, I suggest you do so in a way which eliminates the printed reference to your department at the top of this sheet?'

'You ask a lot.' Lasalle paused, clasped his hands, stared up at the ceiling. 'But you deserve a lot,' he decided eventually. 'Considering we did not warn you earlier. Ah, at long last, we have coffee.' He spoke in French to the officer who carried a tray. 'Have you had to fly to Brazil to get the beans? Just put it down on my desk and leave us alone.'

He picked up his phone and spoke rapidly in French. Almost at once when he had ended the call an attractive girl came in, took the sheet he had extracted from the file handed back to him by Tweed. Then he poured coffee, handing the first cup to Paula.

'I have it on my conscience that I did not contact you to warn you. We have worked so well together in the past it seemed to me I was guilty of a kind of betrayal.'

'Nonsense,' replied Tweed, after sipping coffee, 'and it is very possible your President was right. Our late Prime Minister was not strong on international politics. He might well have thought it was all more French trickery to undermine our relationship with the Americans.'

'I comfort myself with the fact that I did report to you that a horde of strange Americans were infiltrating Britain by air and by Eurostar.'

'Also, Rene, the photos you sent enabled us to identify some of the most villainous types – most of whom are now dead.'

'Dead?' Lasalle's grey eyes twinkled as he glanced at Newman and Paula. 'I expect you have all been very busy.'

'There has been a certain amount of activity,' Newman replied.

The four of them chatted for a few minutes about times when they had cooperated during a crisis. The attractive girl came back, handed several sheets to Lasalle, who thanked her. Lasalle took the original sheet, carefully inserted it back inside his file. He then folded three other sheets, inserted them into a thick white envelope which he handed to Tweed.

'There are three excellent photocopies of the vital page. You are most welcome.'

The phone rang. Lasalle answered, listened, took a pad from a drawer, scribbled on it. At one stage Tweed heard him asking the caller to spell a name. He then ended the call.

'Tweed, this information may – or may not – be of interest to you. A Mlle Sharon Mandeville left the Ritz a while ago to catch a flight back to London. Shortly afterwards, in another car, a M. Osborne also left to catch the same flight. A M. Basil Windermere with a M. Rupert Strangeways left earlier to board the Eurostar for London.'