Colin Forbes - Double Jeopardy

'I prefer the dog to the man,' Tweed commented as he replaced his glasses and started walking again. 'Add him to the list. If anyone can find the vital discrepancy in the dossiers you can…'

Howard had reserved a room for the night at the discreet and well-appointed Hotel de France et Choiseul in rue St. Honore.

While he waited for his guest he put in a call to Park Crescent. When the night duty operator answered he identified himself and continued the conversation.

'I want a word with Tweed,' he said brusquely.

Just a moment, sir. I will put you through to his office.'

Howard checked his watch which registered 2245 hours. He was disturbed: Tweed was still inside Park Crescent when the building would be empty. It was later than he had realised when he made the call. He had another surprise when McNeil's voice came on the line. He spoke quickly to warn her it was an open line.

'I'm talking from my hotel room. I'd like an urgent word with Tweed…'

'I'm afraid Mr Tweed has been taken ill. Nothing serious – a bad attack of asthma. He's gone down to the country for a few days…'

'It's not possible to get him on the phone?'

'I'm afraid not, sir. When can we expect you back?' 'Impossible to say. Goodnight!'

Howard ended the call on a stiff note: he never liked questions about his future movements. Sitting on his bed he frowned while he recalled the conversation. That was an odd departure from McNeil's normal behaviour-asking a question she knew he would disapprove of.

In the Park Crescent office Miss McNeil smiled as she replaced the receiver. She had been confident the final question would get Howard off the line before he probed too deeply. She returned to her examination of the dossier in front of her. It carried a red star – top classification – on the cover, and a name. Frederick Anthony Howard.

In the Paris bedroom Howard was pacing impatiently when there was an irregular knocking on his locked door, the signal he had agreed with Alain Flandres. Despite the signal he extracted from his case the 7.65-mm automatic Flandres had loaned him and slipped it inside his pocket before opening the door. Flandres walked into the room.

'Chez Benoit, mon ami!'

The slim, springy Flandres was a tonic; always optimistic, his personalityfizzed. He walked round the room smiling, his dark eyes everywhere.

'Chez What?' Howard enquired.

'Benoit! Benoit! They serve some of the best food in all of Paris. The last serving is at 9.30 in the evening – but for me le patron makes the exception. The Police Prefect often eats there. You are ready? Good…'

Flandres had a cab waiting at the entrance to the hotel. The journey took no more than ten minutes and the Englishman, sunk in thought, remained silent. Normally voluble, Flandres also said nothing but he studied his companion until they arrived and Were ushered to a table. They were examining the menu when Flandres made his remark.

'My telex from London about the Carlos sighting this morning in Piccadilly has disturbed you? You wonder who he went there to meet? You were in London this morning?'

Howard closed the menu. 'What the bloody hell are you driving at, Alain?' he asked quietly.

'I have offended you?' Flandres was astonished. 'Always it is the same – I talk too much! And Renee Duval, the girl who sent me the telex – I have withdrawn her from London. She was only on routine assignment. Now, the really important subject is what we are to select for dinner…'

Flandres chattered on, steering the conversation away from the topic of the telex. He was now convinced something else was disturbing the Englishman, something he was carefully concealing from his French opposite number.

Saturday May 30

Washington, DC, Clint Loomis…

The extract from the secret notebook discovered on Warner's dead body had linked up with nothing so far, Tweed reflected.

Concorde landed on schedule at Dulles Airport. Tweed was not among the first passengers to alight, nor among the last. He did not believe in disguises but before disembarking he removed his glasses. This simple act transformed his appearance.

Clint Loomis was waiting outside. He ushered him straight into a nondescript blue sedan. The American, in his late fifties, had not changed since their last meeting. Serious-faced, his dark eyes penetrating and acutely observant, he wore an open-necked blue shirt and pale grey slacks. His hair had thinned somewhat.

'We can say "Hello" when we get there,' he remarked as he drove away from Dulles. 'Maybe you'd better take off your jacket…'

The sun was blazing, the humidity was appalling. It was like travelling inside a ship's boiler room.

'Is it always like this in May?' Tweed enquired as he wrestled himself out of his jacket, turned to cast it on the seat behind and looked through the rear window, studying the traffic.

'In Washington nothing is "always",' Loomis replied. 'In the US of A we're a restless lot – so we change the weather when we can't think of anything else to change. We'll talk when we get there-and no names.

O.K.?'

The car could be bugged?'

'They're bugging everything these days – even clapped-out old CIA personnel. Just to keep someone in a job. You have to file a report to show the boss you're still in business.'

'Why the rush at the airport? My bag slung on the back seat…'

'We could be followed, that's why. By the time we get where we're going we'll shake any tail…'

'Like arriving in Moscow,' Tweed said drily.

The signposts told him they were heading for Alexandria. Tweed looked through the rear window again and Loomis glanced at him with a frown of irritation.

'We're not being followed if that's what's bothering you…' 'When we get to a place where you can stop, could I take the wheel for awhile, Clint?'

'Sure. If that's the way you feel…'

This was one of the many things Tweed liked about Loomis – if he trusted you he never asked questions. He did whatever you requested and waited for explanations.

Later, as they stood outside the car prior to changing places, the Englishman glanced back up the highway. A green car had also pulled in to the side and one of the two male occupants got out to lift the bonnet. A blue car cruised past which also contained two men – neither of them spared the stationary sedan a glance, Tweed observed. He got in behind the wheel and began driving.

'What make is that green car behind us – the one behind the truck? You'll see it as we go round this curve…'

'A Chevvy,' Loomis replied. 'It pulled up when we did…'

'I know. And that blue car ahead of us – which was cruising and is now picking up speed to keep ahead. They have a sandwich on us, Clint. Those two cars have been with us since we left Dulles. They keep changing places – one in front, one behind…'

'Jesus Christ! I must be losing my grip…'

'Just the fresh eye,' Tweed assured him. 'Better lose our friends one at a time, don't you think?'

They were coming up to traffic lights at an intersection and the green Chevvy was still one vehicle behind them when Tweed performed. To his right was one of those damned great trailer trucks which transported half of America's freight coast to coast. He rammed his foot down…

'Look out – the lights…!' Loomis yelled.

There was a scream of rubber as Tweed shot forward like a torpedo. He swerved crazily to avoid the trailer which was coming out with the lights in its favour. A second scream – of airbrakes being jammed on. Loomis looked back and then at Tweed who had returned to his correct lane. To the American he looked so bloody unruffled.

'You nearly got us killed back there…'

'I don't see the green Chevvy any more,' Tweed commented with a glance in his rear view mirror.