'Not entirely. He was escorting me to the door and then said, "You must use your own judgement, Roy."' The phone rang. Monica had just returned and served Buchanan with coffee. She picked up the phone, listened, looked across at Tweed.

'Sorry to interrupt. Butler's on the line from the bas.e.m.e.nt. Said it was urgent.'

'What is it, Harry?' Tweed asked on his own phone.

'Thought I'd better own up. While you were at Irongates I used a telescopic ladder to scale the side wall. Wanted to check you were OK. Then explored round the back, found a big garage. Padlocked shut but there was a gap in the old doors. Shone my torch inside and there was the Chrysler they tried to shove you into outside the American Emba.s.sy.'

'You're certain?'

'Same number plate.'

'You did well. I need that information.'

Putting down the phone, Tweed told Buchanan there was something he ought to know. He then described the attempt to kidnap him and Butler's Chrysler report. Buchanan's expression changed. He relaxed in his chair.

'Now I've got something I can get my teeth into. Kidnapping - or the attempt - is a major crime. And, if you agree, Tweed, I've got witnesses. Newman and Butler would do.'

'I agree,' Tweed said promptly.

'You can keep the SIS out of this?' enquired Marler, standing against a wall.

'Newman would make the perfect witness,' Buchanan pointed out. 'He's the best-known foreign correspondent on Earth. Butler works for the General & c.u.mbria Insurance outfit. Tweed is its chief investigator. His speciality is supposed to be the insurance of prominent men against being kidnapped. A clever counsel could link the whole thing up - someone Tweed has insured is in danger of being kidnapped.'

'Any idea why the Prime Minister was a.s.sa.s.sinated?' Tweed asked out of the blue.

'None at all.'

'I think I have. Normally we know who would have taken his place. But the Cabinet and the MPs rebelled. They chose someone else. An apparently neutral figure. Whoever paid for the a.s.sa.s.sination banked on their own man getting the job.'

'That's shrewd,' Buchanan commented. 'Incidentally, Interpol contacted me about the possible ident.i.ty of the a.s.sa.s.sin.'

'Who did they come up with?' interjected Marler.

'I know why you've asked. If anybody eventually locates the b.a.s.t.a.r.d you will. Interpol told me it could be the Phantom. They're sure he killed that German, Keller, and the French Minister. They then told me - emphasizing it was no more than a rumour - that the Phantom could be an Englishman.'

'So what about the Chrysler?' Tweed prodded.

'You've been told to lay off the Americans.'

'Blow that. I'm getting a search warrant for Irongates so we can open up that garage. If I get the sack, then I do. I'll send a team down there. Think I'd better get moving.'

'Watch your back,' warned Tweed.

'I've been doing that for years - some of the people I've had to deal with.' Buchanan stood up, grabbed the overcoat Monica had put on a hanger in a corner near the door. 'And thanks, Monica, for the coffee. You make the best in London.'

With one hand on the door handle, he turned to look quickly at everyone. He pulled a wry face.

'Don't do anything I would. Otherwise you'll get yourselves into a proper pickle ...'

'He's his old self,' said Paula when Buchanan had gone. 'Must be the coffee.'

'We gave him something he can get hold of,' Tweed a.s.serted.

'Oh, I had an early morning phone call before I left my flat,' Newman announced.

'Give,' rapped out Paula. You look pleased with yourself.'

'Sharon Mandeville wants me to have dinner with her tomorrow evening. How she got hold of my ex-directory number I have no idea. She suggested Santorini's, the new place down by the river.'

'And you're going to oblige the lady?'

'Thought I might get some information out of her.' 'Of course. That ravishing photo of her we showed you had nothing to do with it.'

'I just wonder,' Tweed mused, 'whether she's had it up to here with America. Maybe she's decided to settle down over here. Hence her buying a house in Dorset. In which case she'll be keen to build up a circle of friends.'

'I've just found out about that, Monica intervened. 'She's actually bought a small manor in Dorset.'

'Which backs up my theory about her, Tweed remarked.

'I'd better get moving,' Newman said, standing up. 'I want to go home and freshen up. I'll need my wits about me. I'm meeting that slug Basil Windermere this evening.'

'Look forward to tomorrow,' Paula told him. 'Santorini's will cost you a fortune. The lady would make an expensive girl friend. Lucky you can afford it,' she continued to tease him.

'I'm getting out of here. I'm Paula's target.'

He was walking to the door when it opened. Butler walked in, carrying a cardboard box with a pink ribbon round it. He handed the box to Marler.

'It works,' he told him: 'What works,' demanded Newman.

'It does.'

'I'll come with you, Bob,' decided Marler.

He walked out, carrying the box under his arm. Newman warned him again on their way down the stairs that there would be h.e.l.l to pay if Windermere recognized him.

Inside the American Emba.s.sy, in the large room overlooking the square, was a conference table. At its head sat Jake Ronstadt. Only five foot four tall, his presence nevertheless dominated the eight Americans seated on either side. Clean-shaven, he had a large head, a thin mouth, a short thick nose and a lot of jaw. His chest was like a barrel but his legs were thin, his feet small. He shuffled a pack of cards as he gazed from one man to the next, his eyes hard, intimidating.

'You guys had better work a d.a.m.ned sight harder for the huge pay cheques you get,' he growled. 'I'm having to do everything myself. Met a guy who gave me the data on Strangeways. He wanted five thousand bucks for what he told me. He's at the bottom of the Thames now. Get the message?'

'Sure, Jake.'

It was a chorus from the eight men a.s.sembled around the table. A fulsome chorus, motivated by fear. Jake continued to shuffle the pack of cards. No one had ever seen him play a game. It was just a weird habit he had, part of his forceful personality. His accent was New York's back streets and he spoke in a deep rumble, s.p.a.cing out his words as though addressing a bunch of morons. All his subordinates wore black English business suits. Jake was clad in a leather windcheater, leather trousers.

'Charlie says the operation is moving too slowly.' 'Who is Charlie?' asked Diamond Waltz.

'Hank.' Jake paused. 'I guess you kinda asked the wrong question. How cold do you reckon it is at the bottom of the river?'

'Sorry, Jake.' The bald-headed Waltz was shivering with fright. 'I'm very sorry. I made a bad mistake.'

'Don't hire guys to make mistakes. Keep your G.o.dd.a.m.n trap shut. Maybe then you'll live longer, Baldy.'

'Are we still working with Chuck?' asked another man. 'Just want to get the score clear.'

'Chuck Venacki wasn't invited to attend our little meetin' - you check everything you find out with me. Here are your targets.'

Jake stood up, holding a sheaf of papers. He walked slowly round the table. Behind each man he paused and the man he stood behind was careful not to look round. Then he laid a sheet of paper in front of each man. The sheets were white paper, blank except for the names typed on them. There was no identification that they had originated from the Emba.s.sy. Completing the job, Jake lowered his bulk into his chair, picked up the pack of cards.

'You guys all have different names on your sheets. Your job is to dig up any dirt you can on your names. All are prominent people in this country. Baldy, the first name on your list is important.'

'Paula Grey.'

'That's great, Baldy. Really great. You can read. She's to have the full treatment - unlike all the other names on the lists. Do it quickly.'

'I make her talk first?' Baldy said eagerly. 'Then she goes overboard?'

'You've got it. Charlie says it will break the morale of her boss. When she's fished out of the river.'

'Her address in Fulham is here. Should be easy.' 'Nothing's easy.' Jake waved a warning thick finger, taking in everyone round the table. 'I've trained you all how to dig up dirt. Some guy with gambling debts, cheating on his wife, a pervert, open to a bribe. Anything that gives us a grip on them. So when-we say dance, they dance. To our tune. You all have addresses of your targets. OK?'

'Very OK, Chief,' said a thin-boned man with a hard face who sat nearest to Jake.

'Not OK, Vernon,' Jake snarled. 'You need more.' He shoved a bulky envelop at him. 'Don't see why I should take another walk round this table. Inside that package is an envelope for each gentleman present. Has his name on it. Inside is a photo of each target, man or woman. Why not get on your feet and deliver the goods.'

Jake sat shuffling his cards while Vernon stood up, opened the package, walked round the table, dropping an envelope in front of each of his colleagues. Baldy opened his, went through several photos, frowned.

'May I speak, Chief?' he suggested nervously.

'If you have anything to say.'

'No photo of a woman in my envelope.'

'So we didn't get a pic of the Grey twist. You've had to look before without a pic.'

'Sure, Chief. When I get her can I use the old warehouse in Eagle Street, down in the East End. Vernon showed me the place the day we arrived on Eurostar.'

'Sounds like a good idea. Wonder where that came from? n.o.body will hear her screaming.'

'Paula,' Tweed suggested, getting up from his swivel chair, 'it has been a gruelling time. How would you like to join me for an evening at Goodfellows?'

'Lovely idea. Thank you. I could do with some relaxation - and Bob and Muter are off on a bar crawl with Windermere. I'll drive home to change, then come back here to join you.'

'I'm not changing. I put on a decent suit to see Strangeways,' Tweed told her.

He looked at Monica when Paula had left. She was talking to someone on the phone, making notes on a pad. When she put down the phone she nodded with satisfaction.

'That was a contact in Washington I was talking to. I'm still building up profiles.'

'I have an additional fact I'd like you to concentrate on. I need to know which of the profiles you're working on has a second name. Charlie. Or Charles.'

'English or American?'

'Could be either. I heard the name when I picked up a phone at the American Emba.s.sy and overheard a s.n.a.t.c.h of conversation. His ident.i.ty could be the key to what is happening.'

'What is happening?'

'I'm not sure yet. I'm beginning to fear a gigantic operation is under way which bodes ill for this country. But Charlie can wait until the morning. Go home now and get some rest.'

'Not yet. The adrenalin is surging. I'm going to keep at it for a bit longer. You should enjoy Goodfellows. I hear it's a sophisticated nightclub. Expensive too. Nice for Paula.'

'I'm just hoping she won't be mad with me when she sees the clientele after we've arrived.'

'Why should she be?'

'Because it happens to be the in-place patronized by top Americans at the moment.'

Paula parked her car in the cul-de-sac off the Fulham Road. She was lucky - she had a permanent slot which went with her flat. She lived in the top half of a small elegant house divided into two flats.

She was standing under a wall lamp when she dropped her car keys on the cobbles. Swearing, she stooped to pick them up, then straightening up, she paused to smooth down her glossy dark hair. Then she ran up the outside staircase, paused again under another wall lamp to get out her two sets of keys to open the door.

Across on the other side of the Fulham Road, a man stood hidden in the shadows of a doorway. Baldy was dressed in an almost comic fashion. He wore a Borsalino hat, its wide brim well pulled down. It was partly a disguise and partly to shield his head from the intense cold.

'Got you, Paula Grey,' he said to himself. 'I guess you're not going to enjoy the last few hours of your life with me. Not one friggin' bit.'

8.

'Cheers, my dear chap,' Basil Windermere called out.

Newman had just entered the ground-floor bar. He acknowledged the greeting with a wave of his hand. Windermere was perched on a bar stool. Walking slowly towards him Newman glanced at the couples dining at tables by the wall. No Marler. Quickly he averted his sweeping gaze. Marler was there, with a girl.

He's practically unrecognizable even to me, Newman thought. Marler was wearing a smoking jacket with a velvet collar. He also had a pair of large horn-rimmed gla.s.ses perched on his nose. It was the gla.s.ses which did the trick, Newman decided - he'd never seen Marler wear them before. For some reason his raincoat was folded over the empty chair next to him.

'Just finished a drink,' Windermere said as Newman sat on the stool next to him.

He wore his usual polka-dot bow tie, a pink shirt, a Prince of Wales check suit. It should have looked wrong but instead it looked smart. Windermere always took a lot of trouble over his appearance.

'Can you hold out a few more minutes?' Windermere said.

'Hold out?'

'Before you have a drink. This place is quiet tonight. I vote we go up the street to Goodfellows. Where the action is.'

'Where the rich ladies are?'