This United State (5 page)

'That's it,' she ended. 'And that's enough, I'd say.' 'Tough cookie,' said Marler, squeezing her shoulder. 'If you say so.'

'Now it's Bob's turn to bring us up to date,' Tweed suggested.

He made occasional notes as Newman outlined everything that had happened when he'd escorted Dillon to the Bunker. Monica was recording the entire story, as she had with Paula.

'That's it,' Newman concluded, 'to quote Paula.'

'It's a lot,' Tweed said. 'Some of it very disturbing. Now we have quite an array of players in ;this grim game. Monica, in the morning I'd like you to start building profiles on these people. Jefferson Morgenstern, esteemed Secretary of State, whom I know. Ed Osborne, the new Deputy Director of the CIA. Both now in London. Sir Guy Strangeways, who lives at the mansion called Irongates at Parham. And...' He paused. 'Sharon Mandeville. Her whole history, which could be interesting.' He stared at the ceiling. 'Add Basil Windermere to that list if you would, please.'

'I'll start tonight,' Monica announced. 'New York is five hours behind us and some of my contacts work late. Then San Francisco — they're eight hours behind us so I'll catch my contacts there. Don't look at me like that. I'm fresh as a daisy '

The phone rang. Monica picked it up, frowned, put her hand over the mouthpiece, looked at Marler.

'It's for you. Maurice on the line...'

'Marler speaking. Where are you?'

'On a public phone at Heathrow. Need to see you urgently.'

'Hang on a moment.'

Marler put his own hand over the mouthpiece. He spoke to Tweed, spoke quickly.

'The Ear has turned up at Heathrow. Needs to speak to me. Can he come here? He thinks I work for an insurance outfit.'

'Yes. Tell him to take a cab. You can see him in the waiting room.'

The moment Marler ended the brief call, giving the Ear the address, Tweed reacted. He gestured towards the curtained windows.

'We have to shift that Lincoln Continental fast. If it's still there they'll photograph the Ear.'

'I'll handle that,' Newman said, standing up. 'There's going to be an accident. I'll take the four-wheel drive. Could you get the police here yesterday?'

'I'll call my old sparring partner, Roy Buchanan at the Yard. I've already reported the attack in Albemarle Street. He's not best pleased with the Americans.'

Newman snatched a scarf and his trench coat off a hook. As he hurried downstairs he was wrapping the scarf round the lower part of his face, covering his nose. He pulled up the military-style lapels, darted out of the front door and round a corner to where the vehicle with a ram was parked.

He drove a roundabout route which brought him back on to the main road. A plane was flying very low overhead as he saw the Lincoln parked at the edge of the Crescent. He pressed his foot down, slammed into the back of the American car, smashing up its rear badly. He then reversed, dragged metal off the damaged car.

'Made of tin,' he said under his breath.

Turning off his engine, he got out as a tough-looking passenger jumped out of the back of the Lincoln. He had a boxer's nose and the face of a moron. His head was bald. He swaggered up to Newman, now standing in the road as a car pulled up alongside him. Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan was at the wheel with Sergeant Warden, a heavily built man, beside him.

'Buddy, I'm going to put all your teeth down your throat,' the thug said with a rough American accent. 'You could try it,' Newman replied.

'Here it comes then. Kiss your mouth goodbye.'

Newman timed it carefully. As a huge bunched fist slammed towards his mouth he jerked his head sideways, took the punch on the side of his jaw. The fist slid off him. Newman made no attempt to retaliate as Buchanan appeared with Sergeant Warden on his heels.

'This car was illegally parked,' Newman told him. 'A plane flew very low and distracted me. You don't expect a car parked here at any time.'

'And I saw you assault this man,' Buchanan said grimly.

'Who the friggin' hell are you?' the thug snarled. 'Chief Inspector Buchanan of the CID...'

'I've got a diplomatic passport, so frig off.'

The thug raised one finger almost in Buchanan's face. Then he swore foully.

'I wish you hadn't done that. Diplomatic passport? And the moon is blue.'

'Look at the licence plates, buddy,' the thug ranted on. 'It has diplomatic plates.'

In the distance Newman heard police sirens coming closer. Buchanan folded his arms and studied the thug. Then three police cars with uniformed officers aboard appeared and pulled up, forming a laager round the Lincoln. Buchanan was a tall lanky man in his forties, wearing a dark suit, an ironic smile on his lean intelligent face. Villains found something disturbing about his casual manner.

'I think I recognize you,' he said, addressing the thug. 'A bank raid in the City a month ago. No money taken - just security documents about a number of prominent British citizens. One of the raiders was caught on video. Looked just like you. I'd appreciate you giving me your name.'

'See for yourself,' snapped the American. 'Hank Waltz.' He shoved a diplomatic passport at Buchanan.

'Sometimes known as Diamond Waltz,' Newman remarked. 'Look at all the flashy rings on his stubby fingers. Fakes, I imagine.'

'Fakes?' Waltz clenched his fist. 'You want another one?'

'Cool it, chum.'

One of the uniformed police who had spilled out of the cars stood very close to the American. While Buchanan was examining the passport the driver of the Lincoln stepped out and came up to them.

Tall, with the appearance of a quarterback, his manner was very different from Waltz's. Wearing a Savile Row suit, he was smiling, conciliatory, his American accent soft.

'Good evening. I'm sorry if we've caused any problems. And Hank has a short fuse. He's fond of the Lincoln — normally he drives the car.'

'I do?'

'Hank, now the Chief Inspector has given you back your passport I suggest you get back to your seat. Every time you open that mouth of yours you shove your big foot in it.'

'Could I have your name?' Buchanan asked stiffly. 'Sure. Why not? I'm Chuck Venacki. Attaché at the Embassy.'

'What are your duties, sir?' Buchanan demanded. 'Public relations.'

'Diamond Waltz isn't going to help you much in that direction.'

'Hank Waltz. He's a bodyguard. The new American Ambassador has received threatening warnings. You'd like to see my passport?'

'I don't think that will be necessary.'

As Buchanan replied there was a heavy rumbling noise behind them. Newman glanced back to see a large vehicle transporter pulling in behind them. Men in working clothes got out, started walking round the Lincoln.

'May I ask what is happening?' Venacki enquired smoothly.

'You may. That Lincoln is blocking the road. The transporter will take it on board and move it. I'll get you a taxi.'

'Taxi coming,' said Newman, flagging it down. 'Good.' Buchanan stared coldly at Venacki. 'That will take you wherever you were going.'

'And the Lincoln?'

'Will be dumped outside your Embassy. Alternatively it could be taken to a maintenance garage to see if repair is possible.'

'No, thank you,' Venacki said hastily. 'Grosvenor Square will do nicely.'

'Then I suggest all four of you are on your way in the cab. I may add that if he hadn't had a diplomatic passport Diamond Waltz would have been arrested on a criminal charge. An incident here a month ago.'

'Thank you for your help, Chief Inspector.'

'I suggest you leave at once. Meter's ticking up on the cab.'

Buchanan had offered to drive Tweed home. He was talking as the Lincoln was swiftly manoeuvred aboard the transporter. Newman had earlier used gloves to wrench off the wreckage he had hauled off the Lincoln. The four-wheel drive was in perfect driving condition.

'I saw the light was still on in his office,' Buchanan said as they mounted the stairs together. 'Time he went home.'

'I suppose you're right,' Tweed agreed when Buchanan made his offer. 'Monica is staying on, checking the names I gave her. And Roy can tell me what happened outside — plus I have a few things to tell him.'

'What about Paula?' Newman asked as they went back down the stairs with Buchanan.

'She's staying on too...'

This had been Marler's suggestion.

'The Ear will be more comfortable if I have Paula with me in the waiting room,' he explained to Tweed.

'He relaxes more in women's company - that is, the few he can trust.'

'He may not trust me,' Paula pointed out.

'He will. His ability to weigh up people is remarkable. He has an uncanny knowledge of human nature. But only if you feel up to it.'

'I can't wait to meet the Ear,' she replied.

3

When Newman had left the building with Tweed and Buchanan, Marler set the stage for the arrival of the Ear. He raided the drinks cupboard of Howard, the Director. Holding three glasses and a bottle of white wine he took them downstairs and laid them on the bare wooden table in the waiting room. He then upset George.

'I'll guard the front door. You go upstairs and make yourself at home in one of the offices. Not Tweed's.'

'I'm supposed to be the guard,' the red-faced ex-army sergeant protested.

'I know. We have someone coming who won't want to be recognized.'

'Have it your own way.'

'I'm going to ….'

With Paula seated at one of the three chairs round the table, Marler waited behind George's desk, listening for the sound of a taxi pulling up. Instead, after half an hour someone rang the bell. Peering through the spy-hole in the heavy front door Marler stared in surprise, then opened it. He ushered the Ear into the waiting room, closed the door.

'This is Paula. I hope you don't mind her being with us.'

Paula looked at their visitor. She hadn't expected such a small man. No more than five feet tall, he had shuffled in and now he gazed at her through thick pebble glasses, perched on the bridge of a hooked nose. He took off the glasses, glanced at Marler before reverting his gaze to Paula.

'Disguise,' he explained. 'Nice name, Paula,' he went on, still staring at her in a way she did not find offensive.

Without the glasses he became a different person. His nose seemed even more hooked, his thin mouth was firm, his jaw pointed. Penetrating blue eyes surveyed her. His cheekbones were prominent and his thick dark eyebrows curled upwards. He reminded her of a Dickensian character.

'I shall be very happy for the lady to be present,' he decided. 'I like your clothes,' he told Paula. 'Smart but not a mantrap.'

'He does speak his mind, Marler said quickly.

'I think he has a wonderful sense of humour.' Paula laughed. 'His description of me is perfect.'

'And very practical shoes. For moving silently or running.'

He doesn't miss a thing, thought Paula, who had her legs crossed, exposing the rubber sole of one shoe. The explanation he had given was precisely the reason she wore them. Marler pulled out a chair for their visitor to sit down. He extended a hand to Paula. His grip was firm.

'I am Kurt Schwarz.'

'I don't think Kurt will mind my telling you his base is in Switzerland. In Basel.'

Marler sat down in a chair facing them. The Ear put down on the floor an old trilby hat he had been carrying. He wore a shabby windcheater with patches on the sleeves and a pair of denims which had seen better days.

Below the sharp nose his Adam's apple was also prominent, heightening the Dickensian impression. He picked up the bottle of wine, glanced at it, put the bottle down.

'Not bad, could be better,' he told Marler.

'You don't have to drink it.'

'That would be impolite. And I wish to toast the health of this charming lady.'

'Flattery will get you somewhere. How did you find those old clothes? You look like a tramp.'