'Sharon Mandeville,' Monica announced. 'Let's start with the profile I've built up on her – so far as it goes…'
It was the morning of the same day that Paula had provided a meal for her two guests. Newman sat in an armchair, his long legs casually crossed. Paula, hiding a yawn, was behind her desk, and Tweed was leaning forward in his swivel chair.
'Sharon is forty-two years old, looks younger,' Monica began. 'I obtained a recent photo of her from the editor of a fashion magazine, a friend of mine. Here it is.'
Newman took it from her. Sitting down again, he studied the glossy print. Then he whistled before passing it to Tweed.
'She's a blonde stunner.'
'She's enigmatic,' commented Tweed. 'I met her at a party in Washington. Not the most recent visit. When I was there three weeks ago.' He passed it to Paula. 'What do you think?'
'Hard to say,' she said eventually. 'A photo can mislead.'
'If I could proceed,' Monica said impatiently. 'Sharon was born in Washington, DC. So she's an American citizen. Her mother was English, her father an American industrialist with money. Sharon was partly educated in England, partly in the US. When Sharon was fifteen the three of them moved here. Apparently her father thought he could make more money in Britain. Result? He lost everything on the stock market and they all returned to the States. Soon after they got back the parents were both killed in a car crash. Sharon was eighteen. A year later she married a Texan oil millionaire. There was a prenuptial agreement. Twenty months later she divorced him and was a rich woman.'
'Because of the prenuptial arrangement?' Tweed suggested.
'Exactly,' Monica confirmed. 'There's a pattern. To cut it short, she remarried three times, always to millionaires or, in one case, to a billionaire. Always there was a prenuptial agreement with a generous settlement for her. Now she may be the richest woman in America.'
`Gold-digger,' said Newman.
'Not necessarily,' Tweed objected. 'Didn't strike me like that when I met her. You have to remember it's a jungle in the US. Rich men treat their wives like trophies, but they can be mean and unreliable. Maybe Sharon spotted that – hence the prenuptial agreements.'
'If I may go on,' snapped Monica. 'So now she's single with four husbands behind her. After the fourth fiasco – if you can call it that – she bought an apartment in luxurious Chevvy Chase and mixed with high society in Washington. She became a friend of the President's wife and was given various jobs.'
'I'd say Newman was right. Gold-digger,' said Marler. He had come. into the office a 'few minutes earlier, nodded and now had taken up his usual stance, leaning against a wall. 'And very attractive,' he concluded, handing back the print.
'You can't always tell from the photo what someone is like,' Paula protested.
'Jefferson Morgenstern, Secretary of State,' Monica continued, 'is difficult. I'll get there but I concentrated on Sharon. Morgenstern, as I'm sure you know, originated in Europe. Not sure where yet. His real name is Gerhard Morgenstern. He's now at the American Embassy here, like Sharon.'
'You've done very well,' said Tweed.
'Haven't finished yet. Sir Guy Strangeways, who lives now at Irongates in the village of Parham, made his pile as a property developer in the States. An ex-Guards officer, I gather he's still very British. He was in America for twenty years and for some time he lived in Washington. Travels a lot all over the world. There are mysterious gaps in his whereabouts at certain periods. More later.'
'When did he come back here?' Tweed asked. 'He was still in Washington when I was there three weeks ago.'
'Came back two weeks ago. A sudden departure.' 'That's interesting,' Tweed remarked.
'Now, Ed Osborne,' Monica went- on. 'The most mysterious of the lot. He also had an English mother and an American father. He was born in New York, in Hoboken. Not the most salubrious part of that place. His father was an unsuccessful locksmith. His childhood was poverty-stricken. Then, Heaven knows how, he's at Harvard. Afterwards there are huge gaps in his life. No knowledge as to whether he was somewhere in the States or somewhere abroad. Then he joins the CIA and rockets up. I'm still digging.'
'Keep on digging,' Tweed suggested.
'Finally, Basil Windermere. Chucked out of Tonbridge when he was discovered with an under-age girl. I've only just started to build up his file. That's it for now.'
'So, Tweed,' Marler enquired, 'what's your reaction?' 'Menace.'
'How do you make that out?' Paula asked.
'Sixth sense.'
'Now you're going cryptic again.'
As soon as she had spoken it struck her that Kurt Schwarz and Tweed had one thing in common. They never revealed their thinking until they were sure. She guessed why this was. Tweed was careful not to point his team in any direction until he was sure he had worked out what was happening. This made his team think for themselves, come to their own conclusions.
'I simply don't have enough to go on,' said Tweed, answering Paula's comment. 'Incidentally, you'll find several key people here have disappeared. In the night I sent them down to the Bunker. A skeleton team, if you like.'
'You said that casually,' Newman told him. 'When you talk like that it usually means there's a major emergency.'
'There is.'
'I've had an idea,' Newman remarked. 'Basil Windermere came up with the suggestion that I meet him in a bar during the evening. I wasn't encouraging, but I think I'll have a chat with him. Might help Monica to build up her file on him.'
'Good idea,' agreed Tweed.
'If that's all, think I'll mosey off,' said Marler. 'Another good idea. I know you're all short of sleep. So go home and catch up on some rest.'
'Half a mo,' Marler replied. 'Your camp bed is pushed against that wall behind Paula's desk.'
'I noticed that too,' Paula agreed. 'Decided not to ask any questions.'
'Well, I've just asked one,' Marler insisted. 'Tweed, Bob told me you went home soon after midnight.'
'I did.'
'So why is your camp bed out of the cupboard?'
'My fault,' Monica piped up. 'I managed to get the linen to the laundry, then you all came storming in before I could put the bed away.'
'I'll confess,' Tweed said with mock humility. 'I came back from my flat by cab in the middle of the night. I wanted to supervise those members of the team who were going down to the Bunker. They'd been warned in advance.'
'So we wouldn't know,' Marler accused.
'So I didn't have a lot of questions asked in the middle of the move. Then I slept here instead of another trip back to my flat. Off you go, all of you.'
The phone rang before anyone had time to leave the room. Monica answered it, frowned before she looked across at Tweed.
'George says there is an Ed Osborne downstairs. The gentleman wants to see you.'
'Wheel him up, then. The rest of you stay for a while.' 'How the hell did he find out this address?' demanded Newman.
'Maybe Cord had no time to erase certain confidential information from the computer in Langley, Virginia.'
A restless, guarded atmosphere had spread through the office. Only Tweed seemed unaffected, undisturbed. He looked up as George opened the door and a six-foot aggressive American burst inside. It was as though a hurricane had entered. The new arrival was big in every way, radiating dynamic energy. His thick hair was grey-white, his expression dominant, and ice-cold blue eyes swept round the, room. Above them were shaggy white brows, below them a straight wide nose and below that a broad thick-lipped mouth. His gaze homed on Paula.
'Hi, baby, you're lookin' good. You and I could make music.'
'I don't think so, Mr Osborne,' she replied coldly.
'You must be Tweed.' He swung round, extended a large hand, looked surprised as he gripped Tweed's hand and squeezed it with the force of a power shovel. Tweed's grip was equally strong.
'You'd better sit down,' he invited his visitor. 'I do prefer people to phone me for an appointment.'
'Waste of time. I just crash the barrier.'
Osborne lowered his bulk into an armchair. Newman had already resumed his seat in his own chair close to the American's. The American lifted his legs, planted his feet encased in very large shoes on the edge of Tweed's desk. Newman leaned forward, grasped both feet by the crossed ankles, dropped them on the floor.
'We don't do that sort of thing over here,' he explained. 'We like good manners.'
'Get you nowhere. World's movin' on. Move with it or get left behind.'
'Britain has been around for quite a time. Your lot has been on the planet only two hundred years.'
'You're Bob Newman, the foreign correspondent. Hoped we'd get on together. Any time you want to interview me, I'm available. Might give you something to write about. They've set up an outfit at the Embassy called the Executive Action Department. Don't know what it does – if anything. You might enquire about it – just for laughs. EAD, they call it. I'm the new Deputy Director of the CIA. They handed me the job on a plate when Cord Dillon went. Don't forget. EAD.'
'You Americans love initials,' Newman commented. 'Saves time. We like to move fast. I'm at the Embassy.' 'Maybe, Mr Osborne, you could enlighten us as to why you have come here?' Tweed suggested.
'Sure. Why not? And who's the thin streak of a guy holding up the wall?'
'He just called in for a cup of coffee,' said Newman. 'That I could do with myself.'
Monica rose slowly from her chair. Tweed had nodded, his agreement. Osborne swung round in his chair, stared at her.
'Black, honey. Don't ruin it with milk or sugar.'
Her lips pursed, Monica left the room. I hope she doesn't put poison in it, Marler thought. Although it might not be a bad idea.
'Why am I here?' Osborne rumbled on in his deep, aggressive voice. 'We have this special relationship with you Brits. We think it ought to be strengthened. A lot more close cooperation. A lot more exchange of information about what's really goin' on in the world. The way I see it we're natural partners. We have to sit on the same bench. Be buddies.'
'Why?' asked Tweed.
'We have the same problems. A lot of dangerous characters have been flooding in to your country…'
'We have noticed,' Newman informed him.
'Mafia men from Eastern Europe. Saboteurs from fanatic Muslim outfits. Same in the States. Sneaking in over the Canadian and Mexican borders. Take the bomb at the World Trade Center in New York. We need tough controls before both our countries go down in chaos.'
Osborne took a gulp of the coffee Monica had put down on the desk close to him. His face screwed up and he choked briefly.
'This is like tar.'
'It's the strong coffee you asked for,' Monica said and sat down behind her computer.
'Fell a friggin' ox.'
'Watch the language,' Tweed said. 'Ladies present.' 'And they probably use worse language than I do.' 'I doubt that's possible,' Newman interjected. 'Screw yourself.'
'If you can't control your language I suggest you get up and go,' Newman snapped.
`Mr Osborne-' Tweed began.
'Ed.'
'If there are issues we should discuss I suggest we set up a proper meeting in advance.'
'At the Embassy,' Osborne growled. 'When?'
'When an opportunity comes up I will get in touch. Thank you for calling in to see me.'
'Guess it's time to leave you folks.' Osborne, wearing a loose windcheater, the zip half open, exposing a wild sweater of many colours, and corduroy slacks, stood up. He was calm, stared all round, looking longest at Marler. 'I'll know you when we meet again.'
'I'll know you,' Marler responded offhandedly.
'At least we've got to know each other,' Osborne said, looking at Tweed. 'We'll get to know each other much better, I'm sure.'
'Thank you again for calling in,' Tweed replied.
'I can let myself out.' Osborne paused as he opened the door, his gaze again sweeping the room. 'Have a nice day.'
'My God, what a bloody boor,' Paula exclaimed.
'American,' Marler drawled. 'All brawn, no brain.'
'I'd say,' Tweed disagreed, 'that he's highly dangerous and it would be a great mistake to underestimate him.'
'In that case,' Newman said after a pause, 'maybe he's the man in charge of all the thugs flooding into London. He could handle that job.'
'You may be right. That strange organization they've set up. EAD. Executive Action Department. I don't too much like the sound of it.'
'As long as the first word doesn't mean Execution,' Paula ruminated.
'I'm really going to check that man out,' Monica announced venomously.
'Do that,' Tweed urged her. 'Try to fill in some of those large gaps in his life. Now, I think all of you really should go home and get some rest. I'll stay here awhile. I have a lot to think about.'
'Could I stay on for a few minutes?' Paula requested. 'I want to ask you about something.'
'Of course you may…'
As they left the office Marler followed Newman downstairs and walked alongside him to his Merc. They were both wearing sheepskins and the wind was bitter, the temperature way down. Along the main road beyond the Crescent people hurried, shoulders hunched, heads down. Girls walked with their arms folded to give extra protection.
'You mentioned when you phoned me this morning before leaving your flat that you'd decided to take Basil Windermere up on his invitation to meet you at Bentleys this evening,' Marler said.
'That's right. At eight o'clock. Downstairs bar. Why?' 'I'd rather like to be there. Not with you,' Marler added as Newman frowned.
'Windermere will recognize you.'
'No, he won't. You may not either. You don't mind?' 'Why this interest in Windermere?' Newman questioned.
'For one thing I happen to know he's made a number of extendedtrips to the Continent recently. And prior to that he was seen in Paris frequently.'
'Join the party, then,' Newman said reluctantly. 'But you'd better not be seen.'
'I'll be the Invisible Man.'
'You wanted to ask me questions,' Tweed said to Paula. 'Fire away.'
'This Bunker down on Romney Marsh – which, of course, I've seen. It must have taken months to build. What triggered off the idea? You've made three trips to Washington, which is unusual for you. One several months ago, two more recently.'
'First, the Bunker was completed in thirty days.' 'I can't believe it.'
'Marler kept his imported workers going hard at it. The main reason it was put together so quickly was the maze of cellars which already existed under that old farmhouse. I heard about it from a historian. I'm sure it was once used by smugglers ages ago. One distant tunnel comes up underneath an abandoned old bell tower not far from the sea.'
'I didn't see that.'
'Because I didn't show it to you. The door at the end of the tunnel is concealed. You'll see it the next time I take you down there. Satisfied?'
'No. You're evading the second part of my question. I also asked what triggered off the idea. Your trips to Washington?'
'You've forgotten.' Tweed smiled. 'I've also made trips to Paris recently.'
'There he goes again,' Paula said to Monica. 'As cryptic as Marler's friend,' she commented, switching her gaze to Tweed.
'What happened to him? When I called you after getting back to my flat last night you said the three of you were having a marvellous time – that your guest had a great sense of humour.'
'He has. He said he was flying back this morning. Now, time for me to go.'
'She's probably off to her health club,' Monica informed Tweed.
'Health club?'
'I haven't bothered to mention it,' said Paula as she put on her coat. 'For the past six months I've attended this health club.'
'Aerobics and all that.' Monica snorted. 'She's on a health kick. Fit as the proverbial fiddle and strong as a horse.'
'I approve,' said Tweed. Paula was just leaving when he called out to her. 'Did Marler's friend say where he was flying to?'
'Paris.'
Tweed remained behind his desk when Paula had gone. Monica was using her computer to record certain aspects of a profile she was working on. None of it was on the network. Tweed had warned her earlier to work in this way. He was writing groups of names on a large pad, then circling groups and drawing lines from one to another, trying to work out whether they linked up. The phone rang.
'American Embassy on the line,' Monica called out. 'Not that pest, Osborne?'
'No. Sharon Mandeville. Said she'd met you at a party once in Washington.'
'Tweed speaking.'
'This is Sharon Mandeville. I don't know whether you'll remember me. We had a long chat at a Washington cocktail party.'
The voice' was soft, tentative, appealing. Tweed detected a note of hesitancy.
'Remember you well, Ms Mandeville. What can I do for you?'
'I need to talk to you privately. Would it be too much to ask you to come over to the Embassy to see me?'
'Of course not. When do you suggest?'
'It's probably inconvenient for you, but I was wondering whether you could come over this morning – at your convenience?'
'I could come now.'
'I'll be waiting for you. Just ask for me at reception. Till then…'
'I'm off to the American Embassy to meet her,' he told Monica as he put on his overcoat.
'Don't fall for her.'
'Hardly likely. And it fits in nicely with my driving down to Parham this afternoon. I want to have a long talk with Sir Guy Strangeways. See if I can find out what he is up to.'