By Stealth (16 page)

Tweed eventually brought back Lee to the table. He had a twinkle in his eyes as he drew out a chair for her while addressing the Brigadier.

`You needn't have worried. I've brought her back all in one piece.'

`Why should I worry?' Burgoyne retorted.

Tweed took Paula into dinner and they chose a table well away from Newman's. Paula asked why.

`Best not to let anyone know he's with us,' Tweed replied cryptically. `Did you learn anything?'

`A lot. You're going to be surprised — maybe even puzzled …'

11

Nield and Butler, tailing the camper, had to exercise all their skill in what turned out to be a tricky task. The camper had driven down the track, turned right, and headed through the night along the B3055 to Brockenhurst. Nield had driven his Sierra out of the copse in time to see it emerging from the track. He was soon glad he'd taken the precaution of keeping well back.

A Land-Rover, occupied only by the driver, appeared from an opening into a field and took up station a short distance behind the camper. It looked as though the tapes the camper was transporting were important — important enough to be guarded.

Arriving at an isolated straight stretch of country road, Butler, protecting Nield's rear, saw the Land-Rover as the moon came out briefly. And beyond it the camper trundling along. He came to the same conclusion as Nield.

`I wonder where the hell you two are going to,' he said out aloud to himself.

He had little inkling of where they would end up as the camper turned right on to the A337 at Brockenhurst and sped on north towards Lyndhurst. A long stretch of rolling straight road extended ahead. On either side they were passing through vast expanses of lonely moorland as the moon broke through again.

At that hour — and at that time of year — there was very little other traffic as they plunged on through belts of the New Forest. The trees were Christmas-like in the moonlight, their branches and foliage covered with a mantle of white frost.

Beyond Cadnam, heading north-east and later bypassing Winchester to turn on to the M3, Butler began to suspect the ultimate objective must be London. On the motorway Butler and Nield began to play the leapfrog game to confuse the targets, to avoid any suspicion they were being followed.

At times Butler overtook all three vehicles, driving on some distance ahead of the camper, watching its lights in his rear-view mirror. Where the devil were they going? Butler wondered again.

At other times Nield overtook all the vehicles, including the Cortina. Butler then slowed, allowed the camper and the Land-Rover to overtake him, dropping well back to the rear. They reversed positions several more times before they reached London.

Only then did both Butler and Nield drop back behind the Land-Rover. As they crossed the Albert Bridge it was very dark and late. Nield was trying to work out where he had seen the driver of the Land-Rover before.

`Because I know I've seen you, mate,' he said to himself. 'Something about the way you hold yourself.'

A little later they were driving along the Fulham Road, quickly turning off to the right and north. Butler slowed down as the Land-Rover pulled up behind the stationary camper. He ground his gears as he crawled past them, working on the psychology that no one following them would make so much noise. Nield pulled in to the kerb. They were in the middle of the curving Boltons, one of the most prestigious addresses in London.

Nield watched as the Land-Rover driver, still wearing his crash helmet, jumped out and walked up to the camper as the rear doors opened. By the illumination from a street lamp Nield saw a burly man hand over to the Land-Rover driver a stack of about half a dozen slim round cartons. Just the sort of containers to hold the tape reels which had recorded all the conversations in Sir Gerald Andover's house.

`So who lives there?' Nield asked himself.

The driver pushed open the wrought-iron gate, hurried along a path and up the stone steps to one of the magnificent mansions set back from the double curve of The Boltons. Dying for a cigarette, Nield waited patiently without reaching for the pack in his pocket.

The driver reappeared quickly. By now the camper had driven off. Climbing back up into the Land-Rover, he also left the area. Nield waited a little longer, then climbed out and strolled along to the mansion where the cartons had been delivered. No. 185. On the second pillar was a gleaming engraved plate. It carried the legend

MOONGLOW REFUGEE AID TRUST INTERNATIONAL.

He looked up as Butler appeared. Nield moved away from the entrance before he spoke.

`Moonglow. That's where a pile of cartons were delivered. My guess is they contained tape reels.'

`Then I'd better pay a call on them. Plenty of lights on inside the place. Better go back to your car. I'll let you know what happens..

Butler walked back to where he had parked his Cortina. Opening the rear door, he took out a grubby coat and a cap. Slipping on the coat over his windcheater, he donned the scruffy cap, pulling the peak down over his forehead. He picked up a large yellow canvas hold-all with a stack of newspapers protruding from the top. He slung the hold-all over his shoulder. It was a trick he had used before.

He walked back to No. 185, pushed open the gate, shuffled along the path — in case he was observed from inside. Climbing the steps, he pressed the bell and waited, one hand grasping the top of a newspaper. A porch lamp came on, there was the sound of three locks being unfastened: deadlocks, Butler noted. A chain was removed. When the door opened a tall and large middle-aged woman dressed in black and with a grim expression stared at him. She was holding a Walther aimed at his chest. He stepped back in apparent fear, speaking in a whining voice.

`No cause for alarm, lady. And guns make me nervy. If you shot me it'd be murder. I don't even carry a penknife...'

While he was rattling on he was looking at the lighted spacious hall behind her. At the back a curving staircase wound upwards. It was dimly lit. He could see a heavily built man walking slowly down the stairs. With a very deliberate tread. The vague figure reached the bottom and paused. The hall lights reflected off his gold pince-nez. The eyes behind the lenses were invisible, which was disconcerting.

`What do you want?' the woman with the gun demanded.

`Just delivering the local paper. It's free. Tells you what's goin' on round 'ere. New parkin' regulations. And a developer is tryin' to turn one of these 'ouses into a cheap 'otel. Wouldn't want that, would you?'

`What exactly is happening, Mrs Kramer?'

It was the man with the pince-nez who had spoken. His way of talking was strange — he pronounced each word with extreme precision and paused between each word he uttered. His voice was soft-spoken but every word had carried clearly to Butler. He found the voice as disconcerting as the way the man moved.

`Nothing, sir,' Mrs Kramer called back over her shoulder. 'Just a yobbo handing out free newspapers.'

`At this time of night?' the voiced continued. 'I really find that rather odd. Yes, very odd indeed.'

`I'm behind schedule, guy,' Butler whined, raising his voice. 'And in the mornin' I've got a different job.' `Send — him — packing — Mrs — Kramer.'

The word pauses were even more pronounced. Even more disturbing. And Butler was not a man easily unnerved by any situation.

`Go away!' snapped Mrs Kramer. 'And never call here again. We don't accept rubbish.'

The door was slammed in his face as Butler opened his mouth to say more. He stood there, listened to the three locks being turned, the chain replaced to its secure position. Then he shuffled back down the steps and along the path. A minute later he was relating his experience to Nield and they decided to drive straight to SIS headquarters at Park Crescent.

12

It was after eleven at night when Butler and Nield were let inside the headquarters of SIS in Park Crescent, close to Regent's Park. George, the ex-NCO, who acted as one of the guards, called out to them as they started up the staircase to Tweed's first-floor office.

`You'll find Monica still there, hard at it. She's having meals sent in. Doubt if she'll welcome you two...'

They opened the door and walked in. Monica, who was Tweed's faithful assistant, a woman of uncertain age, grey hair tied back in a bun, looked up from her desk. She had a collection of files spread out and her hand was reaching for the phone.

`Hello, Monica,' Nield said cheerfully, 'we've got a job for you. Stop you from getting bored.'

`Bored!' Monica expressed mock indignation. 'Tweed has given me enough work to last me a week. Building up profiles on Sir Gerald Andover, Brigadier Burgoyne, and Willie Fanshawe. My phone bill for calls to the Far East will be horrendous. I even managed to reach Philip Car- don, our agent in Hong Kong. He's flying home shortly. For your information I can do without your job.'

She liked Pete Nield. He often joked with her and she was secretly rather taken with his dark eyes and easy manner. Nield grinned and went on.

`Better make a note. Tweed will want the data on this. Ready? Moonglow Refugee Aid Trust International. 185 The Boltons. Everything you can dig up about them — and who runs the outfit.'

`Moonglow?' Monica crinkled her forehead, scribbled the full name on her pad. 'I've heard of them somewhere. The Boltons? High living for a charity organization.'

`We've driven a long way,' Butler intervened. 'A mug of tea would go down well for both of us.'

`Then you know where the kettle is. So make it yourself. I haven't got time to fuss over you. And while you are about it, I could do with a drink myself..

When they had left her alone Monica frowned again. She absent-mindedly sucked at the end of her pen.

`Moonglow,' she said to herself. 'I have heard of you — and something odd, but never proved. I'll dissect you down to the bone.'

Monica was not the only one working late. At No. 185 The Boltons Dr Wand sat in a room which served as a cinema. The lighting was very dim and no more could be seen of him than Butler had observed from the front door. Dr Wand preferred the dark.

He was not watching a film tonight. Mrs Kramer was feeding the tape reels into a machine and he was listening to conversations which had taken place at
Prevent
. His large head was tilted at a slight angle as he memorized what had been said.

At one stage Mrs Kramer glanced in his direction. Wand's gold pince-nez glinted in the low-power illumination provided by a wall light. He was smiling, a smile with pursed lips, a smile which had no human warmth. Even Mrs Kramer, who knew him well, was frightened by the smile.

When the last tape had been played Wand rose slowly to his feet. He gave her the instructions in his slow, soft-spoken voice.

`Contact Vulcan immediately. I think from now on we must keep a very close eye indeed on the man called Tweed. Convey my thought to Vulcan at once. I am going to my study to check further details about Operation Long Reach.'

`I will make the call immediately, sir.'

`See that you do, please.'

Mrs Kramer hurried out of the room to the telephone. She had no idea of the identity of Vulcan — only his phone number. She also had no idea what Operation Long Reach meant. And she had learned it was unwise to ask Dr Wand any leading questions. People who made that mistake had disappeared.

At Passford House the following morning Tweed announced he was leaving immediately for London. In Room 2 Newman looked at Paula in surprise. They were so often taken off-guard by Tweed's lightning decisions.

`I shall drive myself back,' Tweed continued, 'in the Ford Escort. Paula wants to check Mrs Goshawk, who apparently has a house for sale in Brockenhurst — according to that estate agent, Barton. I want her protected, Bob. Could you drive her everywhere in your Mercedes?'

Will do. But what are you after? Have you any idea what is going on?'

`List the facts.' Tweed counted on his fingers. 'One, Harvey Boyd, who was about to join us as a trained agent, was possibly murdered on the River Lymington.'

`Murdered?' Newman queried. 'What do you base that on?'

`The fact that the right side of his head was sliced off so neatly needs explaining.' He looked at Paula. 'And I trust your exceptional eyesight. I'm convinced you did see something in the fog just before the so-called accident.'

`As a reporter I still regard that as an assumption,' Newman persisted.