By Stealth (18 page)

`Yes?'

`The messenger you're expecting has arrived, sir.'

`Tell him to wait for a moment or two. I will let you know when I am ready.'

Seated in his swivel chair behind the the desk and facing the door, Wand's large hands began to fold up the maps he had been referring to — maps of Western Europe. He folded them slowly and carefully. Next he covered up a list of names with his leather-bound blotter. He pressed the intercom switch again.

`Send — him — in -- please, Mrs Kramer.'

Wand leaned back in his chair out of the glow of the light. He was staring straight at the door when it opened and his visitor came inside, closing the door behind him. Wand steepled his fingers in the shadows.

`Sit down and give me your report. With precision.'

The uncomfortable carver was placed a good six feet beyond the front of the desk. As the man sat down Wand reached out a hand, swivelled the desk lamp so it shone in his visitor's eyes. The man shielded them with a hand briefly, then lowered it.

`I followed Tweed as instructed from Passford House and...'

Was he at any time aware of your presence?'

`I'm sure he wasn't...'

'I wouldn't bank on that. Please proceed.'

'I followed Tweed all the way to London without losing him once...'

'I don't like the sound of what is coming. Proceed.'

The eyes were blank behind the gold-rimmed glasses and the visitor was not helped in guessing Wand's reactions by the light glinting off the gold. But he could see the mouth which — for a moment — twisted in a most unpleasant smile. The smile always filled him with foreboding.

`He drove into a garage in Baker Street and I waited for him to drive out. He never did. After a while I left my parked Land-Rover and went into the garage. I kidded up the mechanic the driver of the Escort was a friend and got him talking. He didn't even know Tweed's name — he always pays for petrol and any service by cash. I looked all over the garage, pretending I might use it for servicing my car. Tweed had vanished.'

`You —
lost
— him.'

There was an ominous silence while the visitor tried to think what to say next. He hoped Wand would speak again but soon realized he was expected to speak himself. He felt horribly unnerved.

`I plan to go back to the garage and wait until he comes back.'

`He won't. He knew you were following him. Really, you haven't done awfully well, have you?'

`I'm sorry...'

Please don't say that. Apologies for gross incompetence unsettle me. A team is waiting downstairs — I foresaw this might happen. You will take charge and this time it would be safer for your health if you do a proper job. You don't mind my expressing myself like this, I hope?'

Again the twisted smile. And the voice was so softly speaking the atmosphere of menace seemed more terrifying.

`Forget Tweed,' Wand continued. 'Find a Miss Paula Grey. She is Tweed's assistant. At least that is her title...' He smiled again. 'It might imply a more intimate relationship. I simply wish to know how much she means to Tweed, where she lives, every little detail about her.'

`I'll get moving on that...' His visitor began to stand up.

`Remain seated, please. I will tell you when I have finished. During the break-in at Andover's house are you sure you found no reference to Gaston Delvaux?'

`Nothing, sir. We really turned that place over.'

`Are you absolutely certain you missed nothing? And I do mean certain. As you know, I am a positive person,' Wand concluded.

`I am certain there was nothing connecting him with this Gaston Delvaux,' the visitor replied.

`Then you may go.'

Dr Wand rose, padded round his desk in the shadows. He grasped his visitor by the arm as he led him to the door, his manner amiable.

`Now we're not going to let one silly little mistake — losing Tweed — undermine our self-confidence, are we? I want you to know you have my complete trust. Good day to you...'

Alone, he went back behind his desk. Settled in his chair, he pressed the intercom. Mrs Kramer answered his summons immediately.

`Yes, sir.'

`Our visitor is leaving after taking charge of the waiting team. Have him followed everywhere he goes day and night by Greaves. Have you got that?'

`Understood, sir.'

`Two more things. Phone Bournemouth International Airport, tell the pilot of the executive jet to bring the machine to London Airport. Warn him he will be taking me to Brussels in the near future. And one extra chore, if you would be so good — phone Vulcan and tell him Tweed could be a major menace to our operation, that we may have to take extreme measures, adding him to the target list.'

At Park Crescent Newman and Paula had just walked into Tweed's office. Newman had driven non-stop from Passford House. Tweed welcomed them back with a grave face, asked them to sit down while he listened to Monica.

Newman settled himself into the armchair, stretching the stiffness out of his arms and legs. Paula skipped behind her desk, which faced Monica's, produced a notepad and pen and listened.

Nield and Butler found a camper close to
Prevent
,' Tweed explained. 'They followed it when it moved to No. 185 The Boltons, with a Land-Rover guarding its rear. They saw the Land-Rover driver carry a pile of cartons — the kind containing tape reels — into this address. Monica has spent half the night checking the organization based there. Moonglow Refugee Aid Trust International. Go ahead, Monica.'

`I managed to contact our agent in Hong Kong, Philip Cardon. Just before he was flying back here. He's good, as you know — speaks Cantonese fluently and, rather like Lawrence of Arabia, who could pass for an Arab, Cardon can pass for a Chinese.'

`He's top flight,' Newman commented.

`He's heard of Moonglow. A rather mysterious organization. The odd thing is it has an outfit in Hong Kong with a slightly different name. Moonglow Trading and Mercantile International. But no one seems to know what they trade in — and it has limitless funds. Source of those funds unknown.'

`Very odd,' Paula remarked. 'A refugee outfit in London. A trading company in the Far East.'

`Who runs this outfit?' Newman asked.

`A Dr Wand. On the phone Cardon said he's something of a mystery man. No one has ever seen him. He works through his executives. No photos of him. There's a rumour that he once visited the United States for plastic surgery. No one knows why. And Cardon said he heard another rumour — that Wand has a powerful deputy in Britain, an Englishman code-named Vulcan.'

`Vulcan? I find that intriguing,' Tweed commented.

`I also had a Paris call,' Monica went on. 'Lasalle said the situation in France is so bad he can't-release his brilliant agent, Isabelle Thomas, to join us. Not yet.'

`Pity,' Paula said without conviction. She hadn't taken to the attractive Isabelle during the previous year's fracas in France. 'And Cardon's call gets us nowhere.'

`Not quite,' Tweed corrected her. 'Remember Nield and Butler tracking that camper? That provides a direct link between the bugging of Sir Gerald Andover's house and the Moonglow outfit. Therefore, also with the shadowy Dr Wand. Track him, Monica. Up to the hilt.'

`I've got a lot more to tell you about my conversations in the bar at Passford House,' Paula reminded him.

`Later.' Tweed checked his watch. 'Monica had surprising news when I got back. I have to drive to London Airport in the next few minutes.'

`Someone arriving?' Newman asked.

`The last person I'd expect at this moment. None other than Cord Dillon, Deputy Director of the CIA. And he's bringing a woman with him who has discovered something very strange. If you like, you can come with me — both of you, Newman and Paula.'

`I like,' said Paula.

They stood waiting in the concourse of the terminal at London Airport. Outside the sun was shining and the sky was a clear blue. An atmosphere of peace and well-being, Paula thought. Especially after the horrors of Lymington and the New Forest. Strange that the frenzy of London should seem so comforting — when they had returned from what was normally the restfulness of the countryside.

`When is this damned aircraft due?' Newman asked impatiently.

Tweed had gone to check the arrivals board. He came back in time to hear the question.

`Landing now,' he said. 'It was supposed to arrive this morning early on. Delayed at Dulles Airport in Washington due to a bomb scare. Turned out to be a hoax. Monica was keeping in touch all morning.'

`Let's hope Cord Dillon is in a good humour,' Newman remarked. 'Which he probably won't be after the delay.'

The American had a fearsome reputation for his short fuse. Enormously competent, he expected everyone else to live up to his exacting standards. Fifteen minutes later the passengers started to emerge — far more than Newman had expected. The 747 Jumbo must have been full up.

More passengers appeared and soon the area round the exit was milling with people. Passengers disembarking, drivers of cars holding up names for their customers, friends greeting the new arrivals. Tweed, Newman, and Paula were huddled together in the crowd. You couldn't tell who had just come off the flight and who had arrived to meet them, Paula noted.

`There he is,' said Tweed.

Cord Dillon was a tall, well-built man in his fifties, with a craggy face. He had a shock of thick brown hair, was clean shaven, and above a strong nose his eyes were a startling blue, and ice cold. One hand carried his bag, the other waved a greeting as he pushed his way up to them. He nodded to Newman, shook Paula's hand, gave her a broad smile, then turned to Tweed.

`Could we wait here a minute or two,' he whispered. `My companion is travelling by herself. Security. She's Hilary Vane. A key element in the catastrophe. Small and slim, she's wearing a light-blue raincoat, dark blue beret. Carrying a small tartan case.'

`Should be easy to spot,' Tweed said to Paula, who had been listening.

The
melee
of people became more dense and muddled. Paula saw a tall, elegant, slim woman wearing a wide- brimmed hat with a small veil. Her coat flapped open and revealed a Chanel suit.

Paula saw the small woman he had described. Blue raincoat, blue beret, tartan suitcase. Hilary Vane began to thread her way through the jostling crowd. The woman with the wide-brimmed hat bumped into her, dipped her head in apology. Vane said something, started to push her way forward again. Her face contorted in a grimace of agony. The case fell from her hand. She collapsed.

`Jesus!'

Dillon thrust his way through the crowd, pushing people out of the way. Tweed followed at his heels. The crowd was parting, staring down. Dillon and Tweed reached the inert body. Tweed, moving swiftly, bent down, felt her neck pulse, looked up.

`She's dead.'

`She can't be!' Dillon roared.

Even among the babble of voices his own was heard clearly. More people stopped, pushed forward to see. Paula looked round for the woman with the wide-brimmed hat. No sign of her. An airport guard holding his walkie- talkie pushed his way through. Tweed spoke quickly.

`I'm Special Branch.' He showed the card forged inside the Engine Room in the basement of Park Crescent. 'Use that thing. Get Jim Corcoran, Chief of Security. He knows me. Get him damn quick …'

They were all inside Corcoran's top-security office. The body of Hilary Vane was stretched out on a table. Bending over her was a doctor. He looked up, shook his head. He pursed his lips, looked puzzled.

'I could have told you she was dead,' Tweed snapped. 'I would now like to know the cause of death.'

'Oh, I couldn't possibly give an opinion on that.. `Well, maybe I can.'

Tweed pointed to a small tear in Vane's raincoat in the upper arm. Gently, he eased up the sleeve of the light material. He pointed to a small puncture on the outer side of the slim arm. Vane's lips were a bluish colour. A tinge of the same colour was spreading over her face. The doctor sucked at the arm of his glasses and Tweed lost all patience.

`Clear enough, isn't it? She was injected with a lethal dose with a needle. The arm is bruised at this point.'

`Only a pathologist...' the doctor began.