Blood Storm (8 page)

She was still talking at top speed. She opened her mouth
again but Tweed hammered his clenched fist on the desk
and she stared with indignation at him.

'Where did you get the cigar from,' he asked her, 'and
how long has this persecution been going on?'

'I picked up the cigar in Whitehall,' Partridge rattled on.
'Turning round, I began to walk back to challenge him
just as a police car came slowly cruising up the street. The
fat man threw his cigar into a side street and disappeared
after it. He only reappeared when the police car had
passed. He hailed a cab when he saw me coming towards
him. After he'd gone I used my gloved hand to pick up the cigar and dropped it inside that evidence envelope. I carry them so I can stuff used handkerchiefs inside one. Germs
are everywhere. I have been stalked for two days and every
time I leave the building. While I think of it, Paula Grey
over there is in great danger. Don't ask me how I know
that because I won't tell you. Highly confidential.'

'Medfords Security Agency,' Tweed said suddenly. 'I can give you the address and the name of the man to see. We do
not handle work or problems like yours. I am sorry.'

'So am I!' she snapped, jumping up, slipping on her coat.
'And I do know where Medfords are. I've wasted my time
coming here. I'm going now. No, keep the cigar.'

When Partridge had gone Monica stood up and let out a
long sigh.

'Phew! She never stopped talking for over five minutes.
No wonder back at the civil service they call her the Parrot.
To say nothing of Freaky-Deaky. Pete knew what he was
talking about. As to enemies, she must have a horde of them
with all those subordinate to her.'

'Did you believe what she said?' Tweed asked Paula.

'Not one single word.'

'The only thing she said which worries me is her warning
that you are in danger. Could be the reason she came here.
I'm thinking the Cabal are launching a campaign against us
to persuade me to withdraw opposition to their crazy plan for a merger.'

'Don't think so,' Paula said as her mobile phone began to
buzz. She answered it. 'Hello.'

'Recognize my voice?' a man asked. Newman's.

'Yes, I do.'

'I need your help urgently. I'm at the Monk's Head Hotel
in Tolhaven, west Dorset. Can you get down here?'

'I'm practically on my way.'

'Bring a camera. Something very weird. Come
armed . . .'

The line went dead. Paula had scribbled the address on a
pad. She opened a locked drawer, took out her Browning,
checked the mechanism, inserted a magazine, tucked it
inside her shoulder holster. Next she took out a small
6.35mm Beretta, checked it, and slid the automatic inside
another neat holster strapped to her leg. She took the pad
with the address over to Tweed, told him what Newman
had said.

'Things are warming up,' she remarked. 'About time.'

'I'd come with you,' Tweed said. 'But the situation
here . . .'

'Bob didn't ask for you,' she said with a cheeky smile. 'I
will keep you informed as far as I can. Borrow a mobile off
Pete Nield. See you.'

'Don't take your Saab to drive down there,' Tweed
warned. 'You are known to have that car and the enemy has
done his homework. Take my old battered Ford with the souped-up engine. That might confuse them.'

'Will do.'

She was almost at the door when she stooped to pick
something up off the carpet. It was a contact lens with a
greenish-yellow tint. She took it back and laid it on Tweed's
desk.

'The Parrot must have dropped this as she left in a fury.'

'I wonder,' said Tweed very thoughtfully, looking at the
lens.

'And here,' Paula said, handing him a camera, 'inside is the film. I took two shots of our visitor.'

Tweed called over to Monica. He gave her the camera.

'Take this down to the basement. Tell them to print
what's inside. Then they should give the prints to that clever
artist, Joel, and ask him to come up. I have experienced his
talented hand at creating people's images.'

7

Paula was racing down the motorway, the same one
Newman had driven along earlier. Before leaving Park
Crescent she had used a map to check the location of
Tolhaven, a place she'd never heard of. A souped-up
engine, Tweed had said. She was having to concentrate to stop the car carrying her away, and so hard she passed the exit leading to the safe house Newman had used without
giving it a thought. Shortly afterwards she turned off the
motorway down a road leading more to the south.

The end of March. It was a gloriously sunny afternoon
and cold. She had her window open a few inches to keep herself alert. She frequently checked her rear-view mirror
but there was no sign of black cars. She had eluded State
Security - no, Special Branch as they still were, despite their
black uniforms, the long overcoats, the peaked caps.

She was driving through open country with rolling hills
on either side. Here and there a field had crusted brown
sods of soil. Ploughing was well under way. She sighed with
pleasure. Such a relief to be in the country and away from
the crammed streets and buildings of London.

The road was straight for long stretches and she risked increasing her speed. Eventually she crossed the Dorset
Downs and a panoramic view opened up. The road
descended, hedge-lined on both sides, but ahead in the
distance the sun glowed off a vast stretch of blue sea. The
English Channel. She crawled through the first village she
had encountered for ages, saw a signpost bearing the legend
Tolhaven.

No traffic. She was thinking of the contact lens she had
given Tweed, along with the camera she'd used to photograph the Parrot. She had a twin camera in her
pocket. 'I wonder,' Tweed had said and asked Monica to
give it to the basement boffins, develop the film, then send it to Joel, the artist. Why? What had occurred to him in his
agile brain?

Tolhaven was a dull place, small and with stone
buildings, most of which had small shops at ground level.
She saw the Monk's Head, turned into a parking area under
an arch. Newman's Range Rover was parked in a corner.

In reception a woman in late middle-age, wearing a
crumpled grey dress, told her Mr Newman had said he was expecting a lady guest. His room was 25, hers was 24, both on the first floor.

'You made good time,' Newman greeted her when Paula
had tapped on his door, and entered his large bedroom, its windows overlooking the main street. 'Are you armed?'

'Yes. Sounds as though you expect trouble.'

'I do. Thanks for coming. I need someone sensitive to
weird atmospheres. We ought to get moving. On foot. It
will be dark soon.'

'Mind if I dump my emergency bag in my room and
change into walking boots? You can come with me . . .'

She had noticed Newman was exuding energy, but that
his expression was grim after his
welcoming smile. He was
clad in a camouflage jacket and trousers tucked into boots. She worked quickly in her room while Newman peered out
of a window looking down on the car park.

'Don't miss a trick, do you?' he said sharply. 'Parked your
car like mine facing out for a quick getaway.'

'That's on the cards?'

'I've paid in advance for both rooms for two nights. If we
have to we can take off in an emergency.'

'You expect one?'

'State Security have been here for hours in full
battledress. I've done a recce, so I can show you.' He looked
towards the bathroom. 'We may not be back for a while.'

'I'm OK. What are we waiting for?'

'Have you eaten?' Newman paused on the pavement
outside the hotel. 'I should have asked earlier.'

'Yes. Shouldn't we keep moving?'

He led them down a side street near the hotel and over to
the far side of the High Street. They emerged into the open
and the small town was gone. The road climbed to an
ancient bridge. Paula
peered over a crumbling stone wall.
Below a fast-flowing river headed seaward. On one bank an
old wooden dock was gradually collapsing into the water.

'Ages ago, before the Channel decided to recede,'
Newman explained briskly, 'Tolhaven was on the edge of
the sea. The town has a history of smugglers and savage fights with the equivalent of the coastguard.'

'It's eerily quiet, apart from the water lapping,' she
remarked as they walked quickly beyond the bridge.

'It's a riot here compared with where we're going.'

'Can't wait

The road became a lane with forests of fir trees hemming
it in on both sides. To their right, in a break in the trees, a path curved away marked with a sign: Ferry.

'Where does that go to, then?' she asked.

'To Black Island,' Newman replied, 'not far off the coast.
I've been there for a quick shufti. . .'

'What was that? Think I've heard it before.'

'Arabic for look-see. Philip Cardon used the word when
we had fun down in Marseilles.'

'Fun? We nearly got killed.'

'That was a honeymoon compared with what this could
be. I want you to keep quiet, crouch down after me.'

Newman's whole attitude, his remarks, made Paula
check the Browning in the shoulder holster. They had turned off into another gap in the forest. The grass and
dead bracken were squashed down with what looked to
Paula like wheel-tracks. He held up a hand to halt her as
they arrived at an opening. Three large cars were parked facing the track. Newman checked each one with small
powerful field glasses. He had laid the golfer's bag which
he'd carried casually slung
over his shoulder down on the
grass. He completed his survey, tucked away the glasses.

'Empty,' he announced in a whisper.

'What's in the golf bag? Not irons, I suspect.'

'A powerful automatic weapon with plenty of ammo,' he
told her casually. 'I think we'll risk crossing over to Black
Island by ferry. The thugs had overhead lights fixed up
where they were working, so maybe they carry on at night.'

'What work?'

'That's what I want you to see. If I tell you to do
something like "drop flat" you do it damned fast.'