No Mercy (37 page)

'I still don't get it,' Paula said sharply.

'We've been absorbed in so many other aspects,' Tweed
explained, 'that we'd almost forgotten the existence of
Michael. Yet it all started with him. "I witnessed murder."
Assuming he
is
suffering from amnesia.'

'You don't believe the psychiatrists?' Paula mused.

'I don't believe a word anyone has told me. As to your
psychiatrists, in a biography of Winston Churchill I read he called them trick cyclists.'

'But could Michael keep up not saying a word all this
time?' Paula persisted.

'Unlikely - but not impossible. And at the time of the
murders he was allegedly somewhere in the States. Again,
like the rest, no alibi. Plus the fact we're up against Armenian
deviousness. Their way of life. Larry, Lucinda, Michael all
had the same Armenian father, albeit an English mother.'

'Then we can cancel out Aubrey Greystoke,' Paula
argued.

'No, we can't. He's been working with Armenians long
enough to have picked up their way of thinking.'

The freighter was now sailing a hundred and fifty miles off
the French coast. Poring over a chart, Abdul realized the
importance of steering well clear of the projecting
peninsula of Brittany and the island of Ushant. He changed
course, now sailing further northwest.

It had been night but now, in the east, a mix of silver and
pink glow was appearing. Dawn. Strictly against maritime
law, Abdul was sailing without lights. Gazing ahead, he saw the small French fishing vessel. He gave the swift command
to increase speed. That vessel could report the presence of
his own ship when it returned to port.

The first warning the French crew aboard the fishing
vessel had of the danger was when they saw the looming
prow of the freighter almost above them. The prow smashed
through the craft, cutting it in two. The two sections of the
hull began to sink at once. Abdul saw only one Frenchman
dive overboard.

Grabbing his bullhorn, he turned, gave his order in Arabic
to two of the men below. They dived over the port side,
came up, shook their heads, saw the Frenchman swim
towards the distant coast in the hope of finding another
fishing vessel. One of the Arabs was a fast swimmer. He
came up behind the Frenchman, hauled a large curved knife
from his belt, whipped it through the air and sliced off the
head of the fisherman.

On the bridge Abdul nodded in satisfaction. His two
Arabs were now swimming back to the freighter, where a
climbing net had been thrown over the side for them. Abdul
saw a pool of gory blood colour the surface where the
Frenchman had disappeared. A small wave swept over,
dissolved the red pool. Back to normal.

Abdul had also observed that a strong current was
carrying debris from the wrecked fishing boat out into the
Atlantic. It would also remove the bodies and the
decapitated head bobbing on the surface.

'Praise be to Allah,' he said aloud, bowing to the east. 'May he keep the sea calm on our return journey.'

'We're going to see Drago Volkanian,' Tweed told Paula.

'When?' She stood up, parted the curtains cautiously. 'It's only just dawn.'

'Now. Four ninety Jermyn Street is not far away.'

'But won't Drago be asleep? We won't be very welcome.'

'Like me, I don't think he needs much sleep and he's a
very worried man. He knows something's going on but I'm
sure he doesn't know what it is.'

'And you do?'

'Yes, it's going to be a race against time. There's a
deadline, with the emphasis on dead.'

They both had their overcoats on when the phone rang.
Monica answered, looked up at Tweed.

'You'll never believe who's downstairs wanting to see you.'

'I will if you tell me quickly.'

'Abel Gallagher, head of Special Branch,' she growled, mimicking Gallagher.

'Coats off,' Tweed ordered. 'Now ask him to come up.'

Tweed was studying a file behind his desk and Paula had
returned to hers, when the door opened. The burly bulk of Gallagher stormed in. Tweed invited him to sit down.

'To what do I owe this honour?' he enquired sarcastically.

'We're worried about you. The government is worried
about you. You're supposed to be investigating this string of
skeleton murders. Details are splashed in headlines all over
the press. The public are getting worried. So what do you
do? You leave the country, friggin' go abroad. Your place is

'Who says so?'

'I do.'

'And what about this alleged going abroad?'

'An agent of mine at Waterloo spotted you boarding
Eurostar. Next stop Paris - and God knows where. What the
hell do you think you're playing at?'

'Finished ranting and raving, Abel?' Tweed asked quietly. 'First, my investigation has nothing to do with you. Second,
your department has no authority over the SIS. Third, who in the government is losing his nerve?'

'The Home Secretary,' Gallagher announced triumphantly.

'Then I'll get the PM to have a few words with him, after telling him my information source. You.'

'I have to do my job.' Gallagher said plaintively.

'Then go and do it,' Tweed suggested unpleasantly. 'And
leave me to do mine. The door is there.'

Gallagher left like a large dog with its tail between its legs.

'You handled that well,' Paula said as she got up and put
on her overcoat. 'He collapsed when you mentioned the
PM.'

'Jermyn Street next,' said Tweed.

They drove off in the early-morning light with Harry
hunched up out of sight in the back, his Walther in his hand.
Paula peered out as they headed for Jermyn Street.

'Millie's still there,' she reported.

'Millie?' asked Tweed.

'My nickname for Ken Millington. Gallagher probably
has people following us. We know he's into a bookie for a
twenty-thousand-pound debt. I suppose he's not a suspect?
We are talking about four hundred million pounds gone
missing.'

'It's now back in Gantia's huge reserves,' Tweed told
her. 'I looked at that document you found in Ivy Cottage.
It's a photocopy of a message from Bone in Angora.
AB200017 X is its reference. Same as on the document
you found at Christine Barton's flat. I think Lee Greystoke
was smart. Prowling inside Gantia's plant she found the
original on some executive's desk and photocopied it, so
the executive responsible wouldn't know she'd been in the
place.'

'So who is the filthy murderer?'

'Still no idea. We have to link up the reference with the
person . . .'

'We're still all at sea.'

'So is the
Oran.
Hence the deadline.'

Drago opened the front door himself - doubtless after
checking the security mirror above their heads. The outsize
Armenian was fully dressed in a grey business suit stretched across his immense shoulders. He was smiling warmly as he invited them to step inside. There was no sign of the brown-
faced girl they had seen on their previous visit. They were
ushered into the living room as Drago's rumbling voice
talked.

'Sir, I like people who can get up early. They are the
people who run the world while others sleep. Something to
drink? Coffee? I thought so.'

The tallest cafetiere Paula had ever seen occupied the
small table close to where they were seated together with the
most expensive Rosenthal china. Three cups and saucers
and plates. White bread rolls of a kind Paula had never seen
before. She bit into one. Fabulous. Drago had poured the
coffee.

'Now, Miss Paula, and you, sir, how can I help you? A man after my own heart who never stops. The papers are devoted to this horrible case you are engaged on.'

Once again his personality seemed to fill the large room,
so dynamic and forceful. Tweed helped himself to a bread
roll, drank some coffee, taking his time. He suddenly looked
at their host, held his gaze.

'I'm double-checking. How many people have keys to enter your armaments factory?'

'Larry, of course, then Lucinda, Michael and Greystoke.
A key was also in the possession of poor Lee. I do miss her.'

'Why Greystoke?' Tweed wondered. 'He's an accountant.'

'Exactly. You are shrewd to ask. It would seem strange to you that Aubrey was included in the magic circle. Under my supervision modifications — very expensive - were made to
the system. So estimates were requested. Aubrey checked the costs as the work proceeded. I am careful with money.'

'I gather,' Tweed went on quietly, as though it were of little
importance, 'some kind of lever converts the machines from
producing artillery shells to missiles.'

'That, sir, is correct. It's a coded lever.'

'Coded?'

'I designed it myself. A simple code, if you know what it
is.' Drago raised a huge index finger, swept it up vertically,
then swept it across at right angles, down vertically, and
jerked it aside to the right. 'That, of course, isn't the code,
but it shows you how it works.'

'Who knows the code?'

'The same people who have keys to the armaments plant.
Lucinda, Larry, Greystoke and Michael.'

'And some time ago you decided you'd produce no more missiles, that the plant would only manufacture artillery
shells.'

'Absolutely. A complete ban on missiles. For ever.'

'I see.' Tweed paused, took a while drinking the rest of his
coffee before he continued. 'So it would perturb you to
know that someone has operated the coded lever and has
been producing missiles on a large scale recently?'

The effect this suggestion produced on Drago was
dramatic. His whole personality changed. His normally
benevolent face was transformed into a state of savage fury. His massive jaw clenched, his mouth tightened until the lips
almost vanished, his bony structure became prominent, his
eyes narrowed into vicious slits. Tweed waited. Eventually
Drago found his voice, a ferocious rumble.

'How can you know that such an atrocity is being perpetrated?'

'From various sources of information picked up from different places. They lead to only one conclusion. Some
forty missiles have been - or are being - produced.' Tweed
fired another shot. 'And are you aware that for a certain
period of time the sum of four hundred million pounds went
missing from your reserves?'