Rhinoceros (13 page)

'But I did get some strange information from him
regarding his father's activities. And jolly active he seems
to be. But what Lord Barford is doing I can't even guess.
Let me see.'

She went over to his desk, stood behind him, stared down at the pad, at the names he'd written down well
spaced from each other. Jason Schulz (dead), Jeremy Mordaunt (dead), Bogle, Lord Barford - Brussels, Paris,
Berlin, Stockholm - Aubrey Barford, Gavin Thunder,
Mark Wendover, fake Mrs Mordaunt, Rondel, Lisa.

'I was trying to link up one person with another,' Tweed
explained. 'So far I've got exactly nowhere. No idea of what
is going on, but something is.'

'That's why you've drawn large loops round each name,' Paula remarked. 'You've used this technique before. And
the only loop with anything in it is Barford's - you've put
in the city names I said Aubrey had overheard the Brigadier
phoning.'

'All of which gets me nowhere.'

'Why put Lisa last?'

'Because at the moment she's my only hope that may
lead us to what is happening. Assuming she
does
turn up
at 5.30 this evening.'

'I'm sure she will.'

'Are you? We know nothing about her. She's a mystery
woman.' He looked at Newman. 'And have you any idea
why Mark Wendover hasn't arrived here?'

'Well, as you know, I had dinner with him last night.
Then he asked me to join him again this morning for
an early working breakfast. He went out somewhere soon
afterwards.'

'A lot of use he is.' Tweed started cleaning his glasses. 'You had a so-called working breakfast with him. A long one?'

'Yes. Well over an hour.'

'And during that breakfast you told him everything you
knew as regards our trip to Sussex - the visit Paula and
I made to Lord Barford's, then the grim business in
Alfriston?'

'Yes, I did.'

'I see.' He perched his glasses back on his nose. 'I just
wonder. I really do.'

Early that same morning, Mark Wendover had a large breakfast with Newman, then immediately left the Ritz.
He was wearing a white polo-neck sweater, blue jeans,
trainers on his large feet and carried a trench coat over
his arm. He was in a hurry to get the show on the road.

From a car-hire firm in Piccadilly he'd noticed when
Newman had driven him from the airport the previous
day he chose a cream Jaguar. His next port of call was
Hatchards, the bookshop. He bought an Ordnance Survey
map of East Sussex, studied it for at least two minutes, then
hurried back to his car. He didn't need a map of London -
from frequent visits he knew his way round the city as well
as he knew Washington.

He was on the straight stretch to Petworth when a
blonde in an Audi overtook him, waved a triumphant
hand. 'Can't have that,' he decided. He increased speed,
passed her, waved a hand. She soon realized she had no
chance of repeating her earlier performance as the cream
streak became like a toy car way ahead of her.

Later, when he turned off the A27 to Alfriston, he drove at a sedate pace. It was a glorious day, the
sun shining out
of a cloudless sky. When he parked the Jag on the outskirts
of the village he threw his trench coat into the trunk.

His long strides soon took him into Alfriston and he
walked into a pub which had just opened. In the country
a pub was where you heard all the local gossip. Smiling at
the barman, he ordered a pint of mild, sat down by the bar
on a stool.

'You're my first customer today,' the barman told him.
'Here on holiday, sir?'

'Yes and no. Alfriston looks like the sort of place where
nothing ever happens.'

'Don't you believe it. We've just 'ad a murder here. Up
the road. Last night.'

'I like a good murder,' Wendover said cheerfully. 'Read
a lot of thrillers. A local, I suppose.'

'No, it wasn't. A high-rankin' civil servant, so I hear.'

'Lived round here, did he?'

'No. Never seen down 'ere before. So why does he come
down 'ere to shoot himself in an underground tunnel, of
all places.'

'That sounds more like suicide.'

'Tell you something.' The barman leaned across the
counter. 'The police is baffled. Show you where it 'appened
if you'd come outside with me.'

Mark had only sipped at his drink. He carried the glass
out with him. The barman pointed up the narrow street
to where police tapes were still in place. Two farmers
wandered past them into the pub.

'More customers. Excuse me . . .'

Wendover waited until he was alone. Then he poured
the rest of his drink down a drain. He was careful about
drinking and driving. Taking the empty glass back inside,
he thanked the barman, walked out and a short distance
up the High Street and into another pub. Except for the
barman the place was empty. He ordered another pint of mild. The barman was a short, plump jovial type.

'Nothing wrong with startin' early, I always say. Just so
long as you're not driving.'

'It's got a lot of character, this village,' Wendover
remarked. 'But I don't imagine anyone important lives
here.'

'Well, if I may say so, sir, you'd be wrong there. A
bare five miles away Lord Barford lives. Got a big estate.
Family's lived here for generations in the mansion, Barford
Manor.'

'He does? I thought the aristocracy was being taxed out of existence.'

'Got a point there, you 'ave. Had two surveyors in here
recently. One 'ad been asked to inspect the place. He
was tellin' his friend his lordship's in deep trouble. Risin' damp, dry rot. He said the whole roof has to be replaced,
and half the windows. Cost his lordship over a million. He
lives well but he hasn't got that sort of money. And he's
got a helicopter and a ridin' stable. Often rides over the
Downs, he does. Towards the Eagle's Nest.'

'What's that?' Wendover asked, then sipped at his pint.

'One of these crazy modern houses. Very big. A chap
called Rondel owns it.'

'Sounds foreign. Barford and Rondel are friends, then?'

'Don't think so. Lord Barford spent a lot of time abroad
in the Army. Don't think he's keen on
foreigners. Can't
blame 'im.'

Wendover was aware that a few minutes earlier someone
had come in and stood close behind him. He made a
point of not looking round. The newcomer spoke, his
voice unpleasant, arrogant.

'Mind telling me what you're doing here?'

'Yes, I do.' Wendover turned round. A short man stared at him with a hostile expression. He wore a dark, ill-fitting
suit. 'Who are you?'

'Bogle. Chief Constable.'

'Assistant Chief,' the barman said.

'Barrow,' the policeman snapped. 'You keep out of this.
I'll have a lemonade.'

'Boogie?' Wendover enquired. 'Like a bugle soldiers
blow at ceremonies?'

'Bogle,' the policeman repeated. 'B-o-g-l-e. Got it?'

Here we go, thought Wendover. Newman had relayed
to him over dinner Tweed's encounter with this charac
ter. He turned his back, sipped more of his drink. A
hand tapped his shoulder. Wendover put down his glass, swung round.

'I don't like people who touch me.'

'And I don't like people who ignore me. I'm investigating
a murder. You've been going into pubs and asking ques
tions I find suspicious. I'd like to see proof of your
identity.'

'Would you? You're going to be disappointed. Unless
you can charge me with some offence. Incidentally, your
lemonade is getting cold.'

With this parting shot Wendover walked out into the
street. He was on his way back to his car, which took
him past the open door of the first pub he'd visited.
A shout from inside stopped him. The barman came
running out.

'I think maybe you dropped this when you took your wallet out of your back pocket to pay me.'

He handed Wendover a small notebook bound in
blue leather. Opening it, Wendover saw the letters MoA
engraved in gold on the inside of the front binding. Riffling
through the pages he saw a series of coded numbers
and words.

'Thank you,' he said to the barman. 'Without this I'd
have been lost at work.'

Slipping the book into his pocket he hurried back to
his car. He knew from his time at Langley with the CIA
that MoA was an abbreviation for the Whitehall Ministry
of Armaments. He surmised that Bogle had probably
dropped the book while he had been putting on his gloves, presumably to make himself look more official. Now he
wanted to get out of the village before Bogle discovered
his loss.

He had also decided to drive straight back to Park
Crescent. It could be important to Tweed to hear about
the information he had picked up.

Seattle, Washington State, Pacific Coast.
The HQ of the
World Liberation Front was located in an apartment overlooking Lake Washington. This location had been
carefully chosen due to its upmarket situation. Successful,
well-off Americans were happy to live in this area. No
one — including the FBI — would dream that dangerous
revolutionaries might be found here.

In the spacious ground-floor apartment at the end of a
block with a view across a trim lawn down to the lake, a
man sat in front of the Internet. His long greasy hair was
coiled in a ponytail. On the back of a nearby chair hung the
jacket of the expensive business suit he wore. Leaving the
apartment - or returning to it - he always wore a hat with the ponytail tucked out of sight. His neighbours thought
he was one of those whizz-kids, something in electronics.

It was the middle of the night when he checked the time, then clicked the mouse to a repeat program on fitness. This
catered to insomniacs of both sexes who whiled away the
dreary hours following the instructor, a big man who was
all muscle and no fat. Standing on a platform, he faced a
class of mixed sexes, demonstrating exercises.

Ponytail had a pad open in front of him, noted down
every third word of the instructor, who spoke slowly. The
moment the program was over he glanced at the words
which had formed into a message. He picked up the phone
and dialled an unlisted number in London.