The Cauldron (8 page)

'I know.'

'You mean you know about the Thames Valley?'

'I mean I know VB has bought up that plant. He's already put in hand plans for doubling its size and capacity.'

'May I ask how you know all this?'

'I have a contact in the area I can't name. I was informed earlier under a seal of secrecy.' Tweed said firmly.

'What is infuriating - worrying - the PM is that VB already has several important members of Parliament on his payroll. The usual racket - they're called consultants. He thinks Moloch is getting too powerful.'

'He is. What do you want me to do? Go out and shoot him?'.

'Might be a good idea.' Howard replied in a rare flash of humour. 'How is your investigation proceeding?'

'It's proceeding. When I have something positive you'll be the first to know.'

'I would hope so ...'

Howard stood up, left the room. Monica raised her eyes to heaven. Tweed grinned at her.

'I'm going to say it,' Monica insisted. 'That man is a pain. I notice you tell him as little as possible.'

'Well, I do know that when he's had three double whiskies at his club he can get talkative. What do you think

of the call I had from Newman?'

Newman had called him from the phone box in Mawnan Smith on his way back from Mullion Towers. Monica frowned.

'Sounds to me as though he cleverly outmanoeuvred a pretty tough bunch. What was the object of the exercise?'

'To unsettle Moloch, to show him we're on his track. In that mood he may make a wrong move. I'm interested in that paperwork Marler took from the litter bin. A map of California with strange lines on it.'

'Is that why you sent Pete Nield haring down to Nansidwell?'

'Yes.' Tweed responded. 'He's bringing the map straight back with him. I want to see that for myself. Oh, by the way, did you find out any more about the Buddha, Mrs Benyon, VB's stepmother - and her son, Ethan?'

'Mrs Benyon has a small amount of stock in the private company controlling VB's empire. The rumour is she's always going on at VB about giving her more stock, that she'd like a bigger say in the conglomerate.'

'Fits in with that photo you showed me. What else?'

'Her son, Ethan, seems a strange character. He hates his mother, who bullies him when she can. He doesn't live with her - he's living at Black Ridge, VB's HQ down the coast from Carmel and near Big Sur. They say he's brilliant at his work...'

'What exactly is his work?'

'He's a seismologist - you know, an expert on earthquakes. And that's all I know. Except when he was a student over here, his colleagues thought he had a screw loose. I can only suppose because he's a typical boffin, wrapped up in what he does.'

'Interesting.' Tweed had a faraway look.

'Interesting? Why?'

'Because certain fragments of the puzzle are beginning to fit into the whole picture. Vaguely. I could be wrong.'

'Incidentally, while you were out this morning the photo of Julia Sanchez arrived from Cord Dillon by Federal Express. The girl friend of VB's who vanished into nowhere along with the other six. Here it is.'

She laid it on his desk and Tweed looked at the photo of a very attractive brunette. She had a firm chin, suggesting character, and laughing eyes. The type of girl who would be fun. Tweed guessed her age at early thirties.

'Nothing like the woman Newman pulled ashore down in Cornwall, the one Paula swore was the same woman she hauled out of the sea at Octopus Cove in California. Here is the Identikit pic. Paula worked out with our artist in the Engine Room,' Monica pointed out.

Tweed glanced at the drawing Paula had worked on with the artist. He knew she was very good at recalling individual features. Even before studying it closely he had realized there was no resemblance to Julia Sanchez.

Another dead end - they had encountered so many over the years.

'Not a bit like her.' he agreed. 'Better phone Cord and bring him up to date ...'

He was interrupted by the phone ringing. Monica answered it, told Tweed Cord Dillon was on the phone.

'Hello, Cord. Tweed here.'

'Hi! Tell me something; do I sound cheerful, as though I've just heard good news?'

'You do...'

'Which shows I can bluff my way during any crisis.'

'What crisis?'

The President. I was summoned to see him in the Oval Office. He was storming. Moloch has now built up so much power in the House of Representatives - and in the Senate - the President thinks he could swing the next election any way Moloch wants it to go. I tried to tell him he was exaggerating - but he wouldn't have it. I've been told to find out what VB is up to. I ask you - I've just found out Moloch has crossed the Atlantic in his Lear jet, is now in England somewhere ...'

'He has. I know exactly where he is.'

'Do me a favour, friend. Get me some data on what he's doing - and why. Your people are experts at that sort of thing and I can't get anything on him from over here. I know I'll get another summons to the White House soon. The whole of Washington is in a panic. They're saying Moloch is a winner in controlling the levers of power...'

'Cord, leave it to me. I'm already launching a major operation tracking this man. When I have something positive I'll call you. In fact the operation is well under way.'

'Maybe I'll sleep better tonight. My thanks.'

Tweed told Monica what the American had said. She pursed her lips.

'You didn't tell him the PM also is in a dither for the same reasons.'

'Deliberately. Why upset him more? So this one amazing man, VB, is able to cause tremors of anxiety in both London and Washington. Tremors,' he repeated thoughtfully.

'I'm continuing to check out Vanity Richmond,' Monica told him. 'I used a reliable contact in San Francisco. They tried to locate a Vanessa Richmond through the DMV, Department of Motor Vehicles, TRW, the credit-rating bureau, the IRS, Internal Revenue Service, the Immigration Department for registered aliens - foreigners with residential permits to live in the States - and a Social Security number. They came up with a blank everywhere. Vanessa Richmond is a woman with no identity.'

'Most mysterious,' commented Tweed.

'I'm more than halfway trying to find her over here but I'm registering more blanks.'

'When Newman phoned me his report on the Mullion Towers assault he then put Paula on the line. She says there's a woman staying on her own at Nansidwell who looks exactly like Vanity. But in California she was a redhead. The woman at Nansidwell is a brunette.'

'She's wearing a wig. Or maybe she's dyed her hair.' Monica said quickly.

"That thought had occurred to me. I'll have a chat with the lady when I arrive at Nansidwell. You booked me a room?'

'Of course. Starting tonight. Shouldn't you be driving off soon?'

'I'm waiting for Pete Nield to arrive back with that paper Marler grabbed out of VB's dustbin. He should be here soon.'

Half an hour later Nield arrived, having driven all the way to Cornwall and back again. Monica thought he looked surprisingly fresh. He handed Tweed a cardboard-backed envelope.

'Marler said what he found was torn into four pieces. He's assembled it with sellotape into the original document.'

'Don't you need a drink of something after that trip?' suggested Monica.

'I could do with a jug of water and some of that sweetened coffee you make so well, please?' Nield requested with a smile. 'I was parched during the last lap. Heat inside my car was like a furnace. I had a bottle of water but that soon went.'

'Sit down, Pete,' Tweed told him. 'I want to talk to you in a minute.'

Tweed was studying the document Marler had skilfully reassembled. It was a map of California with a series of five squiggly lines running from south to north through the state. Each had a name written in tiny letters at the bottom of the sheet. He immediately recognized the notorious San Andreas earthquake fault. What puzzled him was another line running close to the coast, named the San Moreno fault.

When Monica returned with refreshments for Nield, including a plate of sugary buns, Tweed waited until he had drunk all the liquid, consumed all the buns. Pete Nield, Harry Butler's partner, could have hardly been less like the rough-tongued, burly Butler. Of slim build, in his late thirties, he dressed smartly, had an intelligent face with a neat moustache under his strong nose.

'Monica,' Tweed called out, 'could you see if you can get Professor Weatherby on the phone?'

'The top seismologist in this country?'

'Yes. Tom Weatherby.'

A few minutes later Monica nodded to Tweed, who picked up his phone. The familiar voice with its Scots burr greeted him jokily.

Tweed? Thought you'd joined the government.'

'Perish the thought. Tom, this is asking a bit much but could I drive over to see you now? Only be there a few minutes but it's urgent.'

'When isn't it when you come to bring me a riddle? See you as soon as you arrive here ...'

Tweed went to a cupboard, brought out a case always kept for immediate departure. He also carried out Pete Nield's, handed it to him.

'We're off to Cornwall. First we have to call on Weatherby.'

'Pete has just been all the way down there and back,' Monica protested.

'Pete is ready to go back again,' Nield assured her.

'I'll drive,' said Tweed. 'You can reach me at Nansidwell,' he told Monica. 'While I'm gone you're in charge. And tell Howard you don't know where I've gone if he asks - which he will...'

They drove to a large house in the Holland Park district of London first. Weatherby opened the front door, ushered them inside as soon as they arrived. He took them into a spacious, comfortably furnished living room with a large desk against one wall, asked them what they would like to drink. Both visitors asked for coffee.

Weatherby, in his seventies, was like an amiable gnome. He had greying hair and a wide, high forehead. Of medium height, he had a puckish grin and greeted Tweed warmly. Nield thought he looked like a brain box.

'Now, what problem have you brought me?' he asked Tweed when he had served coffee. He had a glass of whisky, which he sipped. 'Some situation you hope I can decipher?'

'Yes, exactly that.'

Tweed handed him the map of California Marler had rescued. Weatherby opened it out, stared at it for several minutes. He looked up at Tweed.

'May I ask where you obtained this?'

'Sorry, Tom, that's confidential.'

'I do recognize the tiny script at the bottom which has different names on it. The man who built up this map is short-sighted. I knew him. Ethan Benyon. He studied seismology under me.'

"That's a coincidence.' Tweed replied.

'Not really. Seismologists comprise a small club, communicate their findings to each other. If it doesn't sound immodest Ethan came to me because he believed I was the best in Western Europe. An absurd exaggeration. It was several years ago. He was a brilliant student. Shy, quiet, but he had a natural affinity for the subject.'

'You know where he is now?'

'No idea. Although if this map is recent it looks as though he's in California. He is so short-sighted he wears those pebble glasses. He was particularly interested in the VAN method for predicting earthquakes.'

'What is that?' asked Tweed.

'Difficult to explain. In a few words, it was invented by three Greek professors. They worked out this VAN method which uses a series of strategically placed stations to register natural electrical currents which occur close to the Earth's surface. These currents are initiated by the Earth's magnetic field. The stations are equipped with sensors buried in the ground a distance apart. They're linked with a conducting wire to a voltage amplifier and a chart recorder. Are you with me so far?'

'I think so,' said Tweed.

'More than I am.' Nield commented quietly.

'The chart recorders can detect a signal which invariably precedes an earthquake. For a long time seismologists generally thought it was nonsense, but now they acknowledge the VAN system works - at least some do. I do know the Americans are still sceptical. Ethan had an original mind.'