This United State (62 page)

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Flight BA 9999, bound for New York, was well out over the Atlantic. It was temporarily flying an unusual course to avoid turbulence. The captain had handed over control to his co-pilot for a few minutes to refresh himself. He was gazing down through a window.

At thirty-five thousand feet there was a sea of endless cloud below them, masking any sight of the ocean far below. The forecast had been for a continuous overcast all the way to their destination, many hours away. Captain Stuart Henderson was sucking a sweet provided by his chief stewardess, Linda. On a shelf, securely wedged in, was his video camera. Henderson had promised his wife that he'd try to get a series of shots of the approach to New York. Linda had agreed to operate the camera. Not that Henderson thought they'd have any luck — not at this time of the year. The overcast would stay with them all the way to JFK.

Henderson glanced at his watch. Time to take over from the co-pilot — he'd had his break. He took one final look down, stiffened, stared in sheer disbelief.

'Give me the video camera, Linda,' he called out. 'Quick.'

Below there was an enormous break in the clouds. Below that he saw a gigantic aircraft carrier. Spread out well beyond it to port and starboard were escorts of heavy cruisers. While Linda patiently held the camera Henderson used a pair of high-powered binoculars. He could just make out it was flying the Stars and Stripes. Guided-missile cruisers were protecting the carrier. Midway between the two destroyers sailed on a parallel course.

'Linda, take these, give me the camera. There's a ruddy great American task force down there. At a guess it's heading straight for Britain.'

He was operating the camera as he spoke. He swivelled it at different angles, trying to take in the whole of the vast battle fleet. Then the overcast reappeared, blotted out everything. Henderson stood motionless for a minute, his index finger tapping the side of the camera he was no longer operating.

'Frank,' he said to the co-pilot, 'have you heard anything about a major American task force heading for British waters?'

'No.'

'Neither have I,' said Linda. 'And I read the newspapers from page to page. Nothing on the radio. Nothing on TV.'

'I think I'm going to send a detailed and urgent radio signal to the Ministry of Defence,' Henderson decided.

45

Tweed first attempted to call Monica, using Beck's mobile. He had to give up eventually — the line was constantly engaged. Instead he called Roy Buchanan, reaching the Chief Inspector immediately.

'Tweed!' Buchanan sounded triumphant. 'The bullet matches.'

'Pardon?'

His mind had been elsewhere, replaying the breakfast conversation in the Ritz dining room when Osborne had joined the party.

'The bullet!' Buchanan repeated. 'Remember? You called me from Freiburg, told me to have the plane carrying the body of Sir Guy Strangeways met here: I personally was on the spot when the machine landed at Heathrow. I had a top doctor standing by, had the body rushed to him. He performed the autopsy, dug out the bullet which killed Strangeways. I had it compared with the bullet which assassinated our Prime Minister. Both bullets matched up perfectly. Which means the. Phantom shot both the PM and Strangeways.'

'He has a lot to answer for...'

'Haven't finished yet. I've sent the Strangeways bullet to Rene Lasalle in Paris' y courier. He'll have it by now. So he can compare it with the bullet which assassinated the French Minister.'

'Very good work, Roy.'

'More yet. I had patrol cars waiting in secret just outside all American airbases in East Anglia. One of them grabbed the big white truck flown in from Germany. Also its driver. You know what was inside that truck?'

'Money.'

'Enough brilliantly forged British banknotes to cause a financial panic here if they'd been distributed. I've got them under heavy guard. Have sent specimens to the Bank of England. They are in a state of shock.'

'This is wonderful news, Roy. Congratulations.'

'We've beaten the so-and-sos,' Buchanan said jubilantly, a man Tweed had never before known to show emotion.

'Hold on, Roy,' he warned. 'I think the monster crisis is yet to come. How about the bombings?'

'None since I surrounded the American Embassy with plain-clothes men.'

'Thank Heaven for that. Just don't relax your efforts one inch.'

Tweed had just put down the phone when it started ringing. He picked it up quickly.

'Hello, who is it?'

'Rene. I'm back. Could you come now to rue.. Lasalle paused. 'Is this phone safe?'

'Yes. I'm on a hacker-proof mobile.'

'Then could you come now to rue des Saussaies? I have news for you.'

'Can you dig out your file on Jean Chatel?'

'It will be waiting for you, my friend.'

'I'm on my way. Oh, can I bring Paula and Newman with me?'

'They will be most welcome.'

Tweed kept his word. He phoned Paula and Newman, asked them to come to his room immediately.

Very few people know about — or notice — rue des Saussaies, the headquarters of the
Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire
. In other words, French counter-espionage. A short narrow street almost opposite the Elysee Palace, it is passed by without so much as a glance by tourists. The entrance to the nondescript building is halfway along on the left, approached from the Elysêe end. Newman stopped the car at the entrance and Tweed showed the guard his passport. The guard waved them inside.

'M. Lasalle is expecting you, sir.'

Newman parked the car in the small cobbled courtyard at the end of a short stone tunnel. An officer in plain clothes led them inside and up an old stone staircase to an office on the first floor. Lasalle rose from behind an old wooden desk to greet his guests.

'Coffee?' he suggested.

'It would help,' Tweed agreed.

Rene Lasalle, in his fifties, was small and slim and sported a neat moustache. He was dressed in a dark business suit and he pulled out a chair for Paula, then, returned to sit behind his desk. A shabby green file was the only object on its surface apart from a telephone.

'The bullet arrived from Chief Inspector Buchanan some time ago,' he began. 'I'm sure you know which bullet I'm referring to.'

'I know very well,' Tweed assured him.

'We have had time,' Lasalle explained in his excellent English, 'to compare it meticulously with the bullet extracted from our late French Minister. It is a perfect match.'

'Then it's the Phantom again.'

'I would like your permission to send this bullet to my colleague in the German police at Wiesbaden, Otto Kuhlmann. For comparison with the bullet extracted from the body of Keller, also assassinated, as you know.'

'Send it by all means,' Tweed urged. 'Is that the file on Jean Chatel?'

'It is. I would ask you to treat its contents with confidentiality. In fact, officially you have never seen it. The Secret Service is very prickly about its documentation. Rightly so, you might agree.'

'Of course.' Tweed read the first few paragraphs, typed in French, then began to comment. 'This states that the real purpose of Jean Chatel's assignment to Washington is illumination. Specifically, is it true the Americans are preparing a plan which would change the geopolitical balance in Europe? Important that this includes the state of Great Britain...' Tweed went on reading.

'It was just over a year ago roughly when Chatel went to Washington, wasn't it?' asked Newman.

'No. Twenty months ago. But it was just over a year ago when he and his wife were murdered in the fake car accident in Virginia.'

'Murdered? You have evidence?' Newman queried. 'Let Tweed read on. You will see then.'

'This,' said Tweed, 'is a summary of a report sent to Paris by Chatel fifteen months ago. Chatel has reported he is followed everywhere by a team of American agents. He fears for his life, but asks to be allowed to continue his investigation.'

'It's getting grimmer,' commented Paula.

'It gets even grimmer,' Lasalle told her.

'The next report from Chatel,' Tweed went on, 'states that there is a highly detailed plan for the Americans to occupy Great Britain by subterfuge, employing every ruthless technique which will help to bring this objective about.'

'Why didn't you warn us?' Newman demanded.

'I wished to do just that,' Lasalle said bitterly. 'But it was argued by my superior that we had no concrete evidence, no documentation. He said the British would simply think it was a device by the French government to drive a wedge between Britain and the United States. I protested vigorously. The issue went up to the President in the Elysee. He agreed with my superior's decision.'

'Here we come to it,' said Tweed. 'Chatel reported that the momentous operation had been devised and was being directed by an individual called Charlie...'

'My God,' exclaimed Paula.

'Let me go on,' said Tweed. 'Chatel reported that he had made all efforts to identify the individual, Charlie, but so far had had no success. He ends by saying he thinks he is very close to locating Charlie.' Tweed looked up at Lasalle. 'How recent was this final report?'

'One week before he was killed in the so-called road accident.'

'Would it be possible, Rene, for me to have a copy of this final report? If so, I suggest you do so in a way which eliminates the printed reference to your department at the top of this sheet?'

'You ask a lot.' Lasalle paused, clasped his hands, stared up at the ceiling. 'But you deserve a lot,' he decided eventually. 'Considering we did not warn you earlier. Ah, at long last, we have coffee.' He spoke in French to the officer who carried a tray. 'Have you had to fly to Brazil to get the beans? Just put it down on my desk and leave us alone.'

He picked up his phone and spoke rapidly in French. Almost at once when he had ended the call an attractive girl came in, took the sheet he had extracted from the file handed back to him by Tweed. Then he poured coffee, handing the first cup to Paula.

'I have it on my conscience that I did not contact you to warn you. We have worked so well together in the past it seemed to me I was guilty of a kind of betrayal.'

'Nonsense,' replied Tweed, after sipping coffee, 'and it is very possible your President was right. Our late Prime Minister was not strong on international politics. He might well have thought it was all more French trickery to undermine our relationship with the Americans.'

'I comfort myself with the fact that I did report to you that a horde of strange Americans were infiltrating Britain by air and by Eurostar.'

'Also, Rene, the photos you sent enabled us to identify some of the most villainous types — most of whom are now dead.'

'Dead?' Lasalle's grey eyes twinkled as he glanced at Newman and Paula. 'I expect you have all been very busy.'

'There has been a certain amount of activity,' Newman replied.

The four of them chatted for a few minutes about times when they had cooperated during a crisis. The attractive girl came back, handed several sheets to Lasalle, who thanked her. Lasalle took the original sheet, carefully inserted it back inside his file. He then folded three other sheets, inserted them into a thick white envelope which he handed to Tweed.

'There are three excellent photocopies of the vital page. You are most welcome.'

The phone rang. Lasalle answered, listened, took a pad from a drawer, scribbled on it. At one stage Tweed heard him asking the caller to spell a name. He then ended the call.

'Tweed, this information may — or may not — be of interest to you. A Mlle Sharon Mandeville left the Ritz a while ago to catch a flight back to London. Shortly afterwards, in another car, a M. Osborne also left to catch the same flight. A M. Basil Windermere with a M. Rupert Strangeways left earlier to board the Eurostar for London.'

'Yes, the information is useful,' Tweed replied. 'May I ask, how do you know this?'

'Because I had one of my men staying as a guest at the Ritz to see what was going on. The information does not involve the staff of the Ritz in any way.'