This United State (64 page)

'You trained them to use bazookas?' asked Tweed. 'Yes. And they really know how to use them.

Especially the three who were in the Gulf War. All will have thought of weapons. His boys will be carrying them secreted inside their cabs. Now, I'll love you and leave you. Things to do.'

'Make that call, please, Monica,' Tweed requested when Marler had gone.

'
Tweed!
' Sharon's soft voice purred with delight over the phone. 'You're back in London? Wonderful. You have neglected me, you know. You can't deny it.'

'I wouldn't even try, Sharon. Good to know you are safely back. If possible, I'd like to come and see you this afternoon. The answer is yes? Splendid. Oh, do you mind if I bring Newman and Paula with me? You'd love to see them. Sometime this afternoon, then.'

As he put his coat on he gave Monica an instruction.

'Please inform Howard where I'm going. Tell him Paula and Bob are coming with me. Then Howard won't worry.'

'Who do we see first?' Paula asked.

They were sitting in the back of the car Newman was driving towards Grosvenor Square. The good weather was lasting. It was a brilliantly sunny afternoon with not a cloud in a duck-egg blue sky. The air was fresh and pedestrians were walking briskly as though enjoying the return of the sun.

'The sequence is important,' Tweed said. 'First we see Morgenstern. Afterwards we call in on Sharon.' 'So you can ask her out to dinner,' she teased.

'I thought I came first,' Newman called out. 'Am I supposed to stand in line?'

'We'll see,' Tweed replied.

'And you are clutching that package of evidence from Buchanan as though the fate of the world depended on it,' Paula commented.

'Maybe it does,' Tweed told her.

'What's inside it?'

'Among other things, photos of the dead Umbrella Men who tried to kill me in Basel near Market-platz. With their names.'

'How on earth did you get hold of them?'

'Reliable Arthur Beck again. He omitted to mention it, but he sent the material to Roy Buchanan at New Scotland Yard. The two men met at an international police conference a few months ago. Roy told me they got on very well together.'

'I can spot some of them already,' Newman reported as they neared Grosvenor Square.

'Some of who?' Paula wanted to know.

'Buchanan's plain-clothes sleuths. Stationed to keep a close eye on who comes and goes from the American Embassy. I think he's told some of them to make their presence obvious — to act as a deterrent. Roy Buchanan really never, under any circumstances, misses a trick.'

For Tweed, as they mounted the steps and walked inside the spacious entrance hall, it was like a replay of a film he had seen before. The girl who had treated him so offhandedly on his previous visit was behind the reception desk. But this time when he gave his name her attitude was very different. Standing up, she gave him a beaming smile.

'Mr Tweed, Mr Morgenstern is waiting to see you. His suite of offices is on the first floor. Here is the number,' she said, handing him a plastic disc. 'And could you please take this card? There are a lot of guards about who may stop you. If you show them this they will let you straight through.'

'Thank you, said Tweed.

He led the way to the elevator, pressed the button. The door opened and inside he pressed the first floor button. The elevator ascended, the doors opened and they stepped out into the wide corridor. Tweed stopped, smiled.

Denise Chatel had been walking towards the elevator. For once, Paula noticed, she was not carrying a file. More than that, she was stylishly dressed in riding kit, complete with jodhpurs and gleaming riding boots.

She gave them a great big smile. Coming forward she hugged Paula, kissed Tweed on the cheek and then gave Newman the same attention. To Tweed she seemed a different woman. Her attitude was buoyant and cheerful and warm. What could have happened?

'How do you like my outfit?' Denise asked.

She swivelled round in a circle. Her brunette hair swung over her shoulders. Her face was pink and full of life.

'Very fetching,' said Paula.

'The picture of happiness,' said Tweed.

'You look just terrific,' Newman told her. 'What have you been up to?'

'I've just come back from a ride in Hyde Park. It's a wonderful day. I even managed a gallop, which may be illegal, but I just didn't care. I was on top of the world.'

'Hence your high spirits,' Tweed remarked.

'You've hit the nail on the head,' Denise responded. 'And what else?'

'Why?' She hesitated. 'Nothing else.'

'You'll excuse us. We've come to keep an appointment.'

'What was all that about?' Paula asked as they proceeded along the corridor.

'No idea.'

A tall, smooth-faced man came out of a room, closed the door behind him. Dressed in a smart blue pin-stripe suit, he strode confidently towards them. Then he stopped, gave a broad grin.

'Chuck Venacki,' greeted Newman. 'The great survivor. How do you do it?'

'Do what?' Venacki asked amiably.

'Survive. The catastrophe at Schluchsee.'

'Where's that?' Venacki enquired, still amiable. 'Sounds as though it could be Austria, Switzerland, Germany?'

'Give the man the money,' Newman went on. 'Even though he didn't get it until his third try. Come off it, Venacki. You remember when we last met.'

'Sure I do. Outside Park Crescent a hundred years ago. When you rammed the Lincoln Continental with your four-wheel drive.'

'Nice try. At Schluchsee Ronstadt drove his car straight at me. Four men inside that car. You were sitting with Ronstadt in the front. Ronstadt, by the way, is dead, but you survive.'

'Guess you mistook me for someone else, wherever this dramatic car incident took place. Now, I have to get going.' He looked at Paula, then at Tweed. 'Enjoy yourselves. We try to make visitors feel at home here.'

'And that,' said Tweed quietly, 'sounded like the voice of the anonymous American who phoned me in my room at the Colombi. The call which told me Ronstadt had left.'

'I don't get it,' Paula commented. 'He seemed nice enough.'

'And this,' Tweed said in the same quiet voice, pointing to a door they were passing, 'is where Sharon lives. We'll come back later. The critical interview is the one with Morgenstern.'

47

'Do come in. Good to see you. I've had fresh coffee delivered. The receptionist told me you were here.'

In response to Tweed's knock Jefferson Morgenstern himself opened the door, ushered them inside. He locked the door, then gazed at his visitors with a smile. Tweed introduced Paula as his assistant and confidante. Morgenstern smiled even more broadly as Tweed turned to Newman.

'No introduction necessary here, Tweed. Bob Newman once interviewed me. And I don't give many interviews.' He shook Newman's hand warmly. 'You're looking great and maybe a bit tougher. Experience does that to us all — if we have the fibre. Come and sit down. I'll serve coffee.'

Paula had been studying Morgenstern closely. He was shorter than she had imagined, but his figure in a grey Savile Row suit was well padded. She had the impression of a man of great intelligence who enjoyed the good things of life — especially wine and food. His hair, neatly brushed, was greying and he emanated an aura of supreme self-confidence and dynamic energy — of power.

His large desk was a genuine antique, Chippendale, she thought. On it was a silver engraved tray with a silver coffee service. Three comfortable upright chairs were arranged in front of the desk and Morgenstern dragged his swivel chair round to join them. Not a man to flaunt his importance.

'You were looking at my coffee service,' he said to Paula after she had seated herself, which made her realize this man didn't miss a thing. 'When I was a poor student in Europe I was once invited to a mansion where they had such a service. I decided then,' he continued as he poured coffee, 'that one day I'd have one like it.' He smiled. 'It was a long journey before I was able to purchase one.'

His face was long, Paula noted. His nose was long, his features strong, and beneath his American accent she detected a trace of some European accent. When he had served coffee he sat down near Paula, drank half the contents of his cup, folded his arms.

'Tweed, I've been giving a lot of thought to what you said to me when we last met. At the time I was dismissive. Since then I have given your accusations more thought. I admit I'm a troubled man.' He looked at Paula, then at Newman. 'May I take it that anything we talk about today will be in complete confidence?'

'Quite definitely. These two are my right and left arm. I said recently I'd trust them with my life. That I had done.'

'Good enough for me. The weak link in what you said is a complete lack of evidence.'

'That is what I have brought with me. Overwhelming evidence. In photographs and documents. Some of it was supplied by Arthur Beck, Chief of Swiss Federal Police. I can supply you with his number in Berne if you want it later. While in Basel recently four of the men attached to this Embassy tried to murder me — along with Paula and Bob. Instead, they were killed. They all carried American diplomatic passports. Here is a photograph of the dead killers, supplied to me by Beck. Their names are on the back. And here are photocopies of the passports they carried. Beck has the originals.'

Morgenstern studied the photo of the dead Umbrella Men. He looked at the back, where their names were given. Placing it on his desk, he looked at the photocopies of the passports. His mouth tightened. He placed them on his desk.

'There's worse to come,' Tweed warned. 'There's a clear video picture of the man who left the bomb in the Oxford Street department store.'

'His name is Vernon Kolkowski,' Newman said quietly. 'He also had a diplomatic passport. Once, in New York, the police chief told me he was a professional who had murdered at least six men. They could never indict him. No witness dared testify. If one was willing to testify he'd been found dead in a side street.'

'Then,' Tweed continued, 'we rescued a poor woman who was being tortured by another American with a diplomatic passport. Name of Rick Sherman. He's dead too.'

'Could you pause?' Morgenstern requested. He took from his pocket a leather-bound notebook. 'I'd like to note down some of these names. What was that last one?'

'Rick Sherman.'

'Thank you. And Vernon someone. I'd like the surname.'

Newman spelt it out carefully. Morgenstern wrote it down in his notebook. Then he looked again at the video print of the man who had planted the bomb in the Oxford Street department store.

'As far as I can gather,' Tweed went on, 'I know you are handling the diplomatic side of this huge operation. But there is another secret section inside this Embassy called the Executive Action Department. That is staffed by what I would call the gangster level - and all the members have been given diplomatic passports.'

'How can I phrase this?' Morgenstern wondered aloud. 'While you were away I made certain enquiries here. I had the impression certain people evaded giving me answers to my questions.'

'Have you heard of the Executive Action Department?'

'No.'

'I'm certain it's located in this building. That it is responsible for the outrages. Individual murders and wholesale bombings.'

'I am good at assessing character, Tweed. I am sure you would not ever invent such horrific stories.'

'Is there any way you could check the names of everyone who has been issued with a diplomatic passport over, say, the past seven weeks?'

'I was thinking of that. Yes, there is. But first I must refresh your cups.'

Paula glanced round the large room while Morgenstern manipulated the silver coffee pot. The room was furnished in expensive but restrained taste. Heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains flanked the windows, curtains with a Regency stripe. The wall-to-wall carpet was a pale mushroom colour. The few pieces of other furniture were also antiques. The room had a restful atmosphere. On another desk the Stars and Stripes was suspended from a bronze column.

'I'm going to ask the Ambassador's personal assistant for the record of all diplomatic passports issued recently,' said Morgenstern.