Vorpal Blade (4 page)

'Your gangster downstairs has imprisoned two of my
men in a room, locked the door on them,' he roared.

'Well, if you want to talk to me we don't need them to
be present,' Tweed said quietly. 'And it's normal to phone
for an appointment before calling on me.'

'You were out at Bray late last night. The policeman
who was going to relieve the man already there recognized you.'

'I thought he seemed familiar,' Tweed remarked.

'You don't deny invading territory, a crime scene under
the control of a local police force?'

'One of my staff with me was able to detect how and
where the victim was beheaded. Something the local force
had overlooked. Do sit down. You're not looking very
comfortable, standing there like a waxwork in Madame
Tussaud's.'

'This whole matter is confidential.' Morgan snapped. 'We can't discuss it with all these people hanging around.'

'Then let me introduce you. The lady sitting in the
corner is Miss Paula Grey, my chief assistant. Incidentally
she is also the person who solved the problem of how
Holgate was murdered.'

Morgan turned, saw Paula for the first time. His whole
manner changed. He walked over to her desk, smirking as
he held out his ham-fist of a hand.

'What an attractive assistant. Something to keep you
warm on cold nights.'

Paula stared straight at him. As she did so she used
one hand to open a drawer. She took out a bottle of
Dettol, placed it on her desk close to him, her eyes still
meeting his.

'There's some Dettol to wash your mouth out with.'

Morgan was speechless. He opened his mouth, closed it
without saying anything. Then he swung round, pointed a
stubby finger at Newman.

'I recognize you. Robert Newman, news reporter.' He made the last two words sound like something out of a
sewer. Newman, his expression bleak, stared straight back
without saying anything. It was Tweed who spoke.

'Mr Newman has been fully vetted, trained at our place in the country, has completed the SAS course, which few
do. He's worked with me for years.' His voice rose. 'For
God's sake stop making a fool of yourself. Sit down
or leave.'

The vicious expression receded from Morgan's face. He
looked round as though not sure what to do next, then sat
in one of the armchairs.

'Why have you wasted your time - and mine - coming
here?' Tweed demanded.

Tweed sat upright, hands clasped together on the desk.
He was gazing at Morgan, his eyes hard. Paula was waiting
for an explosion. Normally so calm and watchful, there
were times when Tweed could explode and the results
were devastating. Morgan reached inside his jacket pocket,
wrestling to find it under his trench coat. At that moment
the door opened and Marler walked in.

Five feet seven tall, Marler was slim, in his late thir
ties, always impeccably dressed. He was wearing a stylish
pale-grey suit, crisp white shirt, a Valentino tie. Among his
many talents he was the deadliest marksman with a rifle in
Western Europe. He walked quietly across close to Paula's
desk, took up his usual stance, leaning against a wall. His trim hair was corn-coloured and he was clean-shaven. He
took a long cigarette out of a gold case, lit it. Morgan
turned, stared at him.

'Another one. Who is this?'

'Marler,' Tweed called out, 'meet Nathan Morgan,
newly appointed Head of Special Branch. He has just
gatecrashed his way into our sanctum.'

'I hear he does that,' Marler remarked in his upper-crust
voice. 'New boy.'

Morgan again opened his mouth, then closed it without
responding. He was still struggling with his jacket pocket,
clearly embarrassed by his performance. Everyone waited in silence. Then he produced an envelope, took out a sheet
of paper stamped with Home Secretary at the top.

'It has been decided,' Morgan began in what he imag
ined was an official tone, 'to create a system of close
collaboration between the Special Branch and the Secret
Service. We shall be appointing an observer to stay on the
premises here, so you will need to give him office space and
all communication facilities.'

He handed the letter to Tweed, who read it quickly.

Then he opened a drawer, dropped the letter inside, looked across at Paula.

'That's for the shredder along with the other junk.'

'The shredder!' Morgan was outraged. His expression
became ugly. 'You can't do that with—'

'On whose authority was this absurd idea thought up?'

'Whose authority?' Morgan's rage was growing. 'You
have just read the letter from the Home Secretary.'

Tweed stood up slowly, placed his hands inside his
trouser pockets. He walked slowly round his desk and there
was something menacing in his movements. Disturbed,
Morgan jumped up out of his chair so he was standing
when Tweed reached him. There was a hard edge to
Tweed's voice when he spoke, only inches away from
his visitor.

'There will be no observer, so-called, infiltrated into this building. Apart from anything
else the question of security
arises. Also, you do not seem to realize I answer only to
the PM—'

'I did ask for Mr Howard when I arrived—'

'Don't interrupt me again. What I have just said also applies to Howard. Then again your organization comes
under the control of New Scotland Yard. In case you did
not know that—'

'There's going to be a restructuring . . .'

'I did tell you not to interrupt me. I did not work well
with your predecessor, a man called Bate. Rather like
you. Thought
finesse
was a French pastry. Before him
Special Branch was run by Pardoe, a man I respected and
collaborated with from time to time. I cannot possibly work
with someone like you.' His voice rose. 'So, Mr Nathan
Morgan, please leave the premises at once. You will be
escorted downstairs by Mr Newman.'

Tweed returned to his chair behind his desk. Newman
stood up, opened the door, smiling broadly.

'This is the way out, Nathan.'

Morgan was trying to straighten up his trench coat as he walked towards Newman. At the open doorway he turned to fire a parting shot.

'You'd better realize the investigation into the murder
out at Bray has absolutely nothing to do with you.'

'Goodbye,' said Tweed, studying a file without look
ing up.

'Paula,' he said, closing the file when the two men had
left, 'I have an appointment in an hour to meet Roman Arbogast at ACTIL headquarters in the City. He kindly
agreed to see me since Adam Holgate was once on my
staff. Newman will drive us there and I'd like you to come
with me.'

'Well, that should be a change from listening to that
piece of rubbish you just threw out. I gather you are still
investigating the case, but you look worried.'

'After Colonel Crow's extraordinary action - snatching away the body from Saafeld - and Nathan Morgan's boor
ish intervention, I sense the government is anxious that
Holgate's brutal killing is never solved. Which happens
to coincide with the unexpected arrival of the American
Vice-President Russell Straub.'

'Surely there can't be a connection?'

2

'This traffic is like a logjam, and it's wet,' Newman
grumbled.

'We're nearly there,' Paula called out from the rear seat.
'Tweed, you're going to be stunned when you see the
ACTIL building. It's the tallest in London - taller than
the buildings in Canary Wharf. And it's built like a giant
cylinder. You don't come down into this part of the City,
do you? Thought not.'

'I don't like these stone and cement canyons that hem
you in. Lord knows how people work here.'

'It would have been quicker to walk.' Newman grumbled again.

They were inching their way forward. Beyond the pave
ments the solid walls of office buildings sheered up. Like
a cement jungle, Tweed thought, seated beside Newman.
Paula tapped him on the shoulder.

'There it is. They call it the Cone. They say Arbogast himself drew up the plans, imported workers from Ger
many to get it up in record time.'

Tweed stared at the immense cylinder perched where the
street forked, a round colossus so high he couldn't see the
top. There were people everywhere, hurrying along under
umbrellas. More cones, an army of them as pedestrians hustled along. No wonder the word 'stress' had travelled
across from America.

'There's a big limo pulled up outside the entrance. Most
helpful,' Newman grumbled again.

Paula peered forward. A figure in a camel-hair coat had
emerged from the building, stood at the top of the steps
leading up to it. Slim, with dark hair, he was waving his
arms about while several men in grey suits stood behind him, by his side, on the steps below.

'That's the Vice-President,' Paula called out. 'Russell
Straub in person. Always waving his arms about. He's
come out of the ACTIL building.'

'What does ACTIL stand for, if anything?' Tweed
asked.

'A is for Armaments,' Paula began. 'C is for Chemicals.
T is for Technology. I for Intelligence. L for Leisure.'

'Intelligence is what Holgate was involved with. Inter
esting. Leisure - don't understand that.'

'He has a vast network of travel agents, including some
in Russia.'

'Armaments sounds sinister,' Newman remarked, tap
ping his fingers on the wheel. They were stationary.

'When the Vice-President's limo gets moving it should
help clear the jam,' Paula predicted.

As she spoke Straub ran agilely down the steps, leapt into
the rear of the limo, where a grey-suited man stood holding
open the door, closing it swiftly as soon as Straub was
inside. Several bodyguards climbed into the car. Newman
was watching them through field glasses.

'Those bodyguards are carrying guns. I can see the
bulges under their armpits. Bet they didn't get permission.
A police escort too.'