Blood Storm

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2004 A Viacom Company

Copyright © Colin Forbes, 2004

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

The right of Colin Forbes to be identified as author of this work

has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Hardback ISBN 0 7432 6362 6

BAN 9780743263627

Trade Paperback ISBN 0 7432 6361 8

EAN 9780743263610

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales

is entirely coincidental.

Typeset by SX Composing DTP, Rayleigh, Essex

Printed and bound in Australia by

Griffin Press

COLIN FORBES

BLOOD STORM

Prologue

Tweed was dining with a beautiful and very frightened
woman. As he cut into his Dover sole he glanced across
their table. Her thick blonde hair fell to her bare shoulders.
Only her slim arms were exposed by her expensive close-
fitting purple dress. Tweed, picking up his glass of wine, held it without drinking.

'You strike me as a lady in need of protection,' he probed.
'Something - somebody - is disturbing you. I gathered from
Bob Newman you wanted to meet me to seek advice.'

'As Deputy Director of the SIS - and once a top detective at Old Scotland Yard - your advice is why we are here. I am
very worried about the attentions of a very powerful man.'

'His name?'

'I don't feel I can reveal that yet. I could be wrong.'

'Which gets us nowhere.'

Tweed glanced round Mungano's, the most fashionable
restaurant in London, checking on the other diners. The
place was almost full; it was an octagon-shaped room
overlooking the Thames. Tweed had asked for a quiet table,
and they were seated in a corner away from the babble of
voices, the clinking of glasses.

Mungano's, named after the proprietor, had only been
open for five months, and already you had to be known to
secure a table, or book one weeks in advance. Waiters were
in the majority, but Mungano had recently brought in
waitresses, smartly clad in evening dress. No uniforms.

'I have to think it over,' Viola explained. 'I do hope you
don't think I'm wasting your time.'

'Hardly, when I have the pleasure of dining with such a
very attractive woman.'

Tweed smiled, raised his glass to hers, studied her as they
drank. In her early forties, Viola had an almost perfectly
shaped bone structure. Below her blonde eyebrows were
large blue eyes, a Roman nose, sensuous lips, a chin which
expressed character. Her voice was soft and
appealing.
Tweed recalled how this meeting had come about that
morning, in his office at SIS headquarters on the first floor
of an old building in Park Crescent.

'Got a favour to ask you,' Bob Newman, a key member of
his SIS team, had suggested the moment Tweed settled
behind his desk.

'It had better be worthwhile,' Tweed said abruptly.

'Someone I know slightly may have information about
the Cabal. She's a beauty, Viola Vander-Browne. You may
have heard of her.'

'No.'

'She's very well educated. Roedean and all that. But not one of your society types who can't talk about anything but
fashion and the latest boyfriend.'

The Cabal. The two words summed up the greatest crisis
Tweed had ever faced in his career.
Three men, all junior
ministers, the driving force behind a new plan to merge the
SIS, MIS, the police and the coastguards into one security force - to be known as State Security.

The very words sent shivers down Tweed's spine. He had
already expressed his unreserved opposition to the idea. It was a giant step towards turning Britain into a police state.

'How does this Viola Vander-Browne come into the picture?' he demanded.

'I gather she knows one of the Cabal. No idea which one.
She wants to talk to you. I couldn't get a word out of her - she insists on seeing the top man. You.'

'
I'm not sure this is a good idea,' Tweed responded.

'She's an acquaintance of mine . . .' Newman began.

'His new word for a girlfriend,' teased Paula Grey, who
was seated in a corner behind her word-processor. Paula
was Tweed's top assistant and a forceful member of the SIS
team. An attractive brunette with dark glossy hair which fell
to her shoulders, she was the closest of anyone to Tweed,
who admired her brilliance.

Newman, almost six feet tall, with a strong face which
appealed to women, was in his early forties. Dark haired, he
smiled a lot, and he responded to Paula's remark with a
gentle punch to her shoulder. She reacted instantly with a clenched fist which hammered hard into his.

'As I was saying,' Newman went on, addressing Tweed,
'Viola has a flat in Fox Street off Covent Garden. She's well off, with a legacy left her when her parents were killed in a
car crash. But sometimes she likes to add to her income.' He paused.

'How?' demanded Tweed.

'Don't get the wrong impression, but occasionally she'll have a wealthy man in her flat for the night. She's so good
at the feminine arts she charges her visitor twenty thousand
pounds. I gather they're happy to pay.'

'I see,' Paula remarked, 'she's a high-class call girl.'

'She isn't!' Newman snapped, turning on Paula. 'You
really are very Victorian.'

'You know I'm not,' Paula snapped back. 'I adapt to the circumstances. I could throw this word-processor at you.'

'That's enough, both of you,' Tweed barked. 'Any more
data on Viola, Bob? You suspect one of her men friends
belongs to the Cabal? Is that it?'

'I'm not sure. But she does want to see you to tell you
something. I knew you'd think it was a good idea. I've
booked a discreet table for the two of you at Mungano's, your new favourite restaurant.'

'Without consulting me. All right, you had to act on the spur of the moment. What time this evening?'

'Seven o'clock. She likes to get to bed early. I only got the
table when I mentioned your name to Mungano himself.'

'All right,' Tweed agreed brusquely.

He had no idea he had committed himself to one of the
most horrific episodes of his life.

Newman's data passed through Tweed's mind as he
studied Viola over dessert. He became aware she was
studying him. She saw a man with horn-rimmed glasses
resting on the bridge of a strong nose, blue eyes she felt
could see inside her, a firm mouth half-smiling and a
determined jaw. He
exuded shrewdness and physical
vitality. She thought he was beginning to like her.

'Do you know many people - people who count and have
power?' he asked.

'If you're talking about celebrities, as they're stupidly
called these days, no. I avoid them like the plague. They are
nobodies puffed up by the media. The people I know and
mix with are intelligent.'

'Any people of power I might know?' he persisted.

A waitress carrying a tray appeared at their table, placed a glass in front of Tweed, another in front of Viola. 'Yours
is a margarita,' she told Tweed, 'and Madame's is cham
pagne. Compliments of the management.'

Then she was gone. Tweed had a glimpse of a tall slim
woman in a black dress, black hair coiffed close to her head
like a dark helmet. He looked at his drink, then at Viola.

'The last time I drank a margarita a thug tried to shove
me out of my window in Lubeck on the Baltic. It opened on
to an inner courtyard. It ended up with my throwing the
thug out three storeys down on to solid stone.'

He sipped at the drink slowly, absorbing no more than a
fifth of it. Something odd about the taste. Viola reached
over with a finger, the nail well trimmed and varnished with
a delicate pink. She removed a small amount of the salt
round the rim, tasted it.

'Salt!' she remarked with surprise.

'It's part of a proper margarita. Ever tasted one? It's very
strong unless you're used to drinking.'

'I would have asked for a sip but I'm driving back to my
flat.' She glanced at her watch. 'If you don't mind I'd better
get moving. I do hope you're not annoyed that I haven't said much but I feel I'd better think it over. I could be
wrong.'

'Wrong about what is frightening you?'

'I'm OK. I'm always nervous when I'm having dinner
with someone new for the first time . . .'

No, you're not, Tweed thought. You have the poise of
the devil. Don't push her any more, he warned himself.

By now Tweed was feeling dizzy and unwell. He had to
concentrate on signing the bill. He had intended to escort
Viola home to her flat but he was wondering whether he was
capable of driving his car safely. He made a great effort to
stand upright as he followed Viola to the exit.

Arriving at the outside world she pointed to a Rolls-
Royce Phantom with a uniformed attendant from
Mungano's standing guard beside it. She turned, threw her
arms round Tweed's neck and kissed him.

'That was the most delicious evening. The company was even better. Already I feel I've known you ages. When I've
had time to think things over can we meet again, please?'

She had a gold-bordered card in her hand which she
tucked into the top pocket of his overcoat. 'My private
number. But I'll probably call you. Bob gave me the
number. I like you . . .'

Her velvet coat swinging, she strode across to her car,
tipped the attendant. Another attendant had brought
Tweed's Ford to the kerb by the entrance. Unhappily,
Tweed watched Viola wave, drive off. He concentrated on climbing behind the wheel. What the hell am I going to do
until I
recover.