Cell (11 page)

'Hang on, Pete. How could you know it was a Beretta?
You wouldn't be just behind her, I assume.'

'I used my monocular with the night glass lens attached
to it. She gets inside the cab and it drops her at an address
in Fulham . . .'

'Wait a second.' Tweed gestured for Monica to give him the slip of paper with Eva's address Paula had taken to her
earlier. 'Now, what address?'

It was the same address Eva had written, plus her phone
number, on the piece of paper she had handed to Paula
before leaving.

'That's where she lives,' Tweed told Pete. 'What on earth
is she up to now?'

'Getting ready to go out tonight would be my guess. The
bathroom window is all steamed up.'

'Right. This is what you do. Stay there out of sight. I say
that because I'm getting the impression she's pretty smart.
She's having dinner with Paula at the Ivy. Follow her, then wait outside the restaurant. One of you had best grab some sandwiches and get that flask you always carry filled with
tea. When she goes inside with Paula wait outside for them
to come out. Something might happen.'

'Understood. We'll be ready for a fracas.'

Tweed began pacing up and down his office again, a sign
Paula recognized that the momentum was building up. He
was about to issue another order when Marler strolled in,
wearing a camel-hair coat as he went to lean against a wall.
Tweed stared at the coat.

'In that garb you could be mistaken for Special Branch.'

'Which is the general idea. I've been talking to some of
Mr Special Branch's informants. Way below the calibre
of mine.'

'Well, get on with it,' Tweed snapped. 'Anything to
report?'

'The mugs all tell the same tale. Rumours that top people
from the Colombian cartel have arrived in London. They go vague when I ask where I can find them.'

'Warner has Colombia on the brain.'

'Agreed. But I also had
a
chat with a woman, Carla, who
is my favourite informant. Wants to join our outfit, which
is why she's working for me. She's clever. Well educated,
she can dress like a tart and talk the lingo so a Cockney
would think she was from the East End.' He paused to
light a cigarette while Tweed waited impatiently. 'Carla,' Marler continued, 'has heard a strong rumour that London is facing its own September 11 - a monstrous attack. She
says the killers have slipped into the country, Saudis and
a group from Algeria. No clue as to the form the attack will
take or where or when, but soon.'

'You believe her?' Tweed pressed.

'Carla's never been wrong before. She was in that Soho
joint, Belles, which we have reason to know. She has
languages, including French and Arabic. She lingered at
the bar not far from a table where three Arabs in white
turbans were talking . . .'

'Not black turbans?' Tweed checked.

'I thought I spoke clearly. Black would suggest something
else now. Maybe they weren't keen to advertise. She caught
a few words. "The equipment is on its way. It has already
left the farm." That was all she could hear.'

'You have a visitor,' Monica called out after talking on
her phone. 'You'll be pleased. Waiting downstairs is Jasper
Duller, Chief of Special Branch, together with a partner.'

'Buller, the Bull, as his staff nickname him. A brute who
terrifies everyone working for him. Should be fun.'

Tweed returned to his desk. He took off his jacket and
rolled up his shirt sleeves. He glared at Monica as he was
speaking.

'Tell Buller he can come up to see me on his own while
his partner waits in the visitors' room. Actually, tell George,
who won't stand any nonsense. If Buller doesn't like my
suggestion he can go jump in the Thames.'

Newman got up from his chair and perched on Paula's desk. 'I met Buller recently. He's as thick as five planks.'

'He's on his way up,' Monica reported after a few min
utes. 'On his own. I could hear him swearing at George
who just kept repeating your instruction word for word.'

As Tweed expected, Buller was wearing a camel-hair coat
when he stormed into the room. About five feet eight tall,
he was very heavily built and had a large head. His hair was cut to a stubble and the face below it suggested aggression. Under thick brows the eyes were dark, hostile and flickered about, checking everyone in the room. In his forties, he had
the broken nose of a prize-fighter, a tight-lipped mouth, a determined jaw and the air of a man who expected instant obedience.

'I won't stand for this,' he bellowed, 'shoving my partner
in a bare room and locking the door on him.'

'Then try sitting down,' Tweed suggested amiably. 'It is
normal to phone for an appointment first.'

'Blow that for a lark,' Buller growled and sagged into an armchair. 'You don't seem to know who you're talk
ing to.'

'It is Jasper Buller, I presume,' Tweed said genially.

'It is the Chief of Special Branch.' His tone was a snarl.

'Now, I need to know what you and that young lady . . .'He
turned to look at Paula and his expression briefly became cordial as she stared back '. . . were doing ferreting around
up at Carpford.'

'Why?' Tweed enquired. 'You think the place is popu
lated with Colombian cartel barons?'

'Mr Tweed.' Buller leaned forward, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. 'I would much appreciate it
if we could talk in private. Please.'

Tweed called to Monica to ask if Howard's office was
available. She told him it was, that Howard was not expected
back for at least an hour.

Tweed stood up, went to the door, followed by Buller. He
led the way upstairs to Howard's spacious office. He knew Howard was always careful to lock away any important
documents when he was absent. They walked inside and
sat down.

'I appreciate this,' Buller repeated. His whole manner
had changed and he spoke politely with a warm smile. 'I
think you should know that I visit the mosque in Finsbury
Park, the one which is notorious.'

'I'm surprised they let you in.'

'Ah!' Buller smiled warmly again. 'I go dressed as an Arab. That is just between you and me. The Minister, Warner, has no idea I'm doing this. I know he wouldn't
approve. He has Colombia and a drug cartel on the brain. I suspect that a number of Taliban have been smuggled into
this country.'

'You have evidence of this infiltration?'

'Unfortunately, no. But I've seen several Arabs who have
the appearance of having arrived very recently. In the end,
it may come down to you and me. Not,' he added hastily,
'that I'm asking for cooperation. But I will attempt to keep you informed when I do have something solid. Now, I had
better go.'

'Thank you for being so frank. Yes, do keep in touch . . .'

Tweed ran back down the stairs while Buller lumbered behind, heading for the exit. Tweed carefully closed his
office door. He spoke rapidly to Marler, standing close
to him.

'Buller is just leaving. He may separate from his partner.
The man to follow is Buller - where he goes, anyone he
contacts.'

'I'm on my way.' Marler grabbed his coat and was heading for the door. He called back over his shoulder.
'I have one of those small cameras, non-flash, which the
boffins in the basement invented. Hold it in the palm of
one hand.'

'Marler!' Tweed called out. 'Be careful. You could be
walking into a cauldron . . .'

9

Inside the huge barn next to Oldhurst Farm in Berkshire
the third milk wagon had eased its way inside. The English
driver stepped down from his cab. He flexed his fingers,
stiff with driving the large vehicle. He walked over to the
leader he knew as Adam, who stood on a large sheet of
canvas spread out over the floor.

'OK, mate. Another load of drugs delivered. What is
it? Cocaine? And I'll take that two thousand quid you're holding in your paw.'

He was aware there were other men behind him but his
eyes were on the fat wad of banknotes Adam was holding.

Adam was a small man, neatly dressed in English clothes.
His skin was brownish, a tan from spending several months
in the Seychelles. He spoke perfect English.

'By the mercy of Allah you have done well,' the little man
said with a twisted smile.

'Allah!' The driver was appalled. 'You're a bunch of flaming Arabs. You . . .'

It was the last word he ever spoke, as a man behind him
drove a wide-bladed knife into his back between the ribs.
He twisted the knife, withdrew it, stabbed again and again
as the driver, already dead, slumped on to the canvas.

No need to issue any orders. Several men with dark
complexions stripped his clothes of all identification. They
wrapped the corpse inside the canvas, rolled it up, then
secured it with heavy chains. Three of them carried the
rolled canvas out of a back door and across a field. It was
dumped into a large septic tank, where it sank to join the two other bodies of English drivers dumped earlier.

Inside the barn other Arabs dressed in English clothes
had already unrolled another large sheet of canvas, ready
for when the fourth English driver arrived with his milk
wagon. 'Abdullah' had planned very carefully.

The neat little man, Adam, whose real name was Ali,
now gave fresh orders. The milk wagon was opened and
an exceptionally strong Arab was lowered inside on a rope
ladder. Equipped with gloves, he felt round below the surface, located the hook, then the cable wrapped round the container resting at the bottom of the wagon. It took
him all his strength to haul up the container, its wrappings dripping milk.

He hauled it over the side where other hands waited to
grasp it and laid it on the ground. The bloodstained knife which had murdered the English driver was used to cut
through the layers of wrapping, exposing a metal container.
At this point Ali took over.

Unlocking a huge padlock, he lifted the lid. He warned
his helpers in savage language to be careful. A curiously
shaped weapon was gently laid on the floor. Perched on
a strong-legged base was a huge shell-shaped object, the
warhead already in position in its nose.

Ali repeated for the umpteenth time the instructions he
had given earlier.