Cell (12 page)

'It is harmless now. When it reaches its destination, with
the weapons in their different positions, I will give the order
to press the orange button. Then the weapon is active, but
still harmless.' He pointed, at the
button. 'At the moment
when the stupendous attack is launched you press the red button.' He pointed to another button embedded in a shallow hole. 'Then London is devastated, praise be to Allah.'

None of the Arabs listening had any idea of the destina
tion the weapons would be taken to. The master planner
had hired the drivers of the milk wagons by contacting
men on the verge of release from prison for comparatively
non-violent offences. They had been told they would, for
the sum of two thousand pounds, have to drive certain
vehicles transporting drugs.

They had also been told the original drivers of the milk
wagons would be tied up when a truck, slewed across a
quiet road, stopped them. What Ali had not told them was
that the original drivers would have their throats slit, their
bodies weighted and cast into convenient marshes en route.
The master planner had also anticipated that in due course the companies owning the milk wagons would report their disappearance. But who would see anything sinister in the
hijacking of five milk wagons?

Certainly not the police - or not until havoc had been
created in London and thousands of bodies had been blown
to bits.

10

It was two hours later and darkness had fallen. Earlier
Monica and Paula had fetched lunches from a nearby
deli for Tweed, Newman and themselves. When Newman
had finished his meal Tweed had started pacing again. Paula watched him as he frowned. The momentum was building up again. He stopped by Newman, seated in an
armchair.

'Bob, I want you to get moving. You know someone at
the
Daily Nation,
someone you can trust?'

'I've several pals there. The most close-mouthed one is
Ed Jenner, sub-editor. Why?'

'I want you to find out every little thing you can about
Drew Franklin
-
where he lives in London, how much time he spends in his office at the paper, any rumours about new
girlfriends. Every morsel.'

'That's easy,' Newman told him. 'And Franklin tucks
himself away in a small office well away from Ed Jenner.
See you all, some day . . .'

'Why has your attention switched to Franklin?' Paula asked when he had gone.

'Just a thought. I suspect he has great freedom of move
ment.'

Which tells me nothing, Paula thought. Tweed has got some bee in his bonnet.

Night had come later. Monica had been using the phone
non-stop, scribbling on her pad as people told her things.

Tweed was studying his Carpford map again when Monica
called across to him.

'I know you didn't ask me to check out Jasper Buller
but I've done that among other people. Didn't think you'd
mind.'

'Tell me.' Tweed was impressed. His staff knew him so
well now they could guess what might be useful to him.
'Fire away . . .'

Before she could open her mouth Marler walked in with
a vague smile. Paula knew he had succeeded in his mission
to track Buller. He threw off his coat, lit a cigarette.

'I hit the bull's-eye, following Buller. No pun intended.
I follow him to his pad in Pimlico. Then I wait, but not
for long. The Bull can move. I've parked among other cars
and what emerges from the flat? Buller,
wearing Arab dress. Long flowing robe, the lot. He dives into a cab he must have
phoned for. Where do you think we go to? The mosque
in Finsbury Park. His cab waits round a corner. The Bull
shuffles inside the mosque. Not there long. Probably kneels
on the rolled-up carpet tucked under one arm, bows three
times towards Mecca - that's a guess.'

'Oh, my God, who would have guessed it was Buller,' gasped Paula.

'Wait a little longer, my dear.' Marler squeezed her gently
on the shoulder as he continued. 'Now we're off back in his
cab to Pimlico. Pays the driver, disappears back into the flat.
He's not there long. He comes out again, dives into another
cab. This time he's clad in warm holiday clothes, carrying a
suitcase. We set off again. Destination? Waterloo. Buller's
heading for Eurostar when he swings round, catches me completely by surprise, talks straight at me. "Bit of a
run-around for you, Marler. I want you to give a highly
confidential message to Tweed. Tell him I'm on my way
to meet a contact at Milan in Italy. I'm tracking the money
route financing these hellish Taliban."'

'I'm staggered,' Paula commented.

'A bit more.' Marler took a folded sheet of paper from his
pocket, handed it to Tweed. 'That's the name and address
of his contact in Milan. He said you should have it in case
he doesn't come back.'

'I don't like the sound of that,' Newman said grimly.

Tweed was reading the neatly written words on a sheet
obviously torn from a notebook.
Mario Murano, Via Legessa
290, Milano.

'This opens a new front,' Tweed said quietly. 'Italy.'

'Buller also said he might get the routes they were
using, then he had to dash before missing his train. End
of the story.'

'As long as it isn't the end of Buller,' Tweed remarked.

'I would never have dreamt all of this,' Paula burst out. 'I thought he was just a stupid bully.'

'Which tells you,' Tweed said half to himself, 'what a complex mixture people - men and women - are. That act of posing as the Bull is remarkable cover.'

'I bet his lordship, Victor Warner, hasn't a clue as to
what Buller is really doing,' Paula reflected. 'And no one else inside his organization.'

'Oddly enough,' Tweed told Marler, 'Monica was compiling a dossier on Jasper Buller. On her own initiative.'

'Well,' Monica addressed him, 'I haven't dug up any
thing like what Marler has told us. Only his address in
Pimlico, plus the fact his staff really hate him, and the
intriguing fact that he often goes off on his own for hours
- despite insisting that employees sent out on a mission
must always travel in pairs. Nothing about secret trips to
the Finsbury Park mosque. That's the notorious one.'

'I passed the short time he was inside taking photo
graphs of everyone else who went in there,' Marler told them.

He produced his tiny camera, which not only produced
negatives but also converted them into prints. Extracting
a roll of prints, he dropped it on Paula's desk. She started
separating them into individual prints with a pair of scissors,
then took them over to Tweed.

'Don't suppose they'll amount to anything,' Marler
warned.

Paula went behind Tweed's desk and leant over his
shoulder. Tweed checked each print carefully. Just a bunch of Arabs in Muslim garb. Paula reached for one, examined
it under the magnifying glass she had brought with her. She
half-closed her eyes.

'This figure reminds me of someone. Damned if I know
who.'

'Let me see,' Tweed requested.

The figure was leaving the mosque. Probably a woman.
The figure carried a stick and appeared to have a limp.
Crouched well forward, it was impossible to assess its
height. The face was covered except for the eyes.

'Doesn't ring any bells,' Tweed decided. He beckoned to
Marler, pointed a finger at the crouched figure. 'Did you by
chance notice where this one went to?'

'Heavens no! I just snap-snap-snapped. Had to be care
ful. Finsbury Park isn't the safest area in town.'

'File them,' Tweed said pushing the photos towards
Paula as she walked round the desk to head back for her
own corner. 'Marler, you have achieved a minor miracle -
finding out about the real Jasper Buller.'

'Where is everyone else?' Marler asked.

'I sent Newman to check up on Drew Franklin. Pete and
Harry are following Eva Brand.'

'You can't suspect such a lovely creature.'

'She's a woman, not a creature,' Paula snapped.

'She's a niece of Drew Franklin,' Tweed remarked. 'Plus
the Hogarth brothers, Billy and Martin, being cousins of
Drew Franklin. We really don't know who knows who out
at Carpford. So we're going to find out. Beaurain used the
word "base" about the place.'

Paula had checked her watch. 'Heavens, I've got to go
to my flat and get ready for my dinner at the Ivy with Eva.
That doesn't take five minutes.'

'How women compete with each other,' Newman
remarked. He had just returned. Paula fled out of the
room as he made his comment.

'You'd prefer them sloppy?' Tweed growled. 'It is one of
their nice traits. I like it.'

The phone had rung while they were talking and Monica
called out.

'That was a message from Jules Beaurain. He's landed back at Heathrow. Expects to be here in about an hour. Says he has important news, very important.'

Inside the barn at Oldhurst Farm the fifth and last milk
wagon had arrived. The body of the English driver was
already at the bottom of the septic tank. The weapon had
been hauled up out of the wagon, was now transferred to the interior of a small white van bearing the legend
Flourishing
Florist
on both sides of the vehicle. The three vans which had departed earlier bore a different legend,
Fresh Fruit.

Ali, arms crossed, stood gazing with satisfaction inside
the van where the weapon had been placed in position near
the front of the vehicle. Its three strong legs rested on a
metal plate which had holes drilled on four sides. Large
metal screws were now in place, gripping the tripod tightly
to the floor.

To any normal human being the device would have
seemed sinister and menacing. The large shell, tipped with
its warhead, perched on the brutal tripod holding it firmly
in place, would have seemed horrific. Ali, on the other hand,
was gloating as he visualized it leaving its platform when
the red button was pressed. The special powerful explosive
which, on hitting its target, would explode outwards and
upwards to cause the maximum of havoc.

'Now fill the van with the camouflage,' he ordered in
Arabic. 'Four of you get the job done.'

Huge bouquets of expensive flowers, including orchids,
were piled up round the device, almost to the
roof of the
van. Large pots of flowers, secured inside boxes open at
the top, were placed close together at the rear of the
van. A number of very large pots, tipped backwards with
wedges, were placed inside as the rear doors of the van
were closed slowly.