Cell (15 page)

He was wearing a neutral-coloured windcheater, cor
duroy slacks. Paula observed he was freshly shaven and
guessed he'd tidied himself up inside the plane's toilet.
Besides bubbling with energy he looked ready to start a
new day. Don't know how you do it, she thought. He
waved to her.

'I have news,' Tweed remarked, 'but I'm sure you have
too.'

'Gentlemen first.'

Beaurain waved a hand in Tweed's direction. He settled
himself into the armchair to listen. His eyes were fixed on
Tweed's as he listened to the details of Warner's surprise
visit. Tweed ended by shoving the evidence envelope across
to the Belgian. He merely glanced at it, then pushed it back
across the desk.

'Decoy.'

12

'Decoy!'
Paula exclaimed. 'You used the same word when
you were shown a drawing last time you were here.'

'Because I believe the only purpose is to lead Tweed in the
wrong direction. They, whoever they may be, are conduct
ing what the Americans call a campaign of disinformation.
It is so obvious.'

'I agree,' Tweed interjected. 'I had the same reaction.'

'What's so obvious?' Paula demanded.

'Paula,' Beaurain explained, 'you have many talents and
none of them is stupidity. Consider the scenario at Canary
Wharf. This Tim O'Leary - chosen because of his previous
connections with the Real IRA - stands out in the open,
snapping away with his camera. A one-time terrorist —
you think he wasn't well aware of the presence of two policemen?'

'And,' Tweed added with a smile, 'Victor Warner has swallowed the bait hook, line and sinker.'

'Just the man to be Minister of Security,' the Belgian
said drily.

'Paula,' Tweed suggested, 'I want Jules completely in the
picture. Could you describe the attack outside
the Ivy?'

She took a deep breath, began speaking rapidly. She was
almost reliving the speed and brutality of the incident.

Beaurain, his expression now grave, watched her intently.
He nodded when she had finished, then said, his tone
grim, 'Now that I do find significant. They were obviously
going to kidnap you, interrogate you, maybe worse. I'll
be thinking over everywhere you've been, who you have seen. With concentration on Carpford. You touched some
one's nerve.'

'You mean . . .'

'I mean whoever is behind all this is worried that you
saw — or heard in conversation - something dangerous.
So, play back everything in your mind. Incidentally, it
is important we discover who knew you were at the Ivy. Maybe the motor-cyclist who followed you on your way
there. But I would like to meet this glamorous lady, Eva
Brand, when I can.'

'Oh, you'll enjoy that. She's so attractive,' she chaffed
him.

'Paula,' Beaurain said with a cynical smile, 'in Belgium I
met a number of fascinating ladies and listened while they
chattered on and on. They ended up in prison, which is
where I put them.'

'Jules, your trip to Brussels,' Tweed said impatiently. 'I
am waiting for the details of your visit to that banker.'

'He collapsed very quickly - when I showed him certain
documents which could put him behind bars. The money from Carpford, which mounts up to a considerable sum,
does not stay in Belgium. It is immediately transmitted by
wire to a certain individual in Milan I happen to know. A
certain Mario Murano. Here is his address.'

Tweed masked his surprise as he read the sheet of paper
Beaurain had given him.
Via Legessa 290.
He looked up and
told Beaurain about Marler's encounter with Jasper Buller,
the new Chief of Special Branch, at Waterloo before Buller
boarded the Eurostar.

Beaurain leaned back in his seat and studied the ceiling. It
was several minutes before he straightened up and spoke.

'I hope Buller can look after himself.'

'He probably can,' Tweed assured him. 'Why?'

'Mario Murano is a very dodgy . . . right word? Good . . .
customer. A battle-scarred con-man. He's in touch with the
Mafia, who trust him. Then, for a fat fee, he reports to a top
carabinieri officer - Italian police. When he has learned the
hideaway of a top capo. But he also gives me info - again
for a fat fee. One of these days he's going to trip himself up. Outcome? End of Mario.'

'Dangerous,' Tweed commented.

'I went to Paris from Brussels today,' Beaurain told them.
'I had to keep moving. I talked to your friend, Tweed,
the Chief of the DST - Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire - or French counter-espionage. He sent you a message. Not polite, I fear.'

'Tell me,' Tweed said with a smile. 'The old brigand is
reliable.'

'He doesn't think the Brits, as he called them, are. He
was fuming. They know key members of al-Qa'eda have moved over here recently. He sent the data to the Ministry
of Security. They replied with thanks — and have done
nothing. Not even arrested them. He thinks we are crazy.'

'He's right. I can hardly contact Warner and ask him what
he thinks he is doing. You flew back from Paris then?'

'Caught the flight from Charles de Gaulle by the skin of
my teeth. Then ran into the wall of security at Heathrow. I have decided to travel to Italy myself tomorrow, to see
Mr Murano and ask him where the money from Brussels
goes on to. Not just the rent. Someone code-named Brutus
in Carpford sends huge sums. Anyone want to come with
me?'

'Me!' Paula shot up her hand.

'You will permit?' Beaurain asked Tweed.

'She'll give me hell if I refuse.'

'That's settled.' Beaurain took out a notebook and wrote in it. Paula noticed he wrote as fast as he talked. He went
over to her desk, gave her the sheet he'd torn from the
notebook. 'My hotel, a small place near Victoria. My room
number on the back. I'm registered as Mr Vance. We
meet under the destination board at Waterloo at 4 p.m.
tomorrow. Now, give me your Browning pistol. Thank you.
I can smuggle this through with my own Beretta. Bring only
one case., and plenty of warm clothes. I'll have the tickets.
I'm off now!' He paused before opening the door. 'That nasty incident outside the Ivy. Don't overlook this man Palfry. He could have been waiting in the lobby until he
saw you were leaving, dashed outside to signal those thugs,
then back in to greet you.
Au revoir . . .'

'Interesting what he told us about the information from
Paris,' Tweed said half to himself. 'And they have an
uncomplimentary version of the word London.'

'And I'm off to Italy,' Paula enthused. 'That will make
an exciting change. I'll bet it's Milan.'

'Not too exciting, I hope,' Tweed replied with no enthusi
asm at all.

13

Milano Centrale. The long-distance express glided to a
halt. Beaurain, with Paula by his side, was already standing
at the exit as the automatic doors opened. They stepped on to the platform, Paula gazed up at the vast cavern, curving
above them like an arched cathedral.

'It's enormous.'

'It is,' Beaurain agreed as he grabbed her arm to hustle
her along amid a vast crowd descending from another train.
'I want us out of here fast. We were followed all the way
from Waterloo. That small smartly dressed man seated a
few seats in front of us. Dark suit, carefully manicured hair
which you called coiffeured. He used his mobile as we
were coming in. I suspect someone unpleasant is waiting
for us . . .'

It was late in the afternoon but still daylight. While on the
express Beaurain had slipped something wrapped in thick
glossy paper to her, suggesting she visited the toilet before
unwrapping it.

Inside the toilet she had carefully unwrapped layer after
layer of the paper, which felt strange to the touch. Inside she
found her .32 Browning and three magazines. Earlier, from
the same suitcase which had contained Paula's weapon,
Beaurain had extracted a similar package, had visited the toilet. In a hip holster he now wore his favourite gun, a .38
Special Smith & Wesson with a shortened barrel, weighing
only eighteen ounces.

When she had returned to her seat Paula had folded
the odd-feeling paper and handed it to Beaurain. He had
slipped it back inside his case, thanking her, remarking that it was very expensive.

As they approached the exit Paula looked to left and right.
It appeared there were at least twenty platforms. Passing through the ticket barrier, they made their way across the
crowded concourse to the exit, a long flight of very wide stone steps.

'Keep close to me,' Beaurain warned, his eyes every
where.

As they descended towards a vast paved open space Paula
gazed at the extraordinary edifice looming up higher than
any of the other solid stone blocks situated round the space.
A shaft of sunlight broke through the hazy clouds, beamed
like a searchlight on the dominant edifice.

Immensely tall and slim, its sides were curved. They
swung round at the end nearest to her, creating the impres
sion of a gigantic cone. She sucked in her breath.

'That must be the world-famous Pirelli building. It really
is an architectural masterpiece.'

'Yes, that's Pirelli . . .'

Beaurain sounded abstracted. He never stopped survey
ing the scene as though expecting trouble. No pedestrian
coining towards them escaped his eagle eye, checked with a brief glance. They had left the steps and were walking
towards Pirelli when Paula noticed a long black stretch limo
parked by the kerb. As they reached the limo her attention
was distracted by an Italian pushing a trolley towards them
laden with fruit.

The rear door of the limo suddenly swung open, blocking Beaurain's way. At the same moment the Italian pushing the fruit trolley lost control. Fruit spilt all over the pavement.

'We have been expecting you, Signor Beaurain,' the expensively dressed businessman type seated inside the limo called
out. 'We have made reservations at the Hassler . . .'

He stopped talking as Beaurain pointed his Smith & Wesson revolver at him. At the same moment the driver
dashed out of his seat, ran round the front of the limo, holding a Clock pistol, a deadly weapon. He was aiming
it at the Belgian's back when Paula rammed the muzzle of
her Browning into his side.

'Drop that bloody gun,' she shouted. 'Or say goodbye now,' she snarled.