Cell (22 page)

'His second name?' Paula asked. 'Philip who?'

'I'm not identifying him beyond what I've already said.'

'Reliable?' queried Beaurain.

'As reliable as you are.'

'Then his information about al-Qa'eda is to be trusted?'

'Absolutely. Combined with what Buller told me I think
we can be sure their new base is somewhere over here - and
that means they plan to make London our September 11. Not a comforting thought.'

'Maybe,' Beaurain suggested, 'we ought to explore Has
tings and the area round it - where they come ashore.'

'Waste of time. Too late. They've landed at least twenty
men. Similar number to the team which hit the World
Trade Center in New York. So where are they hiding?'

'Up at Carpford?' Paula wondered.

'Unlikely. They could be driven there easily at night from Hastings, I agree. But where is the accommodation
at Carpford to hide twenty men - maybe more? From what
I know of the place it doesn't exist. It might just be the
home of the mastermind, whoever he is.'

'What makes you so sure it is a "he"?' Marler drawled.
'Why not a woman? I've had a weird experience following
Eva Brand.'

The idea stunned them. They sat silent, staring at Marler.
He kept them in suspense as he took a cigarette from his
gold cigarette case, didn't hurry lighting it, took a puff. He
looked round, studying their expressions.

'Marler!' Tweed crashed his fist on his desk. 'Do get on
with it. I have this horrible feeling the clock is ticking down
to a catastrophe.'

'Yesterday evening she left her flat, took a cab to the Ivy, had dinner with the Right Honourable Peregrine Palfry . . .'

'I saw him meeting her when I was leaving,' Paula
interjected. 'She told him about her experience.'

'Mind if I continue, my dear? Otherwise Tweed will slap
you down. They spent two hours over dinner, seemed to know each other well. Then Eva, looking very serious,
leaves in a cab she must have ordered. By now I'm back
sitting in my car. I follow her. Back to her flat in Fulham.
Once inside she turns on the light in the living-room, no
curtains drawn. She unrolls a small prayer rug, kneels on
it facing east, bows her head very slowly a number of times.
Gets up, rolls the rug, tucks it under a sofa, showers — the
bathroom window steamed up - then presumably goes
to bed.'

'Are you sure of this?' Tweed asked, his tone disbe
lieving.

'You think I'd imagine a scene like that?'

'She's a ruddy Muslim fanatic,' Paula burst out.

'Hence,' Marler said gently, 'my question. What makes
Tweed so sure the brain behind all this is a man?'

They were stunned again. Marler smoked his cigarette,
looked at each in turn. Most people would be pleased with
the idea of dropping a bombshell, reducing their audience
to silence. Marler simply looked as though he'd been talking
about the weather.

'Want to hear what she did next day?' Marler eventually
enquired.

'Yes, we would,' Tweed said quietly.

'Gets up late - to avoid rush hour, I imagine. Has
breakfast. Just croissants . . .'

'How on earth could you see that?' Paula demanded.

'Because, my dear, I'm using my monocular glass. She has good teeth. May I proceed? About ten she emerges,
dressed in a windcheater, gets behind the wheel of her Saab
after she's packed what she's carrying in the back . . .'

'What was she carrying?' rapped Tweed.

'I
was
coming to that. One very large Harrods carrier
and a much smaller one which she puts in the car carefully.
Briefly now, I follow her to Carpford. She parks the Saab
out of sight behind Martin Hogarth's bungalow . . .'

'Not the boozy brother, Billy?' Paula queried.

'Who is reporting this sequence of events?' Marler gave
her a look. 'Eva then reappears, carrying both carriers.
The elegant Martin is waiting for her, opens the door,
she goes inside. Spends a couple of hours there, then
drives back to her Fulham flat. I wait nearby all day
and half the evening. She doesn't come out again. So,
here I am.'

'Mysterious,' commented Beaurain. 'I'd like to meet
the lady.'

'You most certainly would.' Marler chuckled. 'I reckon
she would dazzle you.'

'A good looker?'

'That's an understatement.'

'What Marler has told us brings Martin Hogarth into the
picture,' Tweed broke in impatiently. 'We never thought
about him . . .'

As though on cue, Newman walked in, followed by Harry
and Pete. Newman's report on Hogarth was useless. He had
tried to call on his target but the door was never answered.
Even though Newman could hear movement inside the
bungalow. He'd waited for hours but Martin had never
appeared.

Harry's report was more positive. As always, he kept his
narrative brief.

'Palfry stays in the Ministry until mid-evening, then takes
a cab to the Ivy. I see Pete here watching the place.'

'I didn't see you,' Nield grumbled.

'You weren't supposed to. If you had seen me I'd be no
good at my job, mate. By then Tweed had phoned me to tell
me to watch the Ivy to guard Paula.' He looked at Nield.
'You certainly saw me then.'

'Bob,' Tweed said quickly, 'you were watching Victor
Warner. What did you see?'

'Nothing. Never caught one glimpse of our brilliant
Minister. All the time I was enduring the boredom of
Whitehall Warner never appeared. I'm pretty sure he wasn't
in the building. And that was a long absence.'

'Time I called on the lawyer, Pecksniff, who handles
the finances for this invisible New Age company which
developed Carpford.' Tweed was putting on his raincoat as he continued, 'You can come with me, Paula. I doubt we'll get anything out of him. A dubious lawyer.'

'I'd better come too,' Harry said. 'If he clams up I'll pay
him one of my calls.'

Ali was waiting inside a phone-box in a remote village. He
grabbed the phone on the second ring.
'Yes?'

'Who is that?' the strange voice talking through a distorter
demanded.

'Ali.'

'Abdullah here. Is the equipment in place now?'

'Four milk vans carrying the bombs . . .'

'Idiot! I used the word equipment. You do the same.
Well?'

'Four items of equipment are in place - inside the
warehouse. They have to be transported to their ultimate
destination. The fifth vehicle's engine wouldn't start. We're
working on it. Another hour and . . .'

'You do realize you must not put it on the road until
after dark. Get something right.'

'We are being very careful. All the team has arrived . . .'

Ali slammed down the phone and swore. Abdullah had
broken the connection. As he walked out into the drizzle he
again wondered: was the voice that of a man or a woman? Impossible to tell.

Pecksniff & Co., Solicitors, were situated in Bermondsey
down a narrow side street. Not the best part of Bermondsey,
the old three-storey buildings had seen no renovation for
years. Loose bricks, fallen from walls, littered the pavement. The windows had not seen a cleaner for ages. The miserable
street was littered with rubbish. A dirty brass plate attached
to the wall located the place. The
Peck
had been ripped away
so the sign now read
sniff & Co, Solicit.

'Not the best part of town,' Harry observed. 'Not even
for the East End. Not safe either. Get mugged here for a box of matches.'

'We'll leave you to guard the car,' Tweed decided.

The moment Tweed and Paula left the car Harry locked
the doors. Reaching down under his seat, he grasped a
canister of Mace gas, perched it on his lap.

Tweed pressed the bell beside the door with stained-glass
windows in the upper half. 'Stained' described it well -
impossible to guess the original colours. No one came. He
shoved his thumb into the bell and kept it there. When the
door opened a strange apparition appeared.

Clad in a shabby black jacket which reached his knees, he wore an equally old-fashioned collar with the tips
protruding. He was living up to his Dickensian name -
even had an ancient gold watch chain draped across his
waistcoat. Stooped, his hair was the colour of dirty mustard,
his pinched face lined and his little eyes were cunning.

'We have an appointment,' Tweed said.

'I don't think so. I made no appointments.'

'I did.' Tweed held his SIS folder close to the face. 'Now
let us in. This street smells.'

'I can only give you a few minutes . . -.'

'You'll give us as long as it takes.'

Tweed was inside the poorly furnished office with Paula
at his heels. The apparition closed and locked the door.
Shuffling, he led them into another office which startled Paula. The furniture was expensive antiques with a large Regency desk. Unlike the outer office the room had been dusted, she noted. The solicitor sat down behind the desk
in an antique high-backed chair. Paula caught a whiff of
whisky.

'You are Mr Peck Sniff?' Tweed began.

'Pecksniff, if you please,' their host snapped.

'The New Age Development Company which built
Carpford high up in the North Downs,' Tweed plunged on. 'You act for them.'

'Never heard of them.' Pecksniff's false teeth rattled.

'You handle collection of their rents - and other monies.
The inhabitants have told us this. Stop lying.'

'I beg your pardon.'

Pecksniff straightened up, glared at Tweed. A picture of indignation and innocence. He clasped his bony fingers on
his desk. The teeth rattled again.

'I must ask you both to leave.'

'You deny that you're connected with New Age?'

'Never heard of them.'

'Maybe,' Paula suggested nastily, 'another drop of Scotch
would refresh your memory. We can always come back with
a warrant and rip this dump to pieces.'

'I shall call a judge for an injunction.'