Cell (35 page)

'What is she drinking? Ready for another, you think?'

'Not yet. She just sips her drink. What will you have?'

'A glass of Chardonnay.'

'Two of a kind. Even like the same drink.'

'Marco, just give me the drink, then tell me the cost,
including the lady's.'

'Didn't mean to be offensive. Sir.'

'Had you been, you'd have known about it . . .'

Having paid, Tweed made his way to the back of the bar.
By now his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness
and he could see her clearly. Sitting at a table in a secluded alcove, one hand slowly swivelling her glass by the stem as
she watched him coming. He sat down, facing her.

'Cheers!' He raised his glass and she clinked hers with his. Her outfit surprised him. She was wearing a close-
fitting white sleeveless dress, exposing her shapely arms and shoulders.

'Does he know you're here?' Tweed asked suddenly,
abruptly.

'Victor? Certainly not. I keep my private life very private.'

'When was he first appointed Minister of Security?'

'Oh, about two years ago . . .' Eva replied.

'Why was he chosen?' Tweed asked.

'He was an MP and had been director of Medfords
private security outfit. Obvious choice. The only one with
the experience.'

'How did you come to work for him?' Tweed went on
in a blank tone of voice.

'Thought you'd have realized that from what I told you
when I slipped over secretly to your office. When he was
with Medfords I was on the staff. It's a loose arrangement.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means,' said Eva, 'I'm not officially on his staff. So
I'm not trapped in that idiotic Civil Service system. I'm
paid out of his private income. Victor is a rich man.'

'How did that come about?'

'It came about, Mr Tweed, because it was the only way I would agree to work for him.'

'You have official office hours?' Tweed asked.

'I damned well don't. I come and go as I please. I thought this was going to be a fun evening.' She was still smiling as
she had done since he'd sat down. 'Instead I find myself being interrogated. I did a lot of
that myself at Medfords.'

Tweed sipped his wine. She waited, her large eyes glow
ing into his. He had the odd feeling she was penetrating
inside his brain. An exceptionally intelligent lady with
bewitching looks.

'Where were you born?' he asked suddenly.

'In a small village in Hampshire. Don't ask me the
village's name because I won't tell you. My childhood is
strictly my own affair.'

'You told me your mother was killed in a road accident.
So what about your father?'

'You've hit a road-block. I don't want to talk about him.
I will not talk about him.' Still smiling.

'You disliked him?'

'Didn't you hear what I just said?'

Eva lifted her almost full glass, swallowed the contents in
two large gulps. She raised the empty glass to the barman, who came hurrying over.

'Same again,' she said.

'You left Medfords before Warner did?'

'As a matter of fact, I did. He contacted me two years later when he became a Minister, offered me the job.'

'And how did you spend those two years?'

'More interrogation.' She was still smiling. 'I was what
they used to call a swinger, maybe still do. Cocktail bars
and the best night clubs.'

'Miss Brand

'Eva, please.'

'Eva, I don't believe you. The swinger fairy-tale. Not
your style.'

'Then that's your problem.' She waited until the barman,
who had brought her a fresh glass of wine, went away. She
drank half the glass at one go, then stretched out a hand and
took hold of Tweed's resting on the table. 'We are friends,
are we not?'

'I would hope so. I've just been doing my job.'

'Good. I asked you here to warn you. When the mandate
from Downing Street arrived, appointing you Supremo in
the present crisis, at first Victor was livid. Then he came to like the idea,' Eva explained.

'Why?'

'Because if al-Qa'eda launch a successful and devastating
attack on London you get the blame, not Victor. He has
always operated in this way - had a scapegoat tucked away
in a cupboard, so to speak. After all, you are in charge of defeating al-Qa'eda - a point he has emphasized in the
Cabinet.'

'So, secretly he's worried about an attack coming? Even
though he pooh-poohs the idea in public?'

'Now you've caught on. Warnings about some terrible catastrophe being imminent are beginning to seep into the press. Our nice gossip writer, Drew Franklin, has seen to
that. Sometimes I think Drew is not all
he seems. He's
suave, polite with women, natters them so he can get what
he wants. Reminds me of a smokescreen.'

'You could be right,' Tweed agreed.

'He came after me. But I got the impression his main
motive was not the bedroom. It was to pump me about
Victor's security measures. I told him I couldn't talk about
security- and I wasn't interested in having dinner with him.
When he asked, "Why?" I said because I didn't trust him.
You ought to pay attention to Drew Franklin.'

'I will. And I appreciate what you have told me. Scape
goat? Interesting.'

'He developed that technique at Medfords. If something
didn't work out he had someone else ready to dump
the blame on to. He is, in fact, your typical politician.
Manipulation is the name of the game. He's an expert.'

'Then maybe,' Tweed suggested, 'you should watch
your back.'

She squeezed Tweed's hand, which she was still holding.
Leaning forward, she kissed him. Tweed smiled, squeezed
her hand, then withdrew his.

'You know,' she said, 'I've come to prefer more mature men who have a lot of experience. I can't stand the young
macho type who has only one thing in mind with a woman.
Plus they're such a bloody bore.'

'I have enjoyed talking to you,' Tweed said amiably.
'But if someone we know comes in here tongues will start
wagging and that might hurt your job with the Minister.
Shouldn't we call it a night?'

'After I've had another drink.' She waved her empty
glass. Marco hustled over. 'Same again,' she told him. 'What about you?' she asked Tweed.

'If you insist.'

'I do insist.'

'Ever been to the Middle East?' Tweed asked suddenly.
'Since one of your languages is Arabic.'

'Don't really fancy the place.' Her large eyes still gazing
into his. 'I prefer Switzerland. Everything there works.'

'True.'

Tweed remained silent until Marco had brought the
fresh drinks and left them alone. He sipped his wine as
Eva swallowed half her glass. He could see no sign that
she was getting tipsy. A hard head.

'Do you think you're going to defeat al-Qa'eda?' she
asked.

'As the Duke of Wellington once said, a battle may be
won or lost until it's over. Not an exact quotation, but it
conveys his meaning. I have enjoyed your company, but do
you mind if we go in a moment?'

'The man has a battle to be fought.' She drank the rest of her wine. 'I've got my Audi parked round the corner so you don't have to offer me a lift . . .'

'I have been seduced mentally,' Tweed told Monica as he sat behind his desk.

'Only mentally?' Monica was grinning. 'Shame!'

Tweed then told her about their conversation. With his
power of recall he told her everything. Monica checked her
bun of hair at the back of her head before she commented.

'So three questions arise. She cleverly evaded your asking
her whether she'd ever been to the Middle
East. She
firmly evaded telling you anything about this mysterious
father. Finally, the missing two years in her life worry me.'

'I agree. She has a very dominant - without being domi
neering - personality. Still on your list of
suspects?'

'It's a long one. Victor Warner, Peregrine Palfry, Martin
Hogarth, Margesson, Drew Franklin and Eva Brand.'

Tweed frowned. 'Come to think of it, we don't know all
that much about Franklin.'

'So I'll work fast, put him under my microscope again
using the contacts I've left out.'

'Good. You know I don't think you should have included
Eva in your suspects list. The Arabs would never take
orders from a woman, even one with her exceptional brain
power. '

'Unless they don't know their controller is a woman.'

28

Newman had decided he wouldn't drive up to the village.
He wanted his arrival and presence to be secret. He parked
his car in the triangular setback off the main climb. The Uzi
machine-gun was taken out of its case, which he locked in
the boot. He slung the weapon, now fully loaded with a magazine of forty rounds, over his left shoulder. A spare
mag went into the pocket of his warm black overcoat. In
his left hand he held his Smith & Wesson as he began
yomping down the narrow sunken road Paula had called
a rabbit warren.

Soon he was enveloped by the dense trees of Black Wood,
growing above the steep banks. At intervals he paused to
listen. He heard only the sinister silence of the wood. The
moon was up but didn't penetrate down into the gulch.
He was glad he had brought a pair of night-glasses, which
turned everything he looked at green, but enabled him
to see clearly. Sarge, who had trained him in the SAS
when he was writing an article on the secretive outfit, had
recommended them.

Two-thirds of the way down the gulley he paused again
and listened. Only the sound of silence. He scrambled up
the left bank and plunged into the wood. There was a
mixture of big firs, the occasional pine and the leafless
deciduous trees which reminded him of skeletons. Why
think of that word at a time like this?

His sense of direction was good. He saw the glimmer of moonlight ahead, knew he was close to the edge of Black Wood. He proceeded more slowly. Then he was looking out across a field at the houses. Before leaving his car he had again studied the map Paula had provided. He had arrived just where he wanted to be.