Cell (47 page)

'Gentlemen, I think we ought to end this meeting now.
No more gabble . . .'

Warner returned to his Ministry, fuming, a folder under
his arm. He encountered Palfry just before entering his
office.

'I'll complete this work at home. You do have my car
ready for me, I presume . . .'

Arriving inside his penthouse, he walked straight into his large study. Eva was working at her own desk, decoding a
signal as Warner plonked his file down on his own desk.
Warner dragged a chair over and sat beside her. Clad in a
black trouser suit, she sensed he was in a bad mood. She
didn't feel at all prepared to put up with it. So his approach
took her by surprise.

'When this crisis is all over I think we need a holiday.'

'Good idea. I'll be going off to France.'

'No you won't.' His strange mouth was twisted in a smile
as though contemplating something pleasurable. 'Instead
you'll be coming with me to Bermuda. How do you fancy
that?'

He placed a hand on her forearm, squeezed it. She
removed the predatory hand without looking at him.

'The Elbow Beach Hotel,' he coaxed. 'It's the height of
luxury. Has an enormous swimming-pool. Two weeks.'

She gathered up her papers and the code-book. Standing up, she looked down at him, no expression on her face. She
really is a beauty, he was thinking.

'I've booked for France,' she told him. 'They can take me whenever I phone them.'

'We can hire bicycles from the hotel,' he continued. 'Get away from cars for a change. Explore the scenic wonders.'

'I don't like cycling,' she replied.

'It's pretty flat. Not hard work. You glide along.'

'Sounds idyllic,' she said in an indifferent tone.

'You'll need new clothes. Just give me the bills and I'll cover the expense.'

'I'll have to think about it.'

'It's an expression of appreciation for how well you look after me. You are a decoding genius. In Arabic too. Has the missing code message turned up?'

'I think they've sent a second copy as requested. It's on
your desk. Since it's marked highly confidential I've left it
for you to decode.'

'Damn Embassy in Cairo is not very efficient. I'm going
to complain to the Ambassador. Now, what we were talking
about?'

'I'll have to think about it,' she repeated and left the
room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Warner moved his chair back to his desk to deal with
the message. He was smiling to himself. Women were all
alike. They played hard to get. She would come round to
his viewpoint.

36

No. 50 Upper Cheyne Lane was secreted inside a short
cul-de-sac of small houses. As they drove in Paula quickly
realized they were all conversions.

'They used to be garages,' she told Beaurain. 'Now
they're nice little houses which probably cost a fortune. I think she must be at the end - even numbers on our right,
odd ones on our left.'

Beaurain drove very slowly, bumping over the cobbled
lane. He pulled up at the end where No. 50 was on
the right. Two storeys high, the frontage was slim and painted white. The front door was blue. It was a neat,
well-cared-for house.

Paula jumped out, followed by Beaurain, and pressed the brass doorbell, which gleamed. Inside they heard a dog start
barking its head off. Paula smiled. Pooh was on guard. She
pulled the collar of her windcheater up. It was almost dusk
and the temperature was falling rapidly.

Mrs Wharton opened the door and Beaurain bent down
to stroke Pooh who, recognizing them, stood up on his
rear portion, with his front legs dangling. He was panting, hopefully with pleasure.

'Sorry to bother you,' Paula began, 'but Jules has some
thing vital he needs to know urgently.'

'How nice to see you again. Do come in . . .'

Closing the door, she led them down a short narrow hall into a very small room, tastefully furnished. Space was clearly at a premium. She invited them to sit down on tapestry-covered chairs, offered them tea, which they both refused.

'Time is now against us,' Beaurain explained. 'I wonder if you could describe again that machine carried from the
white van to the motorized trolley?' He took out a sketchpad
Paula had handed to him in the car.

Mrs Wharton carried over another chair to sit alongside her guest. Paula produced from her satchel a fold-up ruler
which she unfolded. Intuitively she had guessed what Jules
was after. He smiled wrily at her.

'Reading my mind? As I suspect you do with Tweed.'

'Sometimes.'

'Measurements are important,' Beaurain explained, turn
ing his attention back to Mrs Wharton.

'I'm not much good at them, I'm afraid.'

'I think we'll get there,' he assured her. 'It took six men
to carry this machine. How wide would you say the support
base was - the base the machine was perched on?'

'Show me by stretching your hands apart,' Paula sug
gested.

'Yes. I think I could do that.'

She stretched her hands wide apart. Paula leant forward,
used the ruler to measure the distance. She whistled. 'At
least two feet wide.' Beaurain began drawing, starting with
the base support.

'Now,' Beaurain continued, 'how tall would you say
the machine was - from the base to the tip of the shell
or vertical torpedo, as you described it, that it was supporting?' Mrs Wharton held one hand close to the floor,
stretched the other hand as high as she could into the air. Again Paula measured. 'About two and a half feet
at least.' Beaurain drew the outline of a monster shell,
tapering to detonation tip, writing in the measurement
once more. He showed her his drawing. 'Anything like
that?'

'The body of the shell was fatter.
5
She held out her hands
apart. 'About so much.'

Paula measured the distance. 'Lordy, the main diameter
of the shell was over a foot wide.'

Beaurain re-drew the main body of the shell, increasing
its size, then showed it to their hostess. She stared for a
short time.

'You know,' she said, 'I think you've got it perfectly. Evil-looking thing.'

'We are dealing with evil men,' Beaurain told her as
he wrote in the measurement in his neat hand. He then
swivelled the sketchpad so she could see it clearly.

'Yes, that's the
thing,'
she said with a hint of vehe
mence.

'Mrs Wharton,' Paula said, 'we can't thank you enough
for all the help you've given us. This is top classified
data . . .'

'Don't worry.' Mrs Wharton smiled, 'I can keep my
mouth shut. And I will. I do think you've got what you
need. I do have a good visual memory. Won't you stay
for tea?'

'Love to,' said Beaurain, standing up with Paula. 'But
we have to get back quickly. Thank you again.'

As she led them back to the door Beaurain remembered
to bend down and stroke Pooh, trotting happily along
beside him. As she opened the door grey mist seeped in.
It was going to be a foggy night.

'What do you think?' Paula asked, as Beaurain three-
point turned their car ready to drive out of the cul-de-sac.

'I don't like it, don't like it at all. I just wonder how
many of those
things,
as Mrs Wharton called them, al-
Qa'eda have.'

Inside the power station Ali stood close to Proctor, the
guard. He held an automatic close to his forehead, touched
him with the tip of the weapon.

'You told me your chief, Mr Dixon, calls you once in the
evening to make sure everything is all right here. Now when
he does call I want you to remember your wife. Her life is in your hands. If you sound nervous, or in any way make
Dixon suspicious, you'll only see your wife when they ask
you to go to the morgue to identify her.'

'I can do it,' Proctor said hoarsely. 'But not if you're holding that bloody gun at my forehead.'

'That was not quite your natural voice, Mr Proctor. Try again,' he ordered, holding the gun behind his back.

'I can do it.' The hoarseness was now absent.

'Much better. Imagine you are talking to your wife when
the time comes.'

Within minutes the phone rang. Proctor didn't move. Angrily Ali gestured for him to pick it up. Proctor shook
his head, stared at Ali.

'He wouldn't expect me to be sitting next to the phone.
Why don't you shut your filthy mouth and let me handle
this?'

After a minute had passed, during which Ali had trouble
not waving the gun at-him, Proctor picked up the phone.

'Mr Dixon?'

'Yes, it's me, Vince. Is everything all right down there?'

Ali was leaning close to Proctor, so he could monitor
what was said.

'Everything is tickety-boo, sir. The three engineers are
down with the plant, just keeping an eye on things, although
it is automatic.'

'Good. Get plenty of sleep when you come off duty
tomorrow. Good night.'

'Good night, sir . . .'

'What was that friggin' business about the engineers?' Ali
demanded in a fury. 'A secret warning?'

'Don't be stupid!' Proctor shouted. 'I always mention
them. They're just a stand-by. Not really needed since the
system is automatic. But I always mention them. He'd
have thought it odd if I hadn't friggin' mentioned them.
Satisfied?'

'Don't yell at me. Your meal is being prepared by
Mehmet so you can eat soon.' Ali smiled. 'You're being fed
in case Dixon makes an unprecedented extra call later.'

Ali didn't feel it necessary to inform Proctor the three
engineers had earlier had their throats cut, the bodies then
weighted with chains and thrown into the river.

At Park Crescent Tweed had drawn up a list of suspects
living in Carpford. He read out the list to Newman.

'Victor Warner

Drew Franklin

Peregrine Palfry

Billy Hogarth