Blood Storm (42 page)

'I do believe you're right,' exclaimed Newman.

'On top of which,' Tweed plunged on, 'we are familiar with where she lives. Her place in the side street in Hammersmith. We disguise ourselves to fit in with the
scenery. We use mobiles to keep in touch with each other.'

'I've got a great idea,' piped up Harry. 'What time do we
get there?'

'Before 10 p.m,' Tweed replied.

'Then,' Harry continued, 'I've time to get in touch with
a pal who runs a cab. He owes me. He'd loan it to me so I
could drive round the area as a cabbie. Maybe even take
you one by one at intervals as a passenger.'

'That,' agreed Tweed, 'is a great idea.'

'I could be a street cleaner,' Newman said. 'They often
work at night. The pavements are so crowded in the
daytime now.'

Paula yawned openly for the second time. She looked at
Tweed, who had been watching her. She stood up as
though to stretch aching limbs.

'Will there be enough of you without me?' She
suppressed another yawn. 'I nearly walked myself into the
ground in that dreary city.'

'You can't go home,' Newman protested.

'I know. No one to protect me. Which is why I'll stay here
with Monica until you get back.'

'Agreed,' said Tweed. 'Monica can go now to the deli with Newman. Get you both something to eat.'

'Thanks.'

Paula sat down, slumped in her chair, closed her eyes.
She knew that this time Tweed had got it wrong.

38

'The Minister, Nelson Macomber, is downstairs and would like to see you.'

Tweed concealed his surprise. The rest of the team,
except for Paula, had at Tweed's suggestion gone out to
have a good supper. It was going to be a long night, staking
out the Parrot's flat.

'Tell the Minister I welcome his visit and I'm at his
disposal.'

Tweed had stood up. He walked to open the door to
welcome his visitor. It was 8.30 p.m. and dark outside.
Monica gave the message to George and then darted to
the window, pulled back a curtain. Parked outside their
entrance was a large black limousine with the uniformed
chauffeur standing on the pavement. Tweed had opened
the door and they heard the heavy tread of their visitor
coming swiftly up.

'Welcome, Minister,' Tweed said with a smile, holding out his hand.

Nelson grasped it, beaming with the famous smile always present when press photographers were anywhere near him.
At her corner desk Paula stood up, a file under her arm.

'I will leave the two of you to your discussions,' she said.

'No! No! Please do stay.' Nelson released Tweed's hand,
used his own to wave her back. 'You are one of the two
most important people in this organization. So you, also,
will want to hear why I am here.'

Nelson had changed into a new blue suit with thin pin
stripes. He looked larger than ever and sat in the chair
facing Tweed's desk as his host sat in his swivel chair. He
politely refused offers of coffee, tea or anything else to drink, then smiled at Tweed.

'Since my appointment you are the first person I am
calling on, Mr Tweed.'

'I appreciate that, Minister.'

Paula thought she had never seen Tweed calmer or more relaxed. He sat, both elbows on his desk, his hands perched under his chin. His eyes never left those of his visitor.

'Nelson, please, since we shall all be working together.'
He glanced at Paula who nodded, without smiling. 'Now let
us dive straight into the core of the problem. Britain's moral
structure has collapsed. Anything goes. On the TV we see
filthy films showing explicit sex with no holds barred.
Granted, many are shown late at night, but not always.
Even late at night, at any hour, this filth must be controlled, banned. How many children under, say, twelve, are secretly
watching this dirt while their parents are out at some wild
party? Do you agree so far?'

'Of course I do,' Tweed said.

'This immoral poison is infiltrating the whole country. In
London, after dark, it is not difficult to see couplings taking
place against a wall. It is Sodom and Gomorrah in the
open.' His voice rose to a powerful timbre. 'Decent women
can no longer walk home in safety - even in daylight.
Certain judges impose light sentences when a man before them is convicted of rape. Those judges must be removed
and replaced by judges of sterner stuff. Are my views
upsetting you, sir?'

'So far, not in the least. I agree with what you are saying,'
Tweed replied.

'Child-molesters are convicted, put in prison, released when some psychiatrist pronounces them "safe". Within
weeks, even days, the freed man commits the same foul
crime again. Having deviated once they should be kept
behind bars for many years, maybe for ever.'

'How do you propose to eliminate the moral rot?' Tweed
enquired.

'One method, by training hundreds of selected men and
women to patrol the streets on foot. To show a strong
presence everywhere. At night. In daytime. Many will have
to be trained in moral sense. We must change the entire
moral atmosphere of this country to one of decency. New
people must be appointed to control TV programmes. It
will be a tremendous task but we must hammer away until we are no longer a cesspit. Still with me, sir?'

'Completely, so far. What about the proposed new
system of the State Security?'

Nothing in Tweed's manner changed. Nothing suggested
he was waiting at the peak of alertness for the reply.

'We went over the top on that one,' Nelson told him. 'We
are toning it down. We may even drop the whole idea.'

'What about Noel?' Tweed persisted.

'Good point. He'll drop into line. If he doesn't we can get
rid of him.'

Nelson stood up after checking his watch. He shook
hands with Paula.

'I'm afraid I'm late for a boring meeting but one I must
attend. Thank you for listening to me. We must keep in
close touch.'

Then he was gone.

'Well, Paula, what did you think of that?'

'I was partly taken aback. He expressed some views
which you hold strongly. But he's a politician. I just don't know.'

She had just finished speaking when the door opened and
the team, led by Newman holding a large white cardboard
container, flooded into the room.

'Time to go to Hammersmith,' Newman warned. 'We've
had our meal. Here's yours. I'll drive and you can eat in the
car. Sandwiches, a lot of fruit, a flask of coffee. OK?'

'Very,' said Tweed. 'And many thanks.'

'Well,' Newman said cheerfully, 'with a bit of luck we'll
solve the last problem tonight and trap the murderer.'

'There is one other problem,' Tweed corrected him.
'Radek, the chief Slovak. I've been in touch with Interpol.
Radek is wanted in four countries in Europe for assas
sinations. He is dangerous. He prides himself on always
earning the huge fees he's paid. He's never failed yet.'

'He's probably skipped off abroad by now.'

'I think not,' Tweed told him grimly. 'And I am his
target. I'm convinced he's in London, waiting for his
opportunity.'

'We'll keep our eyes open, then. We're ready when you
are.'

'I'm the cabbie,' Harry said. 'Cab's outside. And you'll
be my passenger.'

'I expect you'll charge me a fortune,' Tweed joked to
lighten the tense atmosphere building up inside his office.
'Start going down now.'

'Don't forget your dinner box,' Newman said as he left
the office followed by Harry and Marler.

Under her desk Paula crossed her fingers, hoping she was
right in secretly disagreeing with Tweed's decision.

As Newman left the building, entering the Crescent, he
saw, parked by the kerb a few yards to his right, a motor
cyclist, equipped in full gear, bent over his machine. The
motorcyclist lifted his head, raised his helmet a few inches
to call out.

'I do hope you will not mind my parking here while I see
what is wrong with my machine. It is dangerous to park on
the main route.'

'That's OK,' Newman called back. 'Hope you fix it
soon.'

The motorcyclist waved a hand in acknowledge
ment, lowered his helmet and went on fiddling with the
engine.

Newman walked to his car while Harry climbed into his
cab. It was dark and cold, a typical April night. The only
illumination was a street lamp midway between the
entrance to the SIS entrance and the motorcyclist.

Newman settled in his car behind the wheel. His car was
parked sideways on to the entrance and when he lowered his window he had a good view of Nield descending the
steps carrying, as were the others, his 'tool-kit' bag stored
with weapons. In his wing mirror Newman could also see the motorcyclist still toiling over his machine. Now they
were only waiting for Tweed.

'. . . dangerous to park on the main route.' Surely most
people would use the word 'road'? He had his Smith &
Wesson in his lap as he checked it swiftly as he always did
before action. Tweed appeared, carrying his dinner box,
walking carefully down the steps.

Newman caught the movement out of the corner of his
eye.

The motorcyclist throwing his helmet over the back of his
head.

Straightening up, legs apart.

Both arms extended, both hands gripping a gun.

Aimed at Tweed.

Newman's own hand, gripping the Smith & Wesson, was
pointed out of the open window. He pressed the trigger. The motorcyclist's hands dropped. He staggered for a
moment, then fell over backwards, his sprawled body still
on the pavement.

Tweed, a Walther in his right hand, the dinner box
clutched under his left arm, ran to the body, reached it a
second before Newman. Still pointing his Walther, he bent
down, checked the neck pulse, then stood up.

'Dead as the proverbial dodo. Thank you, Bob. For
saving my life. I was careless. I did see him, had my Walther
out. Two seconds late. It's Radek.'