This United State (19 page)

'It's Mrs Carson down at the Bunker. She's having trouble with Cord Dillon. Want to have a word?'

'Yes... Paula here, Mrs Carson. What's the problem?' 'Dillon is getting restless, feeling cooped up. He's even talked of coming up to London.'

'Can you hold him until I get there?' She had taken a swift decision. 'And have you see the news on TV? Heard it on the radio?'

'No. Dillon doesn't like either TV or the radio. Neither do I. Why do you ask?'

'I think Cord needs someone to talk to. Tell him I'm driving down there today, should reach you mid-afternoon. And both of you watch the next TV news broadcast. It's important you do.'

'I'll arrange that. And look forward to seeing you. It's quiet on the Romney Marsh.'

'Monica,' Paula said as she grabbed her fur-lined coat, picked up her motoring gloves, 'contact Pete Nield. Tell him I'll be back in time to accompany him to Santorini's this evening.'

'That's where Newman is having dinner with Sharon Mandeville.'

'I know. I've had a good look at Denise Chatel — seen enough of her to form a certain opinion. But I've had no chance to see Sharon. I'm not going to barge in on Bob, but I can observe the glamorous Sharon from a distance. Tell Tweed I've rushed off to the Bunker to soothe Cord Dillon. See you...'

Later, as she crossed the border into Kent, Paula took another quick decision. Parham was on her way. She could drop off at Irongates — in the hope of having a chat with Sir Guy Strangeways. She'd hardly exchanged more than a few words with the property magnate when she had visited the place with Tweed.

'Do come in, my dear. I'd love to see you.'

Paula stared at the speak-phone outside Irongates.

Strangeways sounded exuberant, in contrast to the previous visit, when he had barked down the instrument. He was waiting for her when she parked below the terrace. She gave one last look back at the closing gates.

On her way down from London she had felt sure she was being followed. Try as hard as she could, she had' not been able to identify a vehicle on her tail. It could have been imagination, but she didn't think so.

'Come inside. Mrs Belloc has prepared tea. A little early, I know, so just eat what you feel like and leave the rest.'

As he escorted her across the large bleak hall, into the library where she had waited on her last visit, Paula studied her host. Outwardly affable, she detected signs of strain. His eyelids were puffy, as though from lack of sleep. The crackling military-style voice she had heard before had disappeared. Instead, he spoke softly. He wore a sports jacket with leather patches on the sleeves, a heavy pair of beige slacks, gleaming brown handmade shoes. She waited until Mrs Belloc had poured tea, stared at her, then left the room.

'What do you think of this bomb in Oxford Street?'

'Dreadful. Truly dreadful.' His voice trembled. 'As you can imagine, when I was a soldier I stood on battlefields amid carnage. It didn't affect me. Can't do the job if you permit it to get to you. But those scenes on TV.'

'Who do you think is responsible? A splinter group of the IRA?'

'There are so many...' He paused. 'So many terrorist outfits in the world today. Could be any of them.'

Paula had the impression he wasn't happy with the subject. He drank tea, helped himself to a cake. Paula ate ravenously.

'I have another problem on my mind,' he began. 'Rupert. He's a terrible disappointment. I know he runs after every pretty woman in sight. Don't mind that. He grew up late. It's his gambling.'

'With some people it's an addiction.'

'I'm not going to pay for his bloody addiction!' he stormed. 'Sorry. I raised my voice. Bad language. Not in the presence of ladies. I'm old-fashioned that way.'

'I appreciate that.'

'I've had a phone call from a casino in Campione. That's an enclave of Italy inside Switzerland.'

'I know. You get there by taking a steamer from Lugano.'

'Well, this blighter in Campione phoned me, demanding that I pay Rupert's debt. A hundred thousand pounds! I told him to go and jump in the lake. He said Rupert had referred him to me. I'm not paying a penny. I could afford it but Rupert can get out of his own messes. I told Rupert before he left the house. Called me a miser. I rang him at his London flat later to give him hell. The phone wasn't answered.'

'It must be very upsetting.'

'Sorry, I didn't ask you in to grouch about my small problems. Eat up!'

'You've got big property interests in the States. Will you be going back there?'

'I'm selling the lot, getting clear out of America.'

'You're a busy man. I think I should go now. Actually I did call in on my way elsewhere. Thank you for the tea — and your company, which I have enjoyed.'

'What a charming thing to say. I'll accompany you to your car.'

Paula reached down to adjust her right shoe. Something about it wasn't comfortable, and she used that foot for accelerator and foot brake. Strangeways helped her on with her coat and they crossed the hall. He opened the heavy front door and they stood framed in the doorway. Again Paula bent down to adjust her shoe. As she did so there was a crack!.

The bullet hit the side of the doorway where she had been standing. It ricocheted across the drive into the distance. Paula felt herself grabbed by Strangeways, pulled back inside as he used a foot to slam the door shut.

'Wait here,' he barked. He was taking keys from his pocket. 'I'm going to the gun room. I saw the muzzle- flash. Came from the rooftop of the house opposite.

Paula took several deep breaths. In no time Strangeways was back, holding a rifle. His eyes were blazing but his manner was controlled and calm. He was about to open the door again when Paula spoke.

'If you don't mind, I'd like to make a brief phone call.'

'Of course you can. The library. I'll wait here.'

Inside the room she took out a small notebook. She had written down certain phone numbers she had obtained from Monica. One of them was Basil Windermere's flat in London. She pressed numbers, listened. His cultured tones came clearly down the line on an answer-phone.

'Dear caller, you have reached Basil. Ectually, I happen to be rather tied up at the moment. Sorry and all that. Do please leave your name and number. Then it will be my pleasure to return your call earliest possible. Cheerio.'

So Windermere was not at home. Paula put down the phone and went back into the hall. Strangeways gave her explicit orders in a commanding voice.

'Stay well back in the hall. I'm going out to investigate.'

Opening the door, he strode out. Reaching the drive he marched down it as though leading a division into battle. His rifle was elevated, aimed at the flat top of the mansion opposite beyond the rim of his wall. He stopped a few yards down the drive, called to her over his shoulder.

'Make a dive for your car. But first press the red button on the left-hand side of the door. Drive out fast. There's never any traffic in the square. Sorry about this. Keep moving...'

She obeyed him, pressing the button on the automatic security device. Throwing open the car door, she jumped inside, slammed the door shut. The gates were opening after she had pressed the red button. Strangeways moved on to the verge, his rifle still elevated as he continued to scan the rooftops. Gravel spurted up as she pressed her foot down. Then she was in the first deserted square, driving on into the second empty, larger square.

She slowed a lot to navigate her way through the village. As soon as she left it behind she rammed her foot down again. She was miles away when she reduced speed, continuing to check her rear-view mirror. No sign of any other vehicle. But she had been followed from London.

The heavy overcast dropped lower as she drove beyond Ashford and along a wide A-road. The massed black clouds made it almost as dark as night and she had her lights on. She was still on the almost deserted road when she first heard the distant sound of a helicopter approaching.

It was half a mile away when she glanced to the west and frowned. A Sikorsky. She couldn't see any identification signs on its fuselage. It was heading straight for her. She began to worry. If she continued straight ahead she would soon lead the machine to the secret Bunker.

To her left, a long way off across a vast field, she saw a tractor dragging a harrow. A moment later, by the roadside, she saw an old barn, its doors yawning open; the home of the tractor, she imagined. She looked again at the helicopter. It had just disappeared inside a low cloud. She reacted quickly.

Slowing down, she swung the wheel, drove inside the large barn. An aroma of straw on the floor filled her nostrils. Switching off the engine, she looked back at the entrance. She was deep enough inside the barn to be totally concealed from the air. Then she heard the loud beat-beat of the chopper, flying much lower.

She lit one of her rare cigarettes. No chance of the smoke drifting outside the barn. She sat quite still, tense. The helicopter was now circling. At one moment it sounded to be just above the barn. Now she had no doubt that the crew on board were looking for her.

'I'm having a nice couple of days,' she said to herself. 'I had the fight at Eagle Street. Today someone tried to kill me at Irongates. There's no doubt the marksman was the Phantom — for no good reason, you idiot. Now you can just sit it out here.'

Sooner than she had expected the machine flew away, the sound of its engine fading. She still stayed where she was. Could be a trick — it might suddenly dart back. After ten minutes she decided it had gone and resumed her journey.

Turning off the road where a lane to the left was signposted Ivychurch, she followed the complex route down winding country lanes. She knew the way because Tweed had driven her to the Bunker when it was in the process of being constructed. Just before she reached the automatic gate which she knew Mrs Carson would open she stopped the car, turned off the engine.

She was listening for the helicopter. Instead, an oppressive silence she could almost hear descended on her. On all sides a flat plain of fields stretched away endlessly. Not a hill, not a tree in sight. Nor was there any sign of human habitation. The leafless hedges lining the lane on either side were grim networks of stark twigs and thorns, reminding her of barbed wire. No birdsong. She shivered. I might be in the middle of the Mongolian desert, she thought. This must be among the most desolate parts of England. Romney Marsh? You can keep it.

She turned on the engine, drove on. As she approached the automatic gate, she saw it opening. Mrs Carson must have used her binoculars, seen her coming.

'Welcome to Paradise,' Mrs Carson greeted her as she parked inside the courtyard and stepped out.

'I could think of another name for it. Don't know how you stand it down here.'

'I read a lot, dear. Come on in. Cord is a changed man...'

'Hi, Paula. Good to see you.'

Dillon stood up from where he had been sitting by a roaring log fire, rubbing his hands. The air outside was ice-cold, but the living room was so warm Paula slipped off her coat and gloves. Dillon looked anything but restless and his expression was grim. He wore an old polo-necked jersey and shabby corduroy trousers, obviously provided by Mrs Carson, and could have passed for a farm worker.

'How are you?' she asked as he took her right hand in both of his.

'Feeling pretty bloody-minded. Mrs Carson and I watched the TV programme. A Bomb Squad chief said the massacre had definitely nothing to do with the IRA. He mentioned a very sophisticated electronically operated timer he'd never seen before. Electronics. Silicon Valley.'

'What do you mean?' Paula asked.

'Shortly before I had to run for it I overheard a conversation between two scientists from Silicon Valley and a new man, a Jake Ronstadt. They were talking about a new device which had been perfected - an electronically operated timer for delayed-action bombs,'

'You think that links up with what you heard on TV?'

'Damned sure it does. It makes me sick to think my people could be responsible for the Oxford Street massacre. If I got hold of them I'd line them up against a wall and personally shoot them, one by one.'

'Who is this Jake Ronstadt you mentioned?' she asked cautiously.

'One of the new men brought in to the CIA. He passed all the tough training tests. Except one. I got hold of the report on him. The psychiatrist who checked him out wrote "psychologically flawed". That should have kept him out. It didn't.'