This United State (2 page)

'I'll go out and move them. They're illegally parked,' Newman announced after checking through the glasses.

'You can't,' Tweed informed him. 'Paula, have you checked the car too?'

'Yes, it's the same one.'

She handed the glasses back to Tweed, having first carefully closed the curtains. Monica put on the lights again. Everyone stared at each other and Dillon then spoke.

'We're trapped.'

'I'm going out to move the bastards,' Newman insisted.

'You can't,' Tweed repeated. 'That Cadillac has diplomatic plates.'

'And the rats inside will all have diplomatic passports,' Dillon told them. 'Before I left Washington I heard the staff at the Grosvenor Square Embassy had been increased by two hundred. All with diplomatic passports.'

'You still want Cord taken to the Bunker?' Newman demanded.

'Yes. As soon as possible.'

'Then we'll leave now. We'll alter your appearance.' Standing up, Newman studied the American. 'We're about the same build - you can wear my trench coat. That camel-hair is a giveaway.'

'And Marler's beret is in the cupboard,' chimed in Paula as she fetched it. 'The fit may be a bit tight but it will do the trick.'

'And,' Tweed suggested, 'walk more slowly, Cord. Not your usual stride. Take shorter steps. Body language identifies anyone.

'I'll put your executive case inside a canvas holder,' Monica decided.'And I'll carry it,' said Newman.

'Harry,' instructed Tweed over his phone. 'A small immediate problem. We're smuggling someone out of the building into Newman's car. A white Cadillac with gunmen is parked on the main road. I don't think they'll risk opening fire on our visitor - although they did just that in Albemarle Street.'

'I'll wait outside with a smoke bomb.'

'Only use it if you have to. They're on their way down.'

'They'll shoot me if they can,' Dillon said over his shoulder at the doorway. 'And I have things to tell you...'

'Tell Bob on your way to the Bunker. He'll relay what you say to me. If necessary, I can call you down there on a safe phone. Go!'

The beret was a tight fit but it concealed the American's hair. The trench coat Newman had given him fitted better. The camel-hair coat was left on a chair. The horn-rimmed glasses, provided by Paula, perched comfortably on his broken nose. George, the guard, waited by the door after taking a brief call from Tweed.

'Where's Harry Butler?' Newman asked, the executive case tucked under his arm inside its canvas covering.

'Went outside,' George reported. 'Said he was going for a quick stroll..

Butler, a burly man, armed with a Walther 9mm automatic pistol inside his hip holster, had his right hand holding the smoke bomb concealed under his windcheater. He was halfway to where the Cadillac was parked when Newman emerged, unlocked his Merc, ushered Dillon into the front passenger seat. Unfortunately, the exhausted American forgot to disguise his normal way of walking.

As Newman started the engine Butler was in two minds about hurling the smoke bomb at the Cadillac.

Remembering Tweed's explicit order he resisted the temptation until trouble started. Newman drove at speed out of the Crescent, turned along the main road in the opposite direction to where the enemy was parked. As he did so the driver of the Cadillac, who had kept the engine running, purred after him.

'They're coming,' said Dillon, twisted round in his seat.

'Let them,' Newman replied. 'Plenty of time to lose them on the way south …'

'This sounds to be getting more dangerous,' Paula said to Tweed when the two men had left.

'It's certainly getting interesting,' Tweed responded, seated casually in his chair, hands again clasped behind his head.

'Interesting? Two hundred men sent to the American Embassy. A brazen attempt to murder the Deputy Director of the CIA in the middle of London in an American car carrying diplomatic plates. Another horde of thugs flying to Paris, then coming in here via Eurostar. And you call it interesting?'

'I need more data to work out what is happening. Cord Dillon may provide that when he talks to Newman.'

'Why did you take all that trouble creating the Bunker down in Kent? It's almost like a stand-by headquarters.'

'That's exactly what it is. In case we have to move out of here quickly.'

'This is getting scary. You only got back from Washington three days ago. But you didn't seem surprised when Dillon turned up.'

'I heard a rumour from a source that Cord was on his way out — that he was being replaced by a man called Ed Osborne. A very tough ruthless gentleman.'

'I meant to ask you,' Paula went on, 'where is Marler?'

'He's in Paris, meeting some of his informants. He'll be back any day now.'

'And you'll go all cryptic on me if I ask you what Marler is trying to find out.'

'Incidentally,' Tweed mused, 'I found Washington in a state of feverish activity. No one knew why - or they wouldn't tell me. Like a volcano about to explode.'

'You didn't answer my question about Marler.'

'Marler?' Tweed suppressed a yawn. 'He's attempting to discover who assassinated our Prime Minister in Manchester last week.'

1

'This traffic is as bad as I've seen in LA,' Dillon commented. 'And the Cadillac has picked us up again — it's three cars behind us.'

Newman was driving his Merc among an armada of speeding cars in the dark moonless night. He chose his moment carefully for the manoeuvre when a huge truck masked the Cadillac, then turned in to the left-hand lane. They climbed a hill via a slip road and the traffic had disappeared.

'We were on the M20 motorway driving south,' Newman explained. 'So much traffic at this late hour was due to the accident which held us up further back. Now the poor devils back on the motorway are ramming their feet down to get home hours late.' He checked his rear-view mirror again. 'We've lost the Cadillac '

'So where are we headed for?'

'Canterbury, eventually. Which is where we don't want to go. So at the next roundabout we'll turn back and rejoin the M20. I want to turn off it at Junction Eight. Are you too tired to talk?'

'Guess not. Strange things are happening in Washington. A heavy delegation is heading for Britain — some have arrived.'

'Give me some names.'

'Sharon Mandeville, for one. Taking up some position at the Grosvenor Square Embassy.'

'She's made the papers a lot. A girl friend of the President?'

'Never. She's too smart to risk upsetting the President's wife. She carries a lot of clout. Then Jefferson Morgenstern himself is coming over,' Dillon said.

'The Secretary of State. Very big gun. Went to the States from Europe as a young man. They say he would have been the President one day if he'd been born an American. Clever as Kissinger and similar background. Here's the roundabout — we can turn back, rejoin the motorway...'

Scores of headlights glared like marauding tigers. Side by side, almost touching, a torrent of cars roared south at dangerous speeds. Risks were taken. Everyone seemed to sacrifice safety in their urge to get home, knowing they were very late.

'Never seen anything like this,' Dillon commented, glancing back. 'Like an enemy attack.'

'Were you looking for the enemy?'

'No. I guess you lost him for good.'

'Don't be too sure ….'

They reached Junction Eight, left the motorway for a country lane. The sudden quiet and solitude in the night was startling. Dillon sagged with relief. Newman turned off the lane down another empty hedge-lined country road, switched his beams full on as they approached a series of bends.

'Anyone else important coming in from Washington?' Newman asked.

'Yes. Ed Osborne, the roughneck who has got my job. A tough guy. Dangerous. You never know what he's thinking.'

'Any ideas why they tried to gun you down in Albermarle Street?'

'I knew too much. I'd ferreted around checking on people. A huge operation is planned but I couldn't get the hang of it.'

Newman sensed that his companion was making an effort to think. The American was close to a state of total exhaustion. They had driven some distance along the lonely country lane without meeting another car when the headlights illuminated a road sign. PARHAM.

'This is an old village,' Newman commented. 'There's another one of the same name in Suffolk, I think. And a good three miles north of us is a very good hotel, Chilston Park. Tweed has stayed there—' He broke off

as they swung round a bend, dipped, his headlights, slowed down. 'Well, well — look what's ahead of us. The white Cadillac.'

'Have you got a gun I could have?' Dillon growled, jerking himself into his normal alertness.

'I'm carrying my usual Smith & Wesson.38 — and you can't have it. We don't want to start a shooting war out here.'

'Those guys in the Cadillac will see us.'

'I don't think so. I've experienced this before. One car tails another, loses it. From then on the occupants are looking in front of them. They rarely look back. Might be interesting to see where they're headed for.'

Parham was a working village. Even at this late hour lights were on in pubs and restaurants. The Cadillac drove slowly along a narrow street lined on both sides with white clap-board houses. Newman was familiar with the place laid out in a series of chessboard-like squares, one leading into another, an old village typical of the area. A cutting icy wind had been blowing in the countryside but the village was sheltered by the layout of its buildings.

'Looks like they've arrived somewhere,' Dillon commented.

'Let's find out where...'

Everyone was indoors. There was not a soul on the deserted narrow streets, lit at intervals by ancient lanterns. They followed the Cadillac into one small square and then it turned into another even smaller square. Newman parked his Merc by the kerb.

That's a dead end. Let's follow on foot.'

'Bloody cold night,' Dillon observed, standing on the cobbled pavement.

'You'll feel it - you're very tired. Now where have they gone?'

Leading the way, he peered round a corner into the smaller square. The Cadillac had stopped at one side in front of tall gates which gave no view of what lay beyond them. On either side the property was further concealed by old twelve-foot-high brick walls. A hand protruded from the driver's window. Both huge gates slowly moved inwards automatically.

'That's weird,' Newman whispered as Dillon stared over his left shoulder. 'They're electronically controlled and the driver has the gadget which opens them.'

They watched as the Cadillac drove slowly forward up a curving drive. At the end they had a glimpse of a large grim-looking mansion built of stone with turrets at the corners. All the windows were masked by closed shutters and there was no sign that the place was inhabited - until the front door opened and light streamed on to the drive. Then the gates closed and the mansion was gone.

'Let's take a closer look,' Newman suggested.

They crept into the square and on the three other sides were more high brick walls almost hiding the large houses behind them. Newman handed Dillon a pair of gloves, told him to put them on. The American was shivering with cold and fatigue. Newman had a torch in his left hand as they reached the outside of the mansion where the Cadillac had disappeared. The gates were constructed of tall iron rails and attached to them on the inside were sheets of metal, obstructing any view. On the right- hand brick pillar was a metal plate which gave the name when Newman switched on his torch. Irongates.

'Let's get back to the car,' Newman whispered.

Once inside the Merc they savoured the warmth of the heaters. Newman had left the engine running in case they had to make a quick getaway. He drove back into the large square, took another exit and suddenly Parham vanished and they were out in lonely countryside, moving along another deserted country lane.

'
Irongates
,' Newman said half to himself. 'I know who lives there. Sir Guy Strangeways. Spent over twenty years in the States building up a property empire. Never met him.'