This United State (8 page)

'I'll stay here. I have an appointment now.'

The receptionist made a moue of displeasure. She expected people to do what she said. After speaking on the phone she gestured towards the lift. No attempt to escort him.

'Take the elevator. Floor One. Room Twenty-one. To your left as you get out.'

'Thank you.'

He glanced at an obvious guard in plain clothes. A weapon bulged under his left armpit. Eyes like stones stared at Tweed, who gave him a little wave on his way to the lift. Cosy atmosphere these days at the American Embassy — almost as though they were expecting an attack.

Tweed strolled over to the lift, pressed the button for Floor One. The door opened silently. He stepped inside. The door closed silently, the lift began to ascend. He was struck by the silence of the building. Like a stage setting prepared for his arrival.

The door slid open, again making no sound. He stepped out into a wide corridor, his rubber-soled shoes as soundless as the lift door, then stopped. To his left, further along the corridor, he saw the back of Jefferson Morgenstern, Secretary of State, America's Foreign. Minister. Tweed recognized the small man because he had met him at a party in Washington. Morgenstern was carrying a thick black file.

He was accompanied by two tall men, one on either side of the most powerful man in the American administration. Expecting that at any moment one of the three men would see him, Tweed remained perfectly still. They didn't see him. They appeared too intent on where they were going.

Pausing before a closed door on the right, one of the aides took out a key, unlocked the door and Morgenstern hurried inside. Since they hadn't closed the door Tweed guessed they would be coming out again when they had finished whatever task they were engaged on. He began to walk along the corridor.

Slowing down as he reached the open door, Tweed glanced into the room. A safe like a bank vault set into one wall was open. Morgenstern bent down, slipped the file inside. Tweed walked on. He had already observed the odd numbers were on his left side. He had also noticed the number of the room Morgenstern had entered. Number 16. In addition he had seen the metal plate on the half-open door engraved with one word:

SECURITY.

He quickened his pace. Arriving at Room 21 he raised his hand to knock. Before his knuckles could reach the surface the door opened in his face. The woman he had come to see ushered him inside, closed her door. Tweed was under cover before anyone emerged from Security.

It was as though he had met Sharon Mandeville the day before. Her manner was restrained but easy. Tweed reflected that she looked more like a mature thirty-five than her real age, forty-two. She escorted him to two leather-covered swivel chairs by the side of her massive desk. Behind the desk was another chair but as soon as he was seated she occupied the chair next to him.

'Thank you for coming to see me so quickly,' she said in her soft voice. No trace of an American accent. 'I'm sure you would like some coffee. It's a bitter day.'

'That would be very acceptable.'

'Black, if I remember rightly. No sugar. No milk.' 'You have a remarkable memory.'

'And you're wearing the same suit you wore in Washington. I like a man to look smart.'

'Again, your memory.'

'A woman notices small things...'

As she conversed she was pouring two cups of coffee from a silver pot perched on a silver tray on a side table. Tweed studied her. She had beautiful blonde hair, very thick, arranged in waves and falling so it just touched her shoulders. As in Washington, it was her large greenish eyes which held him. She had a strong chin without spoiling the striking appearance of her pale face. Her forehead was high. Her mouth was wide but the lips were not full.

Five foot six tall, she was slim and was wearing a pale green dress which went well with her intense eyes. It was high at the neck. She crossed her elegant legs, sipped at her coffee, put the cup down and turned to face her visitor.

'What are you doing over here, if I may ask?' said Tweed.

'It's rather confidential. No, don't worry. I will tell you. The first time we met I decided you could be trusted.'

She paused. Her hypnotic eyes held his. She was a very unusual woman, Tweed was thinking. It was not just a matter of beauty, her graceful movements. Any time she walked into a room full of people all the men would stop talking while they gazed at her. She had impact.

'I'm not even sure what my job here is,' she went on. 'I don't know why, but I get on well with the President's wife. She's given me various assignments in the past. I do know that over here I'm supposed to keep an eye on a man called Ed Osborne, the new Deputy Director of the CIA. He's a rough diamond and my main task is to smooth the path for him. Don't let him upset the Brits, is what I was told by the President's wife. I hate that word Brit. Typically American. Osborne will probably try to get in touch with you,' she warned.

'Why would he do that?' Tweed asked innocently. 'He told me you were a friend of his predecessor, Cord Dillon.'

'That's true. What has happened to Dillon?'

'I suppose he's retired. I asked Ed that question myself and all he said was, "He's gone fishin' " - which told me a lot.' She paused, took a cigarette from a silver box. Tweed produced a lighter, lit her cigarette.

'Thank you,' she said.

The typical American woman would have said, 'I can do that for myself,' Tweed thought.

'I'm not offering you one because you don't smoke,' she went on.

'You could produce a file on me,' Tweed joked.

She frowned, then half-smiled. 'I told you I remember trivial things.' She used her other hand to push back a wave of hair.

Tweed knew she was a natural blonde. In Washington she had produced two colour photos of herself from her evening bag. One of herself at twelve and the other when she was eighteen. In both photos her thick blonde hair had jumped out at him. She had apologized for showing them to him.

'I don't carry these about with me,' she had explained. 'I want to give them to a man here who is good at framing photos. To remind me I'm getting old.'

'Hardly.'

'Thank you.'

'Why did you ask me over here?' Tweed now asked. 'Is there something I can help you with?'

'Yes, there might be.' Her eyes still gazed at him.

'Dillon apparently told the President's wife you were a key figure over here, that you know a lot of people. Washington is trying to strengthen the bonds between the two countries. I was hoping you'd introduce me to people who matter from time to time.'

Tweed's expression was neutral. He took his time finishing off his coffee, then refused more. He stared round the room. On a side desk was a pile of folders, some with a red tab attached. The furniture was expensive. The windows looked out on to a side street.

'They should give you an office overlooking the square,' he suggested.

'I prefer it back here — on my own. Osborne has an office the size of a tennis court looking out on the square. How is the insurance business? I suppose you are rich?'

'Not really. I certainly couldn't compete with you. Four husbands must have been a roller-coaster ride.'

'Something like that,' she said after a long pause.

'When I first went — was taken — to the States, I realized my English accent was a passport to successful men. When you're young you're easily flattered. I suppose I did exploit my accent. Does that sound awful?'

'No.'

'Money isn't everything.'

'How is it you still speak perfect English, after all that time spent over there?'

'I came back over here frequently. I have a small mansion in Dorset. Sometimes I think I'd like to live here for good. I find America raw. You glanced at your watch.'

'I've enjoyed our conversation. I hope you'll excuse me — I have an important appointment this afternoon.' 'Of course.'

A light had been flashing on her phone for several minutes. It had been reflected in a mirror close to the door. Tweed collected his coat from the hanger she had put it on while Sharon sat behind her desk. Picking up her phone she listened, then answered.

'Yes. Yes. Yes. Now don't bother me again.'

She got up and walked slowly towards him. Again it occurred to Tweed that she was an incredibly elegant woman. She shook hands with him.

'When you have the time perhaps we could meet again for lunch or dinner to chat some more.'

'It will be my pleasure.

He walked into the corridor, she closed the door and he felt very alone.

There was something about the atmosphere of the building which Tweed found disturbing. No sign of anyone. No sound. He'd have expected the Embassy to be a hive of activity. He had paused, was about to turn to his right when the door across the corridor opened.

A tall American with a smooth face and a blank expression stood facing him. Tweed had the impression of a man conscious of his position in the pecking order. When the American spoke he wondered how he had known Tweed would be in the corridor. Sharon Mandeville had finished speaking before she opened the door, which had not made a hint of noise.

'Tweed?' the American enquired.

'Yes. Who are you?'

'Chuck Venacki.'

The penny dropped. Tweed recalled Chief Inspector Buchanan's story of the encounter when Newman had rammed the Lincoln Continental on the edge of Park Crescent. This physically impressive man had said he was an attaché at the Embassy.

'Main elevator you came up in is out of order,' Venacki said tersely. 'Turn left, end of corridor turn left again. Take the elevator there. There's a door to the side street.'

'Thank you.'

Veriacki didn't hear his reaction. He had closed the door in Tweed's face. A certain lack of warmth, Tweed said to himself. As though Venacki resented his presence. And there had been an air of hostility. Tweed turned right, heading for the elevator which had brought him up.

There was a notice hanging from the elevator's closed door.
Out of order
. He pressed a button. Nothing happened. Next to the elevator was a wide staircase which, presumably, led to the exit floor below. He was just descending the first step when he looked back along the corridor. Chuck Venacki was outside his office, watching him. He disappeared instantly, as though he had dashed back into his quarters. Tweed frowned.

He descended the several short flights of stairs slowly, listening. Still not a sound. Peculiar. The atmosphere now seemed menacing. He reached the bottom and the spacious hall was empty - except for the receptionist behind her desk. Her phone rang. She answered it, slammed down the receiver, got up, vanished through a door behind her. Tweed walked quickly to the door. When he tried to open it the door wouldn't move.

He turned round, headed for the revolving door leading out to the square. Close to it was a small desk with a phone. He was about to pass the desk when the phone buzzed faintly. Carefully, Tweed lifted the receiver. A man's voice he didn't recognize was speaking.

'The operation's under way. Double-check with Charlie.

What operation? And who the heck was Charlie? Tweed moved swiftly, pressed a hand on the revolving door. It remained stationary. He couldn't get out the way he had come in. He was trapped. Calmly he surveyed the reception hall. There was no one he could contact. No doubt about it - he was imprisoned inside the building.

He peered out beyond the immobile revolving door. A stretch limo had pulled in behind a blue Chrysler parked, at the kerb. Without waiting for his uniformed chauffeur to alight, a passenger jumped out of the rear seat, slammed the door shut, ran up the steps. On his arrival Tweed had noticed two video cameras aimed down the flight of steps. He recognized - from pictures in the papers - the lean energetic man running up the steps. The recently appointed American Ambassador.

Taking no notice of the man inside, the Ambassador pushed at the doors and they began revolving. Tweed walked out as the Ambassador walked in. The keen cold air hit him after the warmth of the air-conditioned building. Tweed paused at the top of the steps, scanning the street. Then he ran one hand over the top of his head, smoothing down his hair.

He had almost reached the bottom step when three tough-looking men emerged from the Chrysler. One opened the rear door. Another addressed him in a harsh American accent.