This United State Part 1

THIS UNITED STATE.

by COLIN FORBES.

Prologue.

Paula Grey's nightmare began at exactly 10 pm. on a cold February night in Albemarle Street, the heart of Mayfair, London.

She walked out of Brown's Hotel, left hand clutching the collar of her coat, shoulder bag slung over her right arm. A taxi pulled in to the kerb, the door was flung open, a man dived out. Cord Dillon, Deputy Director of the CIA. The last person in the world she'd expected to see. He stopped abruptly, close to her.

'Paula, get away from me. You'll get killed.'

'Cord, what the devil-'

'That white Cadillac coming up the street. Full of men trying to shoot me-'

'Come this way. My town. Don't argue!'

She grabbed the right arm of the large American, guided him swiftly up the street, away from the approaching car. The rear window on their side lowered as she hustled Dillon. She had a glimpse of a bald man holding a handgun.

A taxi cut in front of the Cadillac, delaying it. They were already beyond the facade of Brown's Hotel. She hauled Dillon into the partial shelter of a setback, in front of a large plate-gla.s.s window. Crack! She had heard no sound of a shot fired. Glancing behind them she saw the bullet hole in the window. A huge triangular section of plate gla.s.s toppled. Inwards, away from them.

'Keep moving,' she ordered. 'A truck has swerved in front of the Cadillac.'

'You'd better leave me-'

'Shut up! Keep moving,' she repeated. 'I didn't hear a shot.'

'They use silencers on their weapons.'

Arriving at a T-junction, she urged him across the road, turned right along Grafton Street. This was crazy - trying to murder someone in Mayfair. At that time of night Albemarle Street was usually a haven of peace. Just a few parked cars. No one on foot - not in this cold. All the buildings without lights - except for the hotel. Out of sight of Albemarle Street she heard a vehicle coming up behind them. A taxi with its lights on. She flagged it down.

'Victoria Station,' she told the driver.

'Hop in, then.'

They were already inside, the door closed. The taxi drove off. Paula glanced through the rear window. The Cadillac had turned the corner. The driver had seen them board the taxi. Paula extracted a ten-pound note from her wallet. Leaning forward, she pa.s.sed it through a gap in the gla.s.s part.i.tion separating them from the driver.

'This is your tip. There's a white Cadillac behind us. Please lose it well before we reach Victoria. My husband's behind the wheel.'

'Righty-ho, lady. Will do.'

The c.o.c.kney cabbie tucked the banknote inside a pocket, closed the part.i.tion, pressed his foot down. Paula lost track of the devious route the cabbie took, racing down side streets, turning at speed round corners. When she looked back there was no sign of the Cadillac. She heaved a sigh of relief.

'Why Victoria Station?' Dillon asked.

'Don't want to lead them to Park Crescent.'

'They know about Tweed's HQ...'

'Leave it to me.'

'Have you got a gun?' he whispered.

'Yes.'

Her right hand was inside the special compartment of her shoulder bag, holding the b.u.t.t of her Browning.32. She glanced at Dillon. His craggy, clean-shaven face was so familiar She noticed a touch of grey in his hair, his haggard drawn look.

'Better let me have the gun,' he suggested.

'No. Leave it to me. You're short of sleep, aren't you?'

'I came straight off a flight from Montreal at Heathrow. Didn't sleep a wink during the whole flight. Never stopped checking the other pa.s.sengers.'

'Why from Montreal?'

'I guessed they'd be watching flights from Was.h.i.+ngton to London. So I flew to Montreal first.'

'Who is after you?'

'A small army. Let's keep that for Tweed...'

Arriving at Victoria Station, she paid the driver, led Dillon inside the cavernous terminus. Very few people about. An old man in shabby clothes sat on a seat, drinking from a bottle of beer. She scanned the concourse, then led the American back the way they had come.

'What are we doing now?' he asked.

'I wanted that cab we took to go away. I saw a pa.s.senger get inside while we were walking in. There's another taxi. We'll take that to Park Crescent.'

Dillon wore a camel-hair coat, carried a large executive case. In his late forties, he had a pugnacious jaw, a strong nose and a determined mouth. In many ways he was a typical American - tall, wide-shouldered, the build of a quarterback. He lapsed into silence during the drive. Paula sensed he was near the end of his tether and kept quiet. She checked the re-a1-window several times. No Cadillac.

She was paying the driver generously as he turned into Park Crescent. They left the cab and she pushed open the heavy door with a plate alongside it on the wall. General & c.u.mbria a.s.surance. George, the guard, was standing behind his desk as they entered the hall.

'Tweed's in, I hope?' she queried.

'Yes. He has Bob Newman with him.'

'Ask Monica to tell Tweed we're on our way up. This is Cord Dillon.'

'I remember Mr Dillon.'

'And I remember you, sharpie,' the American growled.

'The strain's telling on you,' Paula rebuked him as they mounted the staircase.

When she opened the door on the first floor Tweed was seated in his swivel chair behind his desk, hands clasped behind the back of his neck. Of medium height, clean-shaven, of a certain age, he wore horn-rimmed gla.s.ses. The Deputy Director of the SIS was a man you could pa.s.s in the street without noticing, something which had proved invaluable in his work. He stood up to shake hands, his penetrating eyes studying his visitor as he ushered him to a chair facing the desk.

'You look washed out, Cord.'

'You could say that. Tell you about it when I get my heard screwed on again.'

'You've met Monica:'

Dillon twisted round to look at the small middle-aged woman who kept her grey hair tied up in a bun. Tweed's close a.s.sistant for many years, she sat behind her desk which supported several telephones, a fax, a word processor.

'Guess I should remember you, Monica, by now. Can't understand why you- go on working for this monster.'

'Coffee?' Monica suggested, standing up. 'How do you like it these days?'

'Black as sin.' Dillon grunted. 'And there's plenty of that comin' into town here from the States.'

'What kind of sin is that?' queried Bob Newman.

The world-famous foreign correspondent, in his forties, had fair hair, a wry smile on his strong face. Also clean-shaven, five feet ten tall, he was well built and women found him engaging - an advantage he exploited only spasmodically. Fully vetted, he had worked with Tweed in a number of dangerous situations.

'Hi, Bob. Been a long time.' Dillon paused. 'The sin is a wolf pack of professional thugs infiltrating this country by devious routes. Top guns.'

'Give me a devious route.'

'The one they like is fly to Paris from Was.h.i.+ngton. Then come in here by Eurostar by rail.'

'Why that route?'

'I guess they figure there's less of a check arriving by train. They dress as Brits - the contemporary businessman's uniform. A suit as black as night, a flash tie. They really worked this one out. Suits in different sizes bought here, flown to the States. They carry American diplomatic pa.s.sports.'

'Here's your coffee,' said Monica, who had returned with a tray.

'Thanks. This I really need.'

'While you're drinking it maybe I could tell Tweed and Bob how we came to meet this evening,' Paula suggested.

She did, after Dillon had nodded his agreement. Paula had a gift for describing complex events tersely. Tweed watched her as she sat behind her desk, hands clasped in her lap. She was matter-of-fact.

'It was a million-to-one chance that I came out of Brown's when I did,' she concluded. 'I'd met my informant, then waited ten minutes to give the informant time to get clear without risk of our being seen together.'

'I think, Cord, we'd better get you out of London,' suggested Tweed. 'Right away. Bob, could you drive Cord down to the Bunker in Kent? You left your luggage downstairs, I presume, Cord?'

'Left it on the carousel at Heathrow. Decided I'd better get a cab out to Brown's fast. I remembered you use the hotel a lot. I was going to phone you from there. Didn't want to risk leading the people after me here. To h.e.l.l with my case back at the airport.'

'Any personal identification on the ease - or inside it?' Tweed persisted.

'No. The label only gives the flight number and destination. Not a thing inside.'

'Then we'd better get moving down to Kent,' Newman said, standing up. 'We'll go in my Merc.'

'Not so fast. Wait.' Tweed took a pair of powerful night gla.s.ses out of a drawer, went towards the large window masked by drawn curtains. 'Monica, switch out the lights, please.'

With the room in darkness he opened a gap in the curtains, focused the gla.s.ses. His action had created an air of tension. No one moved but Paula was close enough to peer over his shoulder. The large office overlooking Regent's Park in the distance was full of an ominous silence.

'Did you get the registration number of that Cadillac?' Tweed asked.

'Of course.'

She recited it from memory. Tweed called over Newman, handed him the gla.s.ses. Then he quietly walked back and sat behind his desk before he spoke.

'The same Cadillac is parked on the main road at the right-hand entrance to Park Crescent. Four men inside. Obviously watching this building.

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

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

'Yes, it's the same one.'

She handed the gla.s.ses 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,' Newman insisted.

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

'And the rats inside will all have diplomatic pa.s.sports,' Dillon told them. 'Before I left Was.h.i.+ngton I heard the staff at the Grosvenor Square Emba.s.sy had been increased by two hundred. All with diplomatic pa.s.sports.'

'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!'