After telling everyone to stay in their seats, Philip pressed a button. The door opened and a small fat man with an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder appeared. Philip called down in French, which Paula caught the gist of.
'Pierre, everything clear? Nothing suspicious.'
'You see no bodies. I haven't shot anyone yet tonight.'
'Everyone out,' Philip ordered in English.
He was delving into a large bag when they surrounded him. He carefully brought out what to Paula looked like the first of several metal pancakes.
'Limpet mines, special type,' Philip explained. 'We'll need them later in Paris.'
Paris? Paula thought.
'They are switched off?' Harry asked as he took the first mine.
'Of course,' snapped Philip. 'Turn that lever to the right and they're active.' He showed Harry three more mines, put them back in the leather bag with thick cloth between each one. From the next container he brought out a Browning, shoulder holster, a Beretta, a leg holster, spare mags. Handed them to Paula, grinned.
'Feel dressed now?'
'I do. What about registration?'
'Don't worry. Dollars satisfy many officials. As they did Armand at the airport. Now, Tweed…'
When he had finished distributing the 'cutlery', Harry also had a large automatic weapon and spare mags, concealed inside a golf bag; Newman had his beloved Smith amp; Wesson with holster and ammo. Philip handed Pierre two fat envelopes which Paula guessed were stuffed with banknotes, then clapped his hands.
'All aboard. Must keep moving.'
They had just settled in their seats when Philip was driving them down the side road back on to the main route. Paula was savouring the perfume from some plant on the side road. It had seeped into her clothes. She took deep breaths.
'Be in Aix soon,' Philip called out. 'Tweed, you won't be staying at the Violette, which I know you favour. It's too obvious a place where Noel's friends might check to find you. Instead you're at the swish Negre-Coste on the famous Cours Mirabeau. They won't expect you to choose that. Both you and Paula have rooms overlooking the cours. A treat. Food's wonderful.'
'So Noel has arrived?' asked Tweed.
'Came in a few hours ago. Staying at a pokey little joint in the old town. Thinks it makes him inconspicuous. But it doesn't.'
'And who are Noel's friends?' Paula wondered.
'Not to be recommended as dining companions. Bit of a mix,' he went on casually. 'Arabs and Slovaks. Need watching. Cut your throat for sixpence – or the equivalent in dollars.'
'Can't wait to meet them,' said Paula.
'Just pray you don't. We are now entering the ancient city of Aix, first built by the Romans. Getting back to Slovaks, Noel's lot come from the High Tatra mountains in Slovakia. I have been up there in the snow. Tweed, they have a training ground for those selected for the corps d'elite of State Security planned by Noel.'
'What sort of training ground? I don't like the sound of this,' Tweed commented.
'You shouldn't. It's well organized, has been created months ago. They are taught how to kill silently. Also they're taught English. Noel has fifty of them infiltrated inside Aix. I've heard he hopes to transport them to Britain tomorrow. I know the route. Here we are. The Cours Mirabeau.'
Paula peered out of her window, alternating that with staring through the windscreen. She was impressed. The cours was a long wide straight street with plane trees along the pavements on both sides. The warmth was bringing out their leaves. It was a beautiful boulevard with huge old mansions to her right. Philip saw her looking at them.
'Once they housed wealthy families. These days most are converted into company offices. This is the gem of Aix.'
Gem was the right word, she thought. There was not much traffic at this hour, and locals were strolling, gazing at the mansions, the older ones remembering the grander days, she thought. Philip parked by the kerb outside a large imposing building.
'Journey's end,' Philip announced. 'The Negre-Coste. I've booked front rooms overlooking the cours for Tweed and Paula. Very expensive. Let's explore.'
The rooms were huge. Refurbished, as Philip explained, it still retained some of the character of the original mansion. Inside her first-floor room Paula revelled in the luxury as she swiftly unpacked her few things, including one evening dress protected with tissue.
She walked to the windows, opened them, gazed down at the cours. They were double-glazed, probably to muffle the sound of daytime traffic. After showering, she dressed quickly, sat in front of an elegant mirror and applied the minimum of makeup. A tap on the door sent her to unlock it and Tweed, in a smart suit, walked in.
'You look terrific,' he said and kissed her on both cheeks. 'It's lucky we all keep small cases packed at Park Crescent ready for instant departure. You have money?'
'A stack of dollars. I tipped the chap who brought up my bag with a twenty-dollar bill and he was pleased. He doesn't like euros, said they were only good for lighting fires!'
'Philip gave me this for you,' he said, producing an envelope from his pocket. 'Take a quick look.'
She extracted a photo and pulled a face of distaste. 'Don't like the look of him. Who is he?'
'Radek, boss of the fifty Slovaks Noel hopes to smuggle into Britain. Favours a knife for killing.'
She studied the photo again. A small but well-built man, Slavic features, prominent cheekbones, dead-looking eyes, sharp nose, a pointed jaw. He had thick black hair, a curving moustache, a sneering expression.
'Keep it in case you ever spot him. I've got a copy, so have Newman and Harry. Philip thinks of everything. Now we'd better get down to dinner…'
The dining room was spacious and only a few of the large tables were occupied. Out of season. Philip complimented her on her dress and beauty, kissing her hand. It was something she normally disliked but with Philip she liked it. They drank aperitifs while studying the enormous menu.
They had a table in the corner, so when they were eating and the waiters were distant, they could talk frankly. It was Tweed who got down to business.
'Philip, how were you able to obtain this valuable information about the Tatra training camp?'
'Oh, simple. I have a trustworthy contact who knows the Tatra well. We've skied quite a lot up there. My contact had a Slovak mother and a French father. The info cost me two thousand dollars – part of the funds you sent me months ago. Incidentally, their villainous chiefs name isn't really Radek. No idea of what his real name is. Doesn't matter.'
After the meal, Philip, seated next to Paula, suggested she might like a short walk since it would still be warm outside. 'Freak weather,' he remarked.
'We'll go north just a bit,' he said as they strolled in the cours. 'That's where the original houses are still standing. Just a bit, not far.'
'I love the big fountains,' Paula said glancing down the cours.
'They have them where we're going. Smaller efforts but I find the sound of running water soothing.'
Down a side street they plunged into a different world. Narrow streets twisting and turning. Some illumination from ancient lamps but long dark areas of shadow between them. Paula was beginning to wonder whether this was a good idea. The occasional Arab in a long white gown drifted past them.
They reached a deserted square and again there was the sound of running water. Paula darted away from Philip to see a small fountain spraying in from a stone well in the corner of the square.
She never heard him coming or where he had been hiding. One arm wrapped round her breast from behind and a large knife just touched her throat. She glanced up, saw an Arab with only one eye grinning horribly at her. She was terrified. She had no chance of reaching for the Browning under her armpit, even less chance of hauling the Beretta from the holster strapped to her right leg. Any movement and this beast would slash her throat open. Where the hell was Philip?