At far too great a speed the Audi was racing with a wheel grinding over the cobbles on its metal rim. For a second the vehicle rocked madly, then Fatman lost all control. The Audi skidded, swerved into the back of a stationary garbage-collection truck, ramming into it like a sledgehammer. The front telescoped. An avalanche of garbage flooded down over the bonnet, piled up over the windscreen. Fatman had not taken the precaution of fastening his seat belt. He was hurled forward, his head shooting through the glass like a shell from a gun.
Marler turned a corner and the grisly sight vanished from view. Paula let out her breath, thought of something inconsequential to say.
`You mentioned Waterloo. I've never been there. Maybe I can see it sometime.'
`Don't bother,' Marler replied. 'Nothing to see. And nothing ever happens at Waterloo these days.'
25
`He referred to "my modest villa" – it's a palace,' Tweed commented.
Newman had driven Tweed in the Mercedes and they had arrived at Waterloo. He had been driving slowly and now he stopped close to a pair of tall ornamental gates between two large stone pillars. Beyond the pillars stretched an endless ten-foot-high wall. On top of the wall extended a wire which, Tweed felt sure, was electrified. And the gates were closed. On one pillar a large metal plate carried the legend, in English: MOONGLOW REFUGEE AID TRUST INTERNATIONAL.
`He seems to feel himself in need of a lot of security,' Tweed observed.
Newman got out of the car, went to the speak-phone below the name-plate, pressed the bell, spoke into the grille when a voice asked in French who was calling.
`Mr Tweed. By appointment. To see Dr Wand…'
He didn't wait for a reply. As he sat behind the wheel and closed his door the electronically controlled gates began to move slowly inward. Fifty yards or so beyond the gates, perched on top of a terrace, was a wide three- storey mansion with a mansard roof and the walls painted dove grey. On either side of the straight drive the gardens were laid out with a series of sunken paved areas surrounding a fountain. On a larger scale, it reminded Tweed of Delvaux's estate, but without the taste.
Newman drove inside, stopped just beyond the gates and jumped out. Grabbing one of the white-painted stones lining the drive, he carried it behind the car and laid it against one of the open gates, returned to the car. `What are you up to?' Tweed enquired.
`When the gates close automatically – which they are beginning to do now – the right-hand gate will be stopped by that small boulder and won't close. Just in case we find we have to make rather a swift departure…'
Arriving at the foot of the terrace, Newman turned his car so it pointed back down the straight drive. Side by side they mounted ten steps to the terrace, walked up to two large wooden double doors. Before Tweed could press the bell the door opened. A heavily built man with dark hair slicked back and dressed like a butler stood to one side.
`Dr Wand is waiting to see you now, gentlemen.'
Tweed walked in first, followed by Newman. There was a loud pinging noise. Which was when Newman realized the door was framed with a metal detector. The butler closed the door. He addressed Newman.
`One moment, sir. Are you carrying any weapons?' `Yes,' Newman said promptly. 'A Smith amp; Wesson.' `If you don't mind,' the butler went on in French, 'I'll take care of that while you see Dr Wand.'
`No you won't.'
`It is the custom of the villa. No one carrying a gun is permitted into Dr Wand's presence.'
`Then open the bloody door again, flunkey, and we'll go back to Brussels.'
Newman saw his right hand twitch in an upward movement, then relax. During this verbal duel Tweed had remained silent. This could be a dangerous outing and he felt quite prepared to let Newman handle it in his own way. The butler gave Tweed a little bow.
`If you don't mind waiting a few moments, I have to consult my employer.'
`Go ahead,' Tweed urged him.
While waiting in the enormous entrance hall with a polished wood-block floor decorated with Persian rugs casually laid here and there, Tweed, hands clasped behind his back, strolled over to examine a small framed painting of a woman wearing medieval clothes.
`That's a Holbein,' he remarked to Newman. 'An original if I'm not mistaken. It must have cost a mint.'
`Dr Wand doesn't seem to be short of a bob or two,' Newman commented. 'Aiding refugees.'
The butler had walked to the rear of the hall where a large Regency desk stood. Presumably his station to which he summoned servants to give them orders. He was speaking into an old-fashioned phone with a gold handle. Replacing it on the cradle, he walked back.
`Dr Wand is prepared to make an exception in your case. Please follow me. I will be waiting outside his study door.'
`Eavesdropping?' Newman enquired genially.
Marching ahead of them, the butler missed a step, then resumed his military-style walk. Pausing before a heavy door inlaid with panels, he knocked twice, opened the door and stood aside, closing it as soon as they had entered.
Tweed blinked. The study was a very large room but all the heavy velvet curtains were drawn over the windows. The only illumination came from a shaded desk lamp, tilted so it shone on two low arm chairs in front of the Louis Quinze desk. Behind the desk, seated high up in a tall-backed chair, was a shadowy figure. Still in the shadows, the figure stood up slowly, remaining behind his desk.
`Mr Tweed, it is my great pleasure to be honoured with your company. So please come forward both of you and sit down. I am sure that with men of your intelligence we shall find much of interest to discuss.'
Conscious of the deep pile carpet under his feet, Tweed walked forward more slowly than usual, glancing round as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light. Then he moved sideways, lifted a carver chair, pushed the low armchair out of the way, sat down.
`I prefer this type of chair,' he remarked.
`So do I,' said Newman, bringing forward another carver, seating himself with his legs crossed.
`Mr Newman, I believe?' said Dr Wand, who had settled himself back in his own chair. 'The famous international foreign correspondent. I trust our conversation is – as they say – off the record? I would find it disconcerting to read an account of our meeting later in Der Spiegel.'
`I retired a few years ago,' Newman told him.
`Of course. I recall you wrote an international best-selling book which brought you in a fortune. I read it with fascination. Such a villain.'
`Oh, there's a lot of it about.'
Tweed saw Dr Wand's large head dip forward. For a brief second he saw the eyes behind the gold pince-nez, a flash of pure malevolence. Newman's retort had hit home. Then the head withdrew into the shadows. Wand spoke again in his soft careful voice.
`I must apologize for the paucity of illumination, but strong light affects my eyes. Now, in what way can I be of assistance to you, Mr Tweed?'
`I thought the reverse was the case,' Tweed reminded him. 'We are here at your invitation.'
`Of course. Of course.' Wand paused. 'I find myself intrigued by the fact that you have found it worthwhile spending your valuable time investigating me.'
Now we come to the crunch, Newman thought. He wondered how Tweed would handle the situation. Tweed responded instantly.
`What leads you to think I have the slightest interest in your activities?'
`Come, come, my dear sir. A man in my position – with world-wide interest in the plight of refugees – has of necessity an acute ear to the underground grapevine.'
`Mind if I smoke a cigarette?' Newman asked to throw their host off balance.
`If you must. And you should understand that it is a major concession on my part to allow you in, armed as you are, with a gun.'