`I do not wish you to slow down,' Kim replied smoothly. 'Neither do I wish you to try and read my mind.'
Welensky shrugged, turned away. He pressed the button which would emit the signal indicating to the smaller Stealth vessel following in their wake his position. In Welensky's opinion he had done well. He was still on schedule for the ultimate rendezvous, which had to be reached during the hours of darkness.
He had now completed roughly two thirds of their long voyage from Cam Ranh Bay, the great anchorage in Vietnam. And without incident – except for that crazy and totally unnecessary encounter with another vessel south of the Cape of Good Hope.
Behind the Mao III the smaller Stealth vessel, Yenan, continued to keep pace with the larger ship. Aboard, in the spacious living quarters, fifteen more Danish- speaking passengers, all between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, passed the time watching videos, playing games, or reading. Every man had undergone the very special training carried out at secret camps on the mainland of the People's Republic of China.
Some had become highly skilled saboteurs, others spies. But every man had a second skill – in advertising, accountancy, radio, or the television industry. Every man could merge into the European way of life as a normal member of the community. His reward? Money.
They were the vanguard of the revolution planned to sweep the world.
At Park Crescent the call from Benoit came through in the middle of the night. Monica was still at her desk – trying to disentangle the finances of Moonglow Refugee Aid Trust International.
They were complex. A certain amount of funds came in from subscriptions to the cause, but nothing like the money needed to keep up a house in The Boltons, let alone a millionaire's villa at Waterloo. Through certain mainland contacts Monica had obtained confidential information. Which all led back to Liechtenstein, the toy state on the eastern borders of Switzerland. Liechtenstein – which prided itself on its secrecy where bank accounts were concerned. The phone rang.
`Benoit here…' Sounded in a hurry. 'Is Tweed available?'
`He's fast asleep at his Chelsea pad.'
`Monica, I must try that some time. Sleep. And you can tell him I said so. Our friend Dr Hyde has been staying in Brussels.'
`That's quick work, Chief Inspector.'
`Oh, we got lucky. One of my men called at the Hermitage Hotel. Sounds very grand. Over there you'd call it a run-down boarding-house. He stayed there for the past two months. Under the name Dr Hyde.'
`Past tense, Chief Inspector?'
`I am afraid so. He left a few days ago. No forwarding address. But it was him. The slattern who runs the place identified his photograph after a little gentle persuasion from my man.'
`Tweed will be interested. Very.'
`Monica, I'm now spreading the net – concentrating on Liege. Since that is where Sir Gerald Andover was murdered. Will report any further developments. Tell Tweed I hope he slept well…'
Tweed was up late in the morning. As the light of a grey dawn filtered through the curtains he had thought about getting up, making a mug of tea. While he was thinking about it he fell into a deep sleep.
Cursing, after he'd put on his glasses and checked the time, he forced himself to get out of bed. Feeling like nothing on earth he went into the kitchen, put on water to boil for the coffee. Returning to his bedroom he dressed slowly.
It was eleven o'clock when he mounted the staircase to his office, step by step. Like climbing Everest. He opened the door. The first thing he noticed was Monica, almost beside herself with joy. He opened the door further and stood still, stunned. A small man wearing a crumpled suit of American clothes jumped up.
Philip Cardon.
31
`We thought you were dead,' Tweed said as he shook Cardon's bony hand. 'The plane crash. The bomb…'
`I didn't travel aboard that flight. As you suggested, I took a flight to Hong Kong which was leaving almost immediately. Thailand can be hopelessly inefficient. Clearly they must have left my name on the passenger manifest.'
`I didn't think you'd obeyed Monica,' Tweed said. `I thought you'd decided to board that plane.'
He sat behind his desk as Cardon sagged into the armchair again. Philip Cardon had a bony face, narrow alert eyes, was of slim build, and with a nervous energy which made his movements swift and agile. He reminded Monica of a squirrel.
`I heard her all right,' Cardon explained. `What worried me was that someone else might be listening in – even when I was in a public call box at the airport.'
`Sounds unlikely, I'd have thought.'
`Not in Thailand. Corruption is universal. Information is bought everywhere. From Hong Kong I caught another plane to San Francisco, then straight across the States to New York. That was the only delay – they wouldn't let Concorde take off for several hours. Ten-tenths fog. Which is why I scared Monica out of her wits when I rolled in here a few hours ago…'
`I tried to phone you,' Monica told Tweed.
`Thor couldn't have woken me. Philip, don't you need some rest? You must be jet-lagged out of your mind.'
Cardon had dark circles under his eyes. His face had a drawn look. He swallowed black coffee from the mug Monica had provided, shook his head.
`I can keep going a while longer. I must. Things you've got to hear. The adrenalin is roaring. Start at the beginning, shall I?'
`Go ahead then. But only until the fatigue catches up with you. Then I'm packing you off to your flat.'
Tweed, suddenly thoroughly awake, relaxed in his chair. He perched one elbow on his desk, his knuckled hand supporting his chin as he studied the man back from the dead.
I managed to reach Lop Nor,' Cardon began in a casual way.
`Lop Nor!' Tweed was astounded. He jumped up, walked to the wall map of the world, pointed to a certain position. 'You can't mean Lop Nor in Sinkiang where the Chinese have their atom-bomb plant? That's a vast distance.'
`Yes, that Lop Nor,' Cardon agreed as Tweed returned to his chair. 'I was disguised as a peasant. I hopped on board a plane in Chungking bound for Lop Nor. I'd made friends with a dubious individual who wanted me to carry a package for a small sum. He sat in the opposite seat as though we were strangers. A rocky old crate it was. Lord knows how it crossed the mountains, and breathing was difficult for a while. Just before we landed I got up to go to the loo and slipped the package back into my so-called friend's coat. On landing we were searched. He was arrested by the security service for carrying drugs.'
He paused to drink more coffee. Monica stared at him in amazement.
`You make it sound so easy,' she commented.
`Oh, it's like anywhere else in the world. Security is lousy. You need cheek, bags of self-confidence – plus the ability to look like a Chinese and a knowledge of the lingua franca. Mind you, the Chinese can travel for hours without saying a word, which helps. They just sit there liked stuffed dummies.'
`What happened after you got off the plane?' Tweed asked, fascinated. 'You said the security service was present.'
`Easy again. They were so taken up with grabbing the drugs smuggler they didn't look at anyone else. He was shot, of course. But there were other peasants on the plane. Coolie labour for building more underground hangars for Stealth bombers. They enlarge caves in the mountains, then erect huge doors the same colour as the rock. I mingled with the crowd, listened to them chattering once they were back on Mother Earth.'
`And Security didn't check them?' Tweed queried.
`Lord, no. It's chaos up there. So many coolies earning a pittance. Rather like they built the pyramids. Men with muscle – thousands of them. Amazing what they can achieve with an endless supply of cheap labour.'