Precipice

'What is it then?' Tweed prodded.

'Give me time, my friend.' Grogarty was still gazing at the ceiling. Somehow he managed to sip more Scotch with his head bent back. 'One man in that list is the key player in the game. Would that I could identify which name triggered something off at the back of my mind.'

Tweed kept silent. He glanced round the large room which overlooked Harley Street. The furniture pushed against the walls consisted of genuine antiques. The framed pictures on the walls were priceless. One was a Gauguin. Grogarty was a wealthy man.

No one would have thought so from the way he dressed. He wore an old grey cardigan with loose skeins of wool at the hem and two buttons missing, a third ready to join its lost fellows. His blue check shirt was open at the thick neck and the collar was crumpled. His fawn trousers had not seen a trouser press for years.

'Odd that Irina Krivitsky, the world's greatest authority on lasers and their adaptation to controlling satellites, should be on that list,' Grogarty said suddenly. 'You will excuse me if I talk to you while I'm thinking.'

Tweed stared quizzically at Grogarty. He knew that he sometimes adopted this weird mental technique when he was working on a tough problem. One part of his brain would converse while another part concentrated furiously on the problem he was wrestling with.

'You can talk back to me.' his host reminded Tweed. 'I won't be distracted. Indeed, rather the reverse.'

'What's odd about this Irina Krivitsky?' Tweed asked.

'The last I heard of her – by devious means and routes – was that she was working in one of the secret Russian laboratories behind the Ural Mountains in Siberia…'

Grogarty paused. He shook his head and his pince-nez went askew again over the bridge of his nose. He didn't seem to notice but he was nodding to himself. Something was coming.

'Go on.' said Tweed.

'Those hidden laboratories – buried underground, beneath the tundra – can't be spotted by Yank satellites from the air. They are as heavily guarded as they'd have been in Stalin's time. So why should they let her leave to work outside Russia?'

'If she is outside Russia.' Tweed pointed out.

'Oh, but she must be. Several of the names on your list would never agree to cross the frontier into Russia, let alone work there.'

'They may have been kidnapped.' Tweed suggested.

'Oh, but they weren't. Reynolds, an American, talked to me just before he disappeared. Over the phone. Said he'd received an offer he couldn't refuse so he was leaving his company in California and taking his wife with him. He said it was rather secret but Ed never could keep a secret.'

'This is all science fiction to me…' Tweed began.

'No! It isn't. Science is advancing by leaps and bounds. That's what worries me. The momentum is insane. Lord knows where we're going to end up.'

'We'll find out in due course.'

He never finished his sentence. Grogarty suddenly seemed to wake up, as though coming out of a trance.

'Ed Reynolds!' he almost shouted. 'Ed Reynolds – he's the key player. His speciality is sabotage of the whole communications network.'

'Sabotage?'

Tweed's nerves were tingling already for another reason. But the word made him sit on the edge of his chair. His host looked excited.

'I mean he worked on techniques which could sabotage world communications, throw the world into chaos. His objective was to find means of countering any such techniques. Like a doctor working on a vaccine to protect people against a certain disease. Do you understand me now?'

'Yes. But does that link up with the other scientists?'

'Yes, it does. If the real secret of the research going on somewhere is sabotage.'

'That's it, then?'

'That's it,' Grogarty agreed, standing up. 'Nice to see you, Tweed. Better get cracking – this thing is global. May be a complete change in the balance of world power.'

16

Philip was on the verge of leaving Eve's flat, reluctantly, when he closed the outer door and came back into the living room.

'That was a quick trip to the office,' Eve said perkily.

Her looked down at her, seated in an armchair, her shapely legs crossed. She was wearing dark blue trousers and a pale blue sweater, her arms rested on the chair's arms as he came towards her.

She saw a man in his thirties, dark haired and cleanshaven with thoughtful eyes. Philip was again in a state of inner turmoil – enormously attracted towards this lively woman but still grief-stricken for his dead wife. He wasn't sure where he was.

'Well, I've got your number…' he began, to tell her he would call her that evening.

'And I've got your number, Mr Philip Cardon,' she replied, meaning something quite different as she jumped up and kissed him on the cheek.

He was advancing closer when she held up both hands and waved him away. She stood, folded her arms.

'Maybe we could go away on holiday to somewhere really exciting. Bermuda. When I have the time.'

'That's a great idea,' Philip said.

'I did say maybe.'

'If you have to go abroad how long will you be away?' he asked.

'No idea.' She stood in front of a wall mirror, used both hands to smooth down her jet-black hair close to her head, then swung round to face him. 'Absolutely no idea at all. But I'll ring you. When I can.' she added. 'What is your office number? I may only be able to call during the day.'

'That I can't give you. They frown on personal calls at the office.'

'Stuffy old insurance bods. Then you'll just have to sit each evening in that empty house of yours in Hampshire and stare at the phone.'

The remark hurt, the reference to the empty house, but Philip didn't show a trace of his reaction. He watched her pick up a burning cigarette from an ashtray, use it to light a fresh one. He found himself admiring her slim figure.

'Giving me the once-over?' she enquired. 'You should know what I look like by now. Philip, I've got to take a shower.'

'I was just going…'

He closed the outer door behind him, walked slowly down the stairs, his emotions chaotic. Eve had a habit of lifting him up and then putting him down. He knew that some women used the tactic on men but Eve was an expert.

Tweed walked into his office to find only Monica and Newman there. Newman was just lifting the phone.

'Hello, Archie. Yes, it's Bob. How are you getting on?'

'News, Bob. I'm speaking from Geneva. Tricky city. People are trying to follow me. Think I've shaken them off. The news – Brazil appears to be compiling a list of all the members of Tweed's staff. So far he knows about you and Paula Grey – and he's got down Franklin as a possible member.'

'You're quite certain about this?'

'My informant is totally reliable. He doesn't even do it for money, which is reassuring. Must go now. I gather help is on the way

Newman stood up, gave Tweed, who had taken off his coat, the chair behind his desk. He repeated what Archie had told him.

'You think he's targeting my staff – Brazil?' Tweed asked slowly.

'Does sound like a hit list,' Newman agreed cheerfully.

Tweed stood up again, began to pace round the office as he counted on his fingers.

'Yourself, Paula – and Franklin possibly, who isn't on our team. The absentees are significant. Marler, Butler, and Nield.'

'I don't get you,' observed Newman.

'Dorset. There are only three people who could pass on that list. Franklin himself, Eve Warner, and Keith Kent.'

'Why would Franklin add himself to that list?'

'As a cover. I know it's thin.'

I'm still half asleep after my early morning.' Newman admitted, 'but I can't see how you come up with those three people as a suspected informant to Brazil.'