Armenian origin.'
The voice was very Old Etonian, bland and superior without being condescending. Paula glanced over at Tweed, who was immersed in his files.
`Well, tell me,' Paula replied.
`Not over the phone. Too dangerous. Can we meet?' `Where? And when?'
`Now. At the Duke's Head Hotel. In Mayfair, off Tiverton Street. I'm tall, well-built, wearing a suit with a fake grey rose in the buttonhole. Thick brown hair, clean-shaven. Are you on?'
`Be there in fifteen minutes, roughly.'
`I'll be drinking champagne. Moderately...'
Paula had kept her voice low, knowing Tweed wouldn't like an assignation. Paula stood up, put on her leather windcheater, checking her Walther in the hip pocket. While bending to pull up her ankle boots she checked her Beretta tucked inside her leg holster was firmly in position.
`Who was that?' Tweed asked without looking up. `A firm that's altering a dress for me...'
As she drove towards Mayfair, Paula's mind was in a whirl. Was it possible this stranger she was going to meet did have information about Calouste Doubenkian? On previous cases she had known lucky breaks which came when least expected.
Inside the well-appointed bar of the Duke's Head, Max was already waiting for his visitor. He always arrived early for appointments. It gave him time to check the surroundings. The bar was spacious and oblong, the narrower side being the frontage.
He was the only occupant at that hour and had chosen to sit near the door. An ice bucket with a bottle of champagne stood by his side and two glasses were set before him. In his large hand was concealed a small tasteless capsule for her drink. It would swiftly make her feel very sleepy.
Max's mind was in a turmoil. At the Green Dark Hotel he had not had a wink of sleep during the nights he had spent there. Into his mind had frequently crept a memory of the girl he had thrown into the marsh. He had imagined the horror of her opening her mouth to scream. She would have sucked in that foul ooze, then choked on it. He had felt sickened and still did.
It had all happened so quickly. Accustomed to obeying a command from Doubenkian, he had acted on a reflex. Grabbing his victim, upending her, hurling her in. And his paymaster had casually referred to her as a `peasant'. Max could kill any man and eat a hearty meal soon afterwards. What Doubenkian proposed for Paula Grey filled him with loathing.
Approaching the Duke's Head, Paula, who had parked her car in a free space some distance away, noticed a shabby brown Ford parked almost outside the hotel. She also noticed the driver watching her through his rear-view mirror. He looked away quickly. He sat tensely behind the wheel, North African she thought, dressed in London clothes. She noticed two more things. In the back on the seat was a large travelling rug, and as he sat very still his engine was running. The meter showed he had been there for ten minutes.
She entered the bar and the white-coated man behind the long counter smiled at her and said, 'Good afternoon.'
At a table near the entrance a man stood up and came forward to escort her to his table. Tall, good- looking and heavily built, he was clad in a smart grey suit, white shirt and an old school tie. His smile was cheerful but she thought she detected a hint of strain in it.
`I am Evelyn-Ashton,' he began. 'It is very good of you to take the time to come and meet me.'
`I haven't got a lot of time,' she warned as he pulled out the chair for her.
`Oh, that is quite in order,' he assured her as with unusual agility he was back in his own chair facing her. `What I have to say is hardly likely to take all week. A tipple of champagne to relax us? We were indeed in the habit of smuggling a bottle into the dormitory when I was no more than a boy at school. Indeed, yes.'
`I'd sooner have coffee, thank you.'
The barman had tactfully moved to the far end of his counter to give them privacy. Max turned round and ordered.
`Coffee for my guest with all the
The voice was very Old Etonian, bland and superior without being condescending. Paula glanced over at Tweed, who was immersed in his files.
`Well, tell me,' Paula replied.
`Not over the phone. Too dangerous. Can we meet?' `Where? And when?'
`Now. At the Duke's Head Hotel. In Mayfair, off Tiverton Street. I'm tall, well-built, wearing a suit with a fake grey rose in the buttonhole. Thick brown hair, clean-shaven. Are you on?'
`Be there in fifteen minutes, roughly.'
`I'll be drinking champagne. Moderately...'
Paula had kept her voice low, knowing Tweed wouldn't like an assignation. Paula stood up, put on her leather windcheater, checking her Walther in the hip pocket. While bending to pull up her ankle boots she checked her Beretta tucked inside her leg holster was firmly in position.
`Who was that?' Tweed asked without looking up. `A firm that's altering a dress for me...'
As she drove towards Mayfair, Paula's mind was in a whirl. Was it possible this stranger she was going to meet did have information about Calouste Doubenkian? On previous cases she had known lucky breaks which came when least expected.
Inside the well-appointed bar of the Duke's Head, Max was already waiting for his visitor. He always arrived early for appointments. It gave him time to check the surroundings. The bar was spacious and oblong, the narrower side being the frontage.
He was the only occupant at that hour and had chosen to sit near the door. An ice bucket with a bottle of champagne stood by his side and two glasses were set before him. In his large hand was concealed a small tasteless capsule for her drink. It would swiftly make her feel very sleepy.
Max's mind was in a turmoil. At the Green Dark Hotel he had not had a wink of sleep during the nights he had spent there. Into his mind had frequently crept a memory of the girl he had thrown into the marsh. He had imagined the horror of her opening her mouth to scream. She would have sucked in that foul ooze, then choked on it. He had felt sickened and still did.
It had all happened so quickly. Accustomed to obeying a command from Doubenkian, he had acted on a reflex. Grabbing his victim, upending her, hurling her in. And his paymaster had casually referred to her as a `peasant'. Max could kill any man and eat a hearty meal soon afterwards. What Doubenkian proposed for Paula Grey filled him with loathing.
Approaching the Duke's Head, Paula, who had parked her car in a free space some distance away, noticed a shabby brown Ford parked almost outside the hotel. She also noticed the driver watching her through his rear-view mirror. He looked away quickly. He sat tensely behind the wheel, North African she thought, dressed in London clothes. She noticed two more things. In the back on the seat was a large travelling rug, and as he sat very still his engine was running. The meter showed he had been there for ten minutes.
She entered the bar and the white-coated man behind the long counter smiled at her and said, 'Good afternoon.'
At a table near the entrance a man stood up and came forward to escort her to his table. Tall, good- looking and heavily built, he was clad in a smart grey suit, white shirt and an old school tie. His smile was cheerful but she thought she detected a hint of strain in it.
`I am Evelyn-Ashton,' he began. 'It is very good of you to take the time to come and meet me.'
`I haven't got a lot of time,' she warned as he pulled out the chair for her.
`Oh, that is quite in order,' he assured her as with unusual agility he was back in his own chair facing her. `What I have to say is hardly likely to take all week. A tipple of champagne to relax us? We were indeed in the habit of smuggling a bottle into the dormitory when I was no more than a boy at school. Indeed, yes.'
`I'd sooner have coffee, thank you.'
The barman had tactfully moved to the far end of his counter to give them privacy. Max turned round and ordered.
`Coffee for my guest with all the
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