Chapter One
The following morning Tweed sat behind his desk in his large office on the first floor at Park Crescent. The windows which faced him along the opposite wall overlooked Regent's Park in the distance. This was the real HQ of the Secret Intelligence Service. The hideous modern building on the bank of the Thames was a 'front' -- mostly occupied by administrative staff. The action was controlled from Park Crescent.

Paula, seated at her own desk in a corner facing Tweed, suppressed a yawn as Newman walked in. She called out to Tweed.

'How do you like your new desk - or perhaps I should say old, as it's an antique?'

With the financial support of the rest of the staff she had bought the desk in the Portobello Road. It was Georgian and had a green leather top. She had even had new locks put on the drawers.

'I think I'm getting used to it.' Tweed smiled. 'I may even get to like it.'

'You'd better,' chimed in Monica, his secretary of many years, who wore her grey hair in a bun tied at the back.
'It cost a pretty penny.' She ducked down behind her word processor, feeling she'd said the wrong thing.

'And I'm very grateful to all of you,' Tweed assured her.

'Get any sleep after what you went through yesterday?' Newman asked Paula.
She looked at him. In his forties, five feet nine tall, well-built with an impressive head to match his body, he had fair hair but was clean-shaven with a jaw that discouraged louts coming anywhere near him. The most famous international foreign correspondent in the world before Tweed persuaded him to join the SIS, he had proved to be a great asset to the unit.

'Not a lot of sleep,' Paula admitted. `Which surprised me. When I got back to my flat I threw off my clothes and dived into the shower. It soothed away the aches and pains, I flopped into bed and fell fast asleep. Then I had the most horrible nightmare, which is unusual for me.'

'What kind of nightmare?' Tweed asked.

'It was night, I was near a river, watching the back of a black-coated figure. It was stooped over Holgate, sawing off his neck with a chainsaw. I woke up screaming, "Stop it, stop it." Then I realized it was a bad dream. Checked the time. 3 a.m. I remember thinking a chainsaw couldn't have been used. The neck would have been so ragged. No sleep after that. One of those things.'

'I had Roy Buchanan on the phone just before you came in,' Tweed told Paula. 'He congratulated you on your brilliant work last night. Said he'd take you on to his personal staff any day.'

'That's two job offers I've had in less than twenty-four hours,' Paula replied, pushing a curl of her black hair behind her ear. 'I'll have to think about them,' she teased.

'Let me know when you decide which one, then I can start looking for a replacement,' Tweed teased her back.

He had no more intention of letting her go than he had of resigning his position as Deputy Director. She just seemed to get better and better.

'Buchanan also told me,' he went on, 'that he phoned the local Chief Constable at three in the morning. He wasn't very popular but he told Colonel Crow, the Chief Constable, that he'd better send out another team of men to patrol the two taped areas and search thoroughly round the so-called execution block area. Crow ended the conversation by warning Roy that it was no longer his case and to keep off the grass. Roy told him his team would have to walk all over the grass to check for clues, then slammed down the phone. He was quite right to warn Crow, a pompous idiot I met once. The type who bullies his subordinates, then creeps and grovels to people who can help to hoist him higher up the ladder.'

Besides desks, the room was furnished with a mushroom-coloured wall-to-wall carpet and three armchairs for visitors. Newman was settled in his favourite armchair, taking in what was being said while he read a copy of the International