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  Prologue

  If Tweed had not been at a loose end - a rare event - it is likely he would never have got involved in what became known as the notorious Volkanian Case - and the horrific developments that followed.

  Seated behind his desk in his office on the first floor of Park Crescent, with tall windows overlooking Regent's Park in the distance, he doodled on a pad. Leaning against a wall, Marler, a key member of his SIS team, stared out of a window. Close to him Paula Grey, the right hand of the Deputy Director, sat behind her desk as she watched Tweed. He is so bored, she thought, now he's solved that espionage case. Someone knocked urgently on the door.

  'Come in,' Tweed called out, turning over the pad. He was a man of uncertain age, sturdily built, wearing horn-rimmed glasses. His eyes were penetrating, his reflexes swift.

  His old friend, Chief Superintendent Roy Buchanan of Scotland Yard, appeared quickly, smiled at Paula, stood in front of Tweed's desk. A tall lanky man exuding energy, the Yard chief was in his forties with dark hair, a trim moustache, wearing a smart blue business suit.

  'Welcome. Sit down, Roy,' Tweed invited.

  'No time. Bumped into your colleague Bob Newman when I was running for my car in Victoria Street. He told me you were taking a rest. You owe me one.'

  'What's this leading up to?'

  'I've got a weird problem. Like you to take it over. You may have heard I've temporarily been put in charge of the Anti-Terrorist Squad. Up to my neck. Now I've—'

  'What is the problem?' Tweed interjected.

  'Found this strange chap sitting on a step in Whitehall a while ago. All he said was, "I've witnessed murder." Nothing else. He's suffering from amnesia. Memory completely gone. Never said one more word. Took him back to the Yard for interrogation. No good. Never repeated that worrying statement. I took him to Bella Ashton, the top psychiatrist, left him with her for testing—'

  'Roy,' Tweed interjected again, 'where is all this leading to?'

  'I want you to take over this fellow Michael, see what you make of him.'

  'Have you forgotten,' Tweed protested, 'that I'm Deputy Director of the SIS?'

  'Last year, on that grim case involving the Vice-President of the States, you acted as a detective. Proved you hadn't lost your flair, hadn't forgotten your days at the old Scotland Yard before you took up this job.'

  'And,' Paula called out, 'you were their star turn, solving three major murder mysteries while there.'

  'Paula,' Tweed snapped, 'you have so many talents. One of them is not keeping quiet at the right moment.'

  'Leave Michael in your hands, then,' Buchanan said. He took an envelope and a printed card from his pocket, dropped both on Tweed's desk. 'That's all you need.'

  'How do you know his name is Michael if he never said another word?'

  'I don't. We had to call him something and he looks like a Michael to me. Oh, no means of identification on him. No wallet, no nothing. Labels cut out of his expensive clothes. Must go.'

  'I'll be damned,' said Tweed, his clenched fist hitting his desk as the door closed.

  'Dumped that one on you skilfully,' said Monica, seated

  by the door behind her computer. She was in her fifties and had been with Tweed for ever. She wore her brown hair tied back in a bun.

  Tweed had opened the unsealed envelope Buchanan had dropped on his desk. Inside was a brief letter introducing him to Mrs Arabella Ashton. Her card giving the Harley Street address was gold-rimmed. Tweed sighed and the door opened briefly. Buchanan reappeared.

  'Should have told you. Michael's face is unusual. Just so you're prepared . . .'

  'Thanks a lot,' said Tweed, but Buchanan had gone again. He showed the letter and card to Paula, who had walked briskly to his desk. She read out the Harley Street address.

  'I suppose we'd better phone this Arabella Ashton before we go round and see her,' she said.

  'No, we'll just turn up,' Tweed replied. 'A perfect day for a trip out.'

  He was looking out of the window. Mid-February was living up to its reputation. A heavy grey sky shrouded London and it was bitterly cold. Paula was dressed for the weather, clad in ankle boots, a warm fur-lined overcoat and jeans. As Tweed struggled into a heavy topcoat, Paula gave Monica details of their destination, found she'd already written them down when she'd spoken aloud.

  Paula, Tweed's long-time assistant, was in her thirties, slim and five foot six tall. Attractive, she had jet-black hair falling to her shoulders, alert blue eyes, well-shaped features with a determined chin. Round the organization her vitality was a legend.

  She ran over to a cupboard, hauled out two small cases containing night clothes, a change of underwear and toiletries for herself and her chief. Tweed frowned.

  'We don't need those.'

  'Who knows where we'll end up?'

  1

  Tweed parked the car near the far end of Harley Street. Their destination was one of many old terrace houses which cost a fortune these days. Built of stone, it was four storeys high with a short flight of steps up to the heavy front door. Harley Street was deserted as Tweed and Paula left the car. Before driving off from Park Crescent, Paula had dumped their suitcases in the boot.

  'Waste of time,' Tweed had commented.

  'Maybe . . .'

  At the top of the steps Tweed paused and looked at the polished chrome plate attached to the wall by the front door. He grunted.

  arabella ashton, then an incredible string of letters denoting her qualifications. Paula peered at the plate.

  'Buchanan once said she was at the top of her field.'

  Tweed pressed the highly polished bell-push. A young woman clad in a maid's outfit opened the door. 'Can I help you?'

  'Mrs Ashton is expecting us,' Tweed bluffed.

  He showed her his SIS folder, which obviously meant nothing to the maid but impressed her. She invited them in and they followed her down a long narrow hall fitted with a white wall-to-wall carpet. A narrow antique table was perched against one wall, supporting a large Swedish glass vase full of artificial roses, which looked real. Paula smelled money.

  They were ushered into a small kitchen full of the latest equipment. A tall blonde-haired woman, early forties, was chopping carrots with great speed. The knife she held had a razor-sharp blade on one side, a serrated edge on the other side.

  'These visitors say you are expecting them,' the maid explained in a shaky voice.

  'I damned well am not. Who the hell are you?' Arabella Ashton finished chopping another carrot at the same dizzying speed, turned to face them, the large knife held by her side. She was clad in an apron patterned with roses. Her blonde hair was trimmed short and her dark penetrating eyes, which gazed at Tweed and ignored Paula, were her most striking feature. Her cheekbones were prominent, her nose Roman and below it the lips were sensuous. Not at all what Tweed had expected. He handed her the letter from Buchanan, showed her his SIS folder.

  'I see. Like Roy, another of these government officials.' 'He is the Deputy Director,' Paula told her. 'I can read, dear.'

  'This is Paula Grey,' Tweed snapped, 'my most trusted assistant.'

  'So why are you here?' Mrs Ashton snapped back. 'I want to ask you a few questions about Michael.' 'Then we'd better repair to my consulting room.' She turned sideways to take off the apron. Underneath she was wearing a dress revealing her slim figure. As if for Tweed's benefit, thought Paula. We have a case and a half here. Mrs Ashton led the way into the hall, walking very upright towards the back of the house. Opening a door, she ushered them inside.

  Paula took in the consulting room with swift glances. At the rear were windows heavily masked with net curtains, presumably so patients were not distracted by the view. Their hostess pointed towards a long leather couch with a sloping end. The patients' couc
h?

  'Perch yourselves there. Fancy a drink? Anything you like.'

  Her voice was now soft and soothing, attractive. Tweed refused her offer and Paula also declined as they sat down.

  'I need a Scotch.' she said. 'Up at five a.m.' Opening a cupboard fixed to the wall, the shelves stacked with every kind of drink, she poured herself a stiff tot, drank it down in two quick gulps. 'That's better.' She sat down in an armchair facing them, and crossed her legs.

  The white close-fitting dress ended at her knees and she had very shapely legs. She leaned forward, staring at Tweed with an engaging smile.

  'My friends call me Bella. Can't stand Arabella. Never stopped shouting at my mother when she used that version. Tamed her in the end. She's dead now, so is my father. Now, Tweed, what do you want to know?'

  'I'd first like your impression of Michael. Then I would much appreciate seeing him.'

  'I'll give you my impression, but you can't see him. He's not here any more. Explain that later.' She leaned back in her chair, glanced at Paula, then fixed her gaze on Tweed. 'Michael is suffering from complete, total amnesia. Can't recall anything. Who he really is, where he comes from. How he came to be sitting on that doorstep in Whitehall when Roy spotted him. Mind a blank. Did Roy tell you about the bump on the right-hand side of his head?'

  'No, he didn't.'

  'His dark hair hides it. The police doctor at the Yard said that it could be the result of someone hitting him or he may just have fallen down on something hard. I've little doubt that caused the amnesia.'

  'What about physical movements? Getting himself dressed when he gets up? Eating a meal? Everyday things like that?'

  'He can do all those. You probably find that strange but a habit is often not damaged by amnesia. I've known other cases like that.'

  'Like Michael?'

  Her thick eyebrows compressed. Paula had the feeling she was anxious to give a precise answer.

  'No, not exactly like Michael. He's very odd.'

  'Could Michael be faking amnesia?'

  'Faking it?' She threw back her head and laughed. 'I couldn't get one damned word out of him while he was here. It was eerie.'

  'So where is he now? Do you know?'

  'Just round the corner. With the Yerevan Clinic. Seventy-two Eadley Street. Gregor Saxon, another psychiatrist, is looking after him. You drive up Harley Street and take the first on the left. It's hardly more than an alley.'

  'Why is he there and not here? If I may enquire.'

  'You just did. After two weeks here I felt it was time he was moved on. I was going nowhere with him.'

  'Money,' Tweed said and paused. Mrs Ashton stiffened. 'I am sure it costs a lot to keep someone here,' Tweed suggested quietly.

  'Two thousand a day.'

  'That's pretty expensive. I appreciate, Mrs Ashton . . .' Tweed began.

  'It's Bella to my friends.' She leaned forward with another engaging smile. 'You're impressing me, Tweed. Maybe we could meet again, say one evening.'

  'Let me think about it ... Bella. So I do need to know who was paying for Michael to stay here.'

  'I don't know. It was rather peculiar. I had a phone call. Funny voice. I thought they were speaking through a silk handkerchief. Could have been a man or a woman. When I told them how much they said they would deliver the fee weekly by courier. In cash. Which they did. After two weeks they phoned again. Same person, I suspect. Asked me for somewhere less expensive. I suggested Saxon, who charges rather less. Fifteen minutes later the same person calls back, instructs me to have Michael ready when a cab calls to take him to Dr Saxon. That is the last I see of Michael.'

  'You said he was in your care for two weeks. How long has he been with Dr Saxon?'

  'Nine weeks. I phone occasionally to see how Michael is progressing. He isn't.'

  'In your experience, Bella, how long before he recovers his memory?'

  She lit a cigarette, waved a hand, 'If he ever recovers it maybe a week, a month, six months,' she rapped back. 'Quite impossible to predict.' She checked a diamond encrusted wristwatch.

  'I would like to thank you for giving us your time and for what you have said. I think it's time we called on Dr Saxon.'

  Tweed stood up with Paula. Bella fished in the drawer of a small table. She brought out a visiting card. 'I've got a pile of these things. I shan't warn Saxon you're coming. No pleasure in talking to the man, but he's competent and useful for taking patients I don't want to deal with.'

  Tweed took the card. It was printed on cheaper material than Bella's cards. Bella leaned forward, tucked one of her own cards into Tweed's top suit pocket as he donned his overcoat. Paula noticed handwriting on the back.

  'I'll show you out. I hope we can meet again. How would I reach you?' The engaging smile was glowing.

  Tweed extracted a card from his wallet. It was printed with General & Cumbria Assurance Co., the cover name for the SIS. Bella tucked it down the top of her dress, led them back into the hall. She chatted as she strolled alongside Tweed while Paula brought up the rear.

  'A word of warning before you meet Michael. His face and head may startle you. He looks very strange. As to Dr Saxon, I don't think that's his real name. Armenian, I'd guess, or one of those mysterious little states east of Turkey.' She opened the door and ice-cold air entered the hall. 'Mind the steps.' Bella called out cheerfully before closing the door quickly.

  Tweed flashed open the car doors, ran round to the driver's seat as Paula dived into the passenger seat. Starting the engine, he turned up the heater, then sat without moving.

  Paula pulled up the bottom of her jeans, exposing the small holster strapped to her right leg. Inside nestled her Beretta automatic. She took out a Walther automatic and two spare magazines, and handed them to Tweed. He thrust them into his coat pocket and stared at her.

  'We're just calling on Saxon., then returning to Park Crescent. You think we're going to a war?'

  'We were followed here all the way from Park Crescent.'

  'I know. A big blue Volvo with amber tinted windows. When I parked here it cruised past us. Several men inside, I thought. It's gone now.'

  'I know. I don't think this Michael case is going to be straightforward. Don't laugh. My sixth sense. Nothing seems normal. Almost sinister.'

  'Have it your way . . .'

  Eadley Street, hemmed in by old buildings on both sides, was just wide enough for two cars to pass. Paula thought it would always be gloomy even on a sunny day. On the grimy wall outside the door where Tweed had stopped a large board proclaimed in elaborate curving letters yerevan clinic. Paula pursed her lips.

  'Bella was right. Yerevan is the capital of Armenia.'

  Below the large letters were the words dr gregory saxon. director. Paula pointed, loath to leave the warmth of the car.

  'Gregory. Bella called him Gregor, so I was expecting a German.'

  'She doesn't like him. She twisted the name out of malice.'

  Paula peered past Tweed out of the window. 'The house next to his place has bars over all the windows. Ground floor and upwards. Part of the clinic?'

  'I doubt it. The occupants are probably guarding against the burglars infesting London these days. We'd better go inside now.'

  'And have the same boring experience we had at Bella's.' She nudged Tweed. 'Not that you were bored. Are you going to have dinner with the attractive lady?' She was grinning.

  'There are some more questions I wish I'd asked her. Why are we so reluctant to interrogate Saxon? Must be the atmosphere of this street. On your feet.'

  Paula could not have been more wrong when she had foreseen another boring experience.

  Tweed's finger had hardly pressed the bell-push when the door swung inward. Framed in the opening was a grotesque figure. He would be almost six feet tall if he wasn't hunched forward, a very large man with a protruding stomach, clad in a dark business suit, overcoat slung over his left arm. His unblinking eyes had pouches under them, his nose was wide and plump. His shoulders were br
oad. On his head was crammed, at a tilted angle, a wide-brimmed trilby hat, as though he didn't care how he looked.

  'We have come to see Dr Saxon,' Tweed said, holding his folder open.

  After a pause: 'You are looking at him.'

  'Since we wish to talk about a patient perhaps we had better come inside,' Tweed suggested.

  'Perhaps you had . . .' After another pause.

  Saxon then gazed straight at Paula. His lips twisted into a lascivious smile which she disliked. She stared straight back at him with a blank expression. He ushered them inside what appeared to be a waiting room. Piles of pamphlets lay on tables; wooden chairs stood against the walls. Tweed glanced at several pamphlets.