into a troubled sleep. He woke suddenly, alarmed. Broad daylight. He checked his watch. 7 a.m. Stupid. He heard the sound of movements downstairs - Paula was up.
He went to the window, pulled back the curtains. Black clouds above. Below, beyond the road, a channel of water vanished to the west, towards the North Sea. Beyond the channel a maze of muddy creeks snaked away between large elevated banks of sour grass. At high water in March the spring tides would submerge the lot.
He was in the bathroom at the back of the house, dressed in pyjamas as he washed and shaved when a hand looped round the door, placed a cup and saucer on a shelf. Paula sounded brisk and businesslike.
'Room service. First cup of coffee. No milk. No sugar. Do I score?'
'Ten out often . . .'
He dressed quickly, ravenous for breakfast. He was walking down the stairs when Paula appeared from the kitchen. Looking up, she smiled as she continued towards the front door.
'I've just remembered the fresh milk. The trouble with not being used to having a man in the house. Now, what's this?'
She had opened the front door as Tweed reached the foot of the stairs. She stood quite still for a moment, staring down. As she stooped forward she called over her shoulder.
'Well, who can this be from? Someone's left me a present . . .'
' Don't touch it for Christ's sake . . . ! '
Tweed ran along the hall, wrapped his right aim round her, hauled her upright and backwards. Her right hand had been on the point of closing over a large plastic carrier bag standing on the doorstep. He propelled her back towards the rear of the house.
'Go into the kitchen, out of the back door and into the yard . . .'
She obeyed without asking a single question. Tweed stared at the bag from which the fronds of a plant protruded. There was a card with writing on it. By the side of the bag stood a pint bottle of milk. He closed the door carefully, ran back into the kitchen as she opened the rear door, holding her handbag. She kept moving as she waved the handbag.
'I've got my passport . . .'
'Is there a way out of this back yard?' he demanded.
'Yes, a gate leads to a side road . . .'
'Move! We have to warn the village. The whole sea front must be closed off. I think it's a bomb . . .'
Panic, confusion, movement took hold of Blakeney for the next half-hour. Tweed sent Paula to warn the villagers, to evacuate houses on the front. It was Tweed who walked on the far side of the harbour road by the deep-water channel past the plastic bag perched on Paula's doorstep to stop all activity where a large crane was unloading a coaster.
Some of the men ran up a side road, carrying the warning; others fled out on to the open marshland. It was Tweed who found a house with a phone in the side street and called the Bomb Squad at Heathrow. He had a few minutes' frustration identifying himself until Jim Corcoran, chief security officer at the airport, vouched for him. He gave curt instructions to a Captain Nicholls, chief of the Bomb Squad.
'. . . you've understood? You fly your team to the private airfield at Langham in a chopper, land, and I'll have two cars waiting. Langham's only a couple of miles from here . . .'
'Understood. On our way . . .'
It was Tweed who then called the American air base at Lakenheath in Suffolk and had a far more frustrating conversation with an American sergeant who thought it was a hoax call. Tweed at last blew his top, shouting down the phone.
'Put me through to your commander at once or you'll find yourself on the next bloody flight back to the States. I said I was Special Branch - our equivalent of your FBI . . .'
The high-ranking officer he was transferred to was equally dubious of Tweed's motives. The Englishman adopted different tactics and spoke with cold vehemence. Eventually the officer responded - to an extent.
'I'll first have to check your identity with that phone number you gave me before I can . . .'
'Check it, for God's sake. But alert your Bomb
He went to the window, pulled back the curtains. Black clouds above. Below, beyond the road, a channel of water vanished to the west, towards the North Sea. Beyond the channel a maze of muddy creeks snaked away between large elevated banks of sour grass. At high water in March the spring tides would submerge the lot.
He was in the bathroom at the back of the house, dressed in pyjamas as he washed and shaved when a hand looped round the door, placed a cup and saucer on a shelf. Paula sounded brisk and businesslike.
'Room service. First cup of coffee. No milk. No sugar. Do I score?'
'Ten out often . . .'
He dressed quickly, ravenous for breakfast. He was walking down the stairs when Paula appeared from the kitchen. Looking up, she smiled as she continued towards the front door.
'I've just remembered the fresh milk. The trouble with not being used to having a man in the house. Now, what's this?'
She had opened the front door as Tweed reached the foot of the stairs. She stood quite still for a moment, staring down. As she stooped forward she called over her shoulder.
'Well, who can this be from? Someone's left me a present . . .'
' Don't touch it for Christ's sake . . . ! '
Tweed ran along the hall, wrapped his right aim round her, hauled her upright and backwards. Her right hand had been on the point of closing over a large plastic carrier bag standing on the doorstep. He propelled her back towards the rear of the house.
'Go into the kitchen, out of the back door and into the yard . . .'
She obeyed without asking a single question. Tweed stared at the bag from which the fronds of a plant protruded. There was a card with writing on it. By the side of the bag stood a pint bottle of milk. He closed the door carefully, ran back into the kitchen as she opened the rear door, holding her handbag. She kept moving as she waved the handbag.
'I've got my passport . . .'
'Is there a way out of this back yard?' he demanded.
'Yes, a gate leads to a side road . . .'
'Move! We have to warn the village. The whole sea front must be closed off. I think it's a bomb . . .'
Panic, confusion, movement took hold of Blakeney for the next half-hour. Tweed sent Paula to warn the villagers, to evacuate houses on the front. It was Tweed who walked on the far side of the harbour road by the deep-water channel past the plastic bag perched on Paula's doorstep to stop all activity where a large crane was unloading a coaster.
Some of the men ran up a side road, carrying the warning; others fled out on to the open marshland. It was Tweed who found a house with a phone in the side street and called the Bomb Squad at Heathrow. He had a few minutes' frustration identifying himself until Jim Corcoran, chief security officer at the airport, vouched for him. He gave curt instructions to a Captain Nicholls, chief of the Bomb Squad.
'. . . you've understood? You fly your team to the private airfield at Langham in a chopper, land, and I'll have two cars waiting. Langham's only a couple of miles from here . . .'
'Understood. On our way . . .'
It was Tweed who then called the American air base at Lakenheath in Suffolk and had a far more frustrating conversation with an American sergeant who thought it was a hoax call. Tweed at last blew his top, shouting down the phone.
'Put me through to your commander at once or you'll find yourself on the next bloody flight back to the States. I said I was Special Branch - our equivalent of your FBI . . .'
The high-ranking officer he was transferred to was equally dubious of Tweed's motives. The Englishman adopted different tactics and spoke with cold vehemence. Eventually the officer responded - to an extent.
'I'll first have to check your identity with that phone number you gave me before I can . . .'
'Check it, for God's sake. But alert your Bomb
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