Free Cell by Colin Forbes Page A

politely with a warm smile. 'I think you should know that I visit the mosque in Finsbury Park, the one which is notorious.'
    'I'm surprised they let you in.'
    'Ah!' Buller smiled warmly again. 'I go dressed as an Arab. That is just between you and me. The Minister, Warner, has no idea I'm doing this. I know he wouldn't approve. He has Colombia and a drug cartel on the brain. I suspect that a number of Taliban have been smuggled into this country.'
    'You have evidence of this infiltration?'
    'Unfortunately, no. But I've seen several Arabs who have the appearance of having arrived very recently. In the end, it may come down to you and me. Not,' he added hastily, 'that I'm asking for cooperation. But I will attempt to keep you informed when I do have something solid. Now, I had better go.'
    'Thank you for being so frank. Yes, do keep in touch . . .'
    Tweed ran back down the stairs while Buller lumbered behind, heading for the exit. Tweed carefully closed his office door. He spoke rapidly to Marler, standing close to him.
    'Buller is just leaving. He may separate from his partner. The man to follow is Buller - where he goes, anyone he contacts.'
    'I'm on my way.' Marler grabbed his coat and was heading for the door. He called back over his shoulder. 'I have one of those small cameras, non-flash, which the boffins in the basement invented. Hold it in the palm of one hand.'
    'Marler!' Tweed called out. 'Be careful. You could be walking into a cauldron . . .'

    9

    Inside the huge barn next to Oldhurst Farm in Berkshire the third milk wagon had eased its way inside. The English driver stepped down from his cab. He flexed his fingers, stiff with driving the large vehicle. He walked over to the leader he knew as Adam, who stood on a large sheet of canvas spread out over the floor.
    'OK, mate. Another load of drugs delivered. What is it? Cocaine? And I'll take that two thousand quid you're holding in your paw.'
    He was aware there were other men behind him but his eyes were on the fat wad of banknotes Adam was holding.
    Adam was a small man, neatly dressed in English clothes. His skin was brownish, a tan from spending several months in the Seychelles. He spoke perfect English.
    'By the mercy of Allah you have done well,' the little man said with a twisted smile.
    'Allah!' The driver was appalled. 'You're a bunch of flaming Arabs. You . . .'
    It was the last word he ever spoke, as a man behind him drove a wide-bladed knife into his back between the ribs. He twisted the knife, withdrew it, stabbed again and again as the driver, already dead, slumped on to the canvas.
    No need to issue any orders. Several men with dark complexions stripped his clothes of all identification. They wrapped the corpse inside the canvas, rolled it up, then secured it with heavy chains. Three of them carried the rolled canvas out of a back door and across a field. It was dumped into a large septic tank, where it sank to join the two other bodies of English drivers dumped earlier.
    Inside the barn other Arabs dressed in English clothes had already unrolled another large sheet of canvas, ready for when the fourth English driver arrived with his milk wagon. 'Abdullah' had planned very carefully.
    The neat little man, Adam, whose real name was Ali, now gave fresh orders. The milk wagon was opened and an exceptionally strong Arab was lowered inside on a rope ladder. Equipped with gloves, he felt round below the surface, located the hook, then the cable wrapped round the container resting at the bottom of the wagon. It took him all his strength to haul up the container, its wrappings dripping milk.
    He hauled it over the side where other hands waited to grasp it and laid it on the ground. The bloodstained knife which had murdered the English driver was used to cut through the layers of wrapping, exposing a metal container. At this point Ali took over.
    Unlocking a huge padlock, he lifted the lid. He warned his helpers in savage language to be careful. A curiously