Rhinoceros by Colin Forbes

hand tapped his shoulder. Wendover put down his glass, swung round.
    'I don't like people who touch me.'
    'And I don't like people who ignore me. I'm investigating a murder. You've been going into pubs and asking ques tions I find suspicious. I'd like to see proof of your identity.'
    'Would you? You're going to be disappointed. Unless you can charge me with some offence. Incidentally, your lemonade is getting cold.'
    With this parting shot Wendover walked out into the street. He was on his way back to his car, which took him past the open door of the first pub he'd visited. A shout from inside stopped him. The barman came running out.
    'I think maybe you dropped this when you took your wallet out of your back pocket to pay me.'
    He handed Wendover a small notebook bound in blue leather. Opening it, Wendover saw the letters MoA engraved in gold on the inside of the front binding. Riffling through the pages he saw a series of coded numbers and words.
    'Thank you,' he said to the barman. 'Without this I'd have been lost at work.'
    Slipping the book into his pocket he hurried back to his car. He knew from his time at Langley with the CIA that MoA was an abbreviation for the Whitehall Ministry of Armaments. He surmised that Bogle had probably dropped the book while he had been putting on his gloves, presumably to make himself look more official. Now he wanted to get out of the village before Bogle discovered his loss.
    He had also decided to drive straight back to Park Crescent. It could be important to Tweed to hear about the information he had picked up.

    Seattle, Washington State, Pacific Coast. The HQ of the World Liberation Front was located in an apartment overlooking Lake Washington. This location had been carefully chosen due to its upmarket situation. Successful, well-off Americans were happy to live in this area. No one — including the FBI — would dream that dangerous revolutionaries might be found here.
    In the spacious ground-floor apartment at the end of a block with a view across a trim lawn down to the lake, a man sat in front of the Internet. His long greasy hair was coiled in a ponytail. On the back of a nearby chair hung the jacket of the expensive business suit he wore. Leaving the apartment - or returning to it - he always wore a hat with the ponytail tucked out of sight. His neighbours thought he was one of those whizz-kids, something in electronics.
    It was the middle of the night when he checked the time, then clicked the mouse to a repeat program on fitness. This catered to insomniacs of both sexes who whiled away the dreary hours following the instructor, a big man who was all muscle and no fat. Standing on a platform, he faced a class of mixed sexes, demonstrating exercises.
    Ponytail had a pad open in front of him, noted down every third word of the instructor, who spoke slowly. The moment the program was over he glanced at the words which had formed into a message. He picked up the phone and dialled an unlisted number in London.
    'Oscar here,' a rough voice answered.
    'You sound like a comedian,' Ponytail replied and con nection had been verified.
    'You have the business report?' Oscar enquired.
    'With this takeover the minimum of pressure can be used. End of report. . .'
    In his room above a little-used warehouse at Reefers Wharf Oscar Vernon sucked the end of his pen. The correct interpretation of the word 'pressure' was 'violence.'
    'This, I thinks,' he said to himself, 'is what Brits call the escalation. London will have the rough night.'

    CHAPTER 7

    Tweed came back into his office after having a good wash. He had just eaten the lunch Monica had brought in from the local deli. He looked annoyed.
    'I wonder if we'll ever hear from that boy wonder, Mark Wendover. If he does turn up I'm going to give him a real grilling.'
    'I've been surfing several American sites,' Monica began. 'There was a weird one on gardening - the woman commenting spent ages between naming each flower. Then there was one