The Power (34 page)

'I'm sorry, gentlemen. The President refuses to see me at the Oval Office. Some nonsense about paperwork pil
ing up. It's a ploy to avoid meeting me. He probably
guessed the subject I was going to raise.'

'Gallagher,' snapped the statesman. 'From my own
experience I know the Berne embassy isn't a plum job. But
Berne is a good listening post. How can he contemplate
appointing a man who may come under investigation by a
Senate sub-committee - for corruption in obtaining
government contracts?' He lapsed into unusual vulgarity.
'When the shit hits the fan, when the press gets a whiff of it
- which they will - the US government is going to be a
laughing-stock all over the world.'

'You may be right,' Wingfield agreed.

'He is right!' the banker burst out. 'On top of that he is
spending money on programmes like there's no tomorrow.
Face up to it, March has become a menace.'

'Thank God Jeb Galloway is waiting in the wings,' said
the statesman.

'Don't let's get excited,' Wingfield urged. 'Timing is
everything in politics. We'll wait and see how it all pans
out. ..'

Jeb Galloway paced his office, his six-foot frame taking long strides while his closest aide, Sam,
watched him.
Galloway sat down suddenly, pounded his clenched fist on
the table where Sam sat.

'The rumours are growing about this private army
March has organized. Ever heard of Unit One, Sam?'

'Maybe the odd whisper.'

'You have?' Galloway looked surprised, annoyed. 'Is
that the name of the secret paramilitary force Brad March is rumoured to have built up?'

'Brad,' Sam remarked, watching the Vice-President
closely, 'is wily, throws out smokescreens, spreads
rumours. Best forget all about this thing, even if it did
exist.'

'You seem to know one helluva lot. Most Americans
here in Washington have never heard of it.'

'Jeb, I'm not "most Americans". I've been on the Hill
for quite a few years. Stay cool. What about that guy
you contacted secretly?'

'He's already been in place for some time,' Galloway snapped. 'I heard a rumour that forty more invisible men
were being flown to London aboard a United flight.'

'What source fed you that dangerous info., Jeb?'
enquired Sam quietly.

'I don't name informants.'

'OK, clam up. We're just talking.'

'When I heard that,' Galloway rattled on, 'I called
someone I know inside the American Embassy in
London. He was at London Airport when the flight
landed. They transferred to a Swissair flight for Zurich. So-called diplomats.'

'And the guy you have in place - to quote your own
words. Where might he be?'

'In Zurich, of course,' Galloway said with a smile of self-satisfaction.

Sam lit a cigarette. Galloway pursed his lips. He didn't
allow smoking in his office, but Sam was a law unto
himself. Sam eyed Galloway shrewdly. He was
wondering how he could persuade him to stop playing
the power game.

'Better watch your step, Jeb,' he advised. 'All this
intrigue you're tangled in. If Brad gets just one hint of
what you're up to your ass will end in a sling.'

'I know what I'm doing. I need to know what's going
on.'

Sure you do, Sam thought, but what
are
you doing?

The phone message which had come through while
Tweed was talking to Monica was slipped under his door
by a member of the Gotthard's staff. Tweed opened the
envelope, read the typed sheet inside and half-closed his
eyes. Paula knew something had happened which was
making him think furiously. He handed it to her.
'Read it, then show it to Bob and Philip.'

I
am sorry I have to cancel our date for tonight. Something urgent cropped up. Can we meet same place same time tomorrow instead. Again, apologies. Love. Jennie
Blade.

'She does leave it till the last minute,' Paula remarked
as she handed it to Newman, who scanned it, passing it
on to Cardon.

'The last minute is the significant factor.' Tweed went on talking before she could react. 'One key to this whole grim business is Newman's friend, Joel Dyson. I suspect
everything started with him . . .'

'Acquaintance, not friend,' Newman said sharply.

'Just listen, I hadn't finished. Paula was always good at
art, drawing portraits. Do you think, Bob, you could
describe Dyson to Paula while she makes a sketch, an
identikit picture?'

'I could try,' Newman agreed.

'I can use some of the good notepaper in that hotel
folder,' Paula suggested. 'Pity I haven't a piece of char
coal. I'd get a much better result with that

'This do?' Cardon produced a short stick of charcoal.
'I use it to darken my eyebrows when I'm changing my
appearance.'

'Now I can get to work. You seem to carry everything
on you . . .'

Newman sat on the arm of the chair Paula occupied,
began to give her a description and she made bold
strokes on her paper with the charcoal. 'Nose a bit
longer,' he said at a later stage.

While they were working on the identikit sketch
Tweed took out his notebook, started writing down
names and linking them. Cardon watched over his
shoulder, fascinated.

Joel Dyson - Julius Amberg
-
Gaunt - Jennie Blade - Eve Amberg (Royston)
-
Amberg
-
Helen Frey
-
Klara - Theo
Strebel, Eve's detective
-
Gaunt? - Norton. Cornwall:
Gaunt - Eve Amberg - Helen Frey. Washington: Dillon -
Barton Ives, Special Agent FBI-Norton.

'It's beginning to link up,' Tweed remarked.

'Darned if I can see how,' Cardon commented.

'You might - if you bear in mind most of them are not
what they seem.'

'You've lost me...'

'Bob says this is Joel Dyson,' Paula said, bringing her third sketch.

The very image of the little creep,' Newman said,
joining them.

'Good,' Tweed told Paula. 'You've done very well.
Now tomorrow we need six small photocopies of that
sketch.'

'I noticed there was a photocopying firm in Rennweg,'
she recalled. 'I'll go there and get six reduced in size
copies.'

'Why reduced?' Cardon asked her.

'Because the result will be clearer if you reduce it. If
you enlarged it the detail would begin to disappear.'

'And,' Tweed told Cardon, 'I want every one of us to have a copy. I'm convinced Dyson is still in Zurich. This
way whoever encounters him - if anyone does - will
recognize him instantly. Paula, could you make a second
copy of that sketch?'

'I'm sure I can. Why?'

'Joel Dyson is on the run. My guess is he's running for
dear life. So he may well try to disguise himself. He's had
time to take the obvious precaution - to grow a small moustache. Can you add that to the second sketch? Then
get the Rennweg printer to run off six copies of each
version?'

'It will only take minutes,' she said.

'And I'll accompany her,' Newman announced. 'Dillon
told us before he leapt aboard that tram that the opposition
has photos of Tweed - and of Paula.'

'Don't leave her side for a moment,' Tweed ordered.

Cardon had just left the room after saying he was going
to have a quick bath when the phone rang. Tweed raised his brows, glanced at Newman, let it ring several times before he answered.

'Yes, who is it?'

'Tweed?' a hoarse voice said. 'Cord here. I've got a bad
cold, goddamnit.. .'

'You do sound awful...'

'Tweed, do you want to meet Barton Ives or is this a bad
time? I can send him along to the Gotthard now.'

'Do it,' Tweed agreed and then the connection was
broken.

He put down the phone slowly. 'At long last we are
about to meet Barton Ives, unless he changes his mind.
He's also running for his life. We mustn't overwhelm him
with too many people.'

He reached for the phone, called Cardon, Butler and
Nield in their rooms. He gave each the same instruction.

'From now on don't come to my room or approach me. Your first priority is still our protection - but stay in the
background. . .'

They waited thirty minutes and no one arrived. Tweed
was still studying his list of people whom he had linked
together. He checked his watch, folded the sheet he had
torn from his notebook, slipped it into his wallet and stood
up.

'You don't think he's coming after all?' Paula suggested.

'I was doubtful from the beginning. He's survived so far
by staying in deep cover. It takes a great effort of will to
emerge into the open in that sort of situation. I'm hungry. They serve marvellous food in the Hummer Bar restaur
ant. We'll go down, the three of us, and eat
...'

Tweed was locking his door as Newman strolled slowly
down the corridor. He stretched a hand across his face, a
mannerism Paula had noted when he was puzzled by
something.

She brought up the rear as Tweed followed Newman. It
was very quiet in the corridor as they headed for the lift. A man was walking towards them with a deliberate tread. As
he passed Newman Paula automatically noticed that he
was of medium height and athletic build. He had a large
head, was clean-shaven and his dark hair was cut short. His
eyes, under thick brows, were blue and penetrating. He
reached out a hand as Tweed was passing him, grasped his arm.

Paula's hand was inside her shoulder-bag, gripping the butt of her .32 Browning in a flash. Newman had swung
round, had taken three swift strides and pressed the muzzle
of his Smith & Wesson into the stranger's spine.

'You wanted something?' Newman snapped.

'Hold it, fellas,' he whispered. He stretched out both
hands and his square-tipped fingers touched the walls.
'Cord said it would be OK. I'm Special Agent Barton Ives,
FBI.'