The Power (48 page)

'Go on, spit it out, Sara,' he snapped.

'Tom Harmer, who contributed a sizeable proportion
of the big bucks you sent to Europe by courier, has been
on the phone.'

'So Tom wants what?' he demanded.

'The money he gave you back. Apparently a large loan
he took out has been called in. Needs the money back
inside fourteen days.'

'Does he now.' March hitched up his pants and smiled unpleasantly. 'You've got those photos of Tom screwing
that bimbo - use one of them. Tom's wife would find
them interesting souvenirs on her coming wedding anniversary.'

'You mean send one to her? Brad, that will get you no
place.'

'Slept badly last night, did you? Wake up, Sara. I mean
you send a copy - choose a good one yourself - to his
office marked for his confidential and personal attention.
Soon as it's arrived call him. Ask him how he likes his
picture. Then tell him the money he gave was a contribu
tion to party funds, can't be sent back.'

'I think he's desperate, Brad. He has to repay that loan
or he's in deep trouble.'

That's his problem. Handle it the way I told you.'

Sara, her black hair perfectly coiffured, wore a plain
grey dress belted at the waist. As long as she looked neat
she never bothered much about clothes. March's 'hatchet'
woman from his early days of obscurity in the South, she
tried to watch every angle to protect her boss. She bit on the end of her pen,
decided to take the plunge.

'I hear a team of Unit One has returned from Europe, a
large team. At your request to Norton, I
presume.'

'So what?' March demanded impatiently.

'I didn't know they were taking over the duties of the
Secret Service. You never consulted me.'

It was a tradition that the President's safety was in the
sole hands of the Secret Service. They sent men ahead to any destination the President was flying to, checking out
the lie of the land in advance, with full
powers to override
the local police. They were professionals to their
fingertips.

'That's right,' March said off-handedly. 'As from today
those Secret Service types are out. They seem to think they
can run my life. Unit One takes over from them. And you're right again -I didn't consult you.'

'I don't like
it...'

'Don't recall asking you to like it. That's the way it's going to be. Unit One types are tougher than the Secret
Service. My own ruthless boys. I want men I can trust
around me.'

'They haven't the experience of the Secret Service,' she
persisted.

'They shoot on sight. They don't monkey around. I like
their attitude. And I tell
them
what to do.'

'I think it's a mistake
. . . .'

'You're due for a break.' March leaned against a wall,
ankles crossed, hands shoved inside his baggy trouser
pockets. 'Go climb Mount Rushmore. Drop off it.'

Sara gave up, said nothing. There was a time when he'd
listened to her. All of the time. The phone rang. The
private line. She answered it, put her hand over the
mouthpiece.

'Norton on the line.'

He raised his thick eyebrows, walked slowly towards
her, grinned. He stroked her strong-boned face with his
index finger. He grinned at her again.

'I know I'm an old grouch. Pals again? Don't know what
I'd do without you. Let's hope Norton's cleaned up.'

He took the phone and waited until she'd left the office.
Sara's head was spinning. One moment she could kill him,
then he turned on the charm and she knew she'd go on
being his right arm.

'President March here,' he said in a cold voice. 'You've
got the two items I'm waiting for?'

'Not yet, but I'm close .: .' Norton began.

'Close to Mencken taking over from you. Norton, how
many of the four targets have you hit?'

Taking twenty men away from me back to Washington
hasn't helped ...'

'Bullshit. You still have over thirty under your control. What do you need? The friggin' Army? Norton!' March
shouted. 'This is final. You have ten days to bring me those
two items. In case your memory is failing, you'll recognize
the film in the first few seconds when you see who is on it.
You then switch it off. On the tape you will hear a
hysterical girl screaming because she's seen fire. She's in no danger but as a kid she had to run out of a burning building.
Soon as you hear screaming you switch off the tape. Bring
them both to me. Got it now?'

'Nothing wrong with my memory, Mr President.. .'

'So maybe you lack guts. Now you listen and listen good.

You have ten days to take out that Brit Tweed, Ives, Joel
Dyson and Cord Dillon. To remove them from the face of
the earth. It's March 3. That ten days includes today.
That's your deadline. I stress the word "dead" ...'

March put down the phone, took out a handkerchief,
mopped his brow and his thick neck. He was sweating like
a bull. Within twenty-four hours of handing over to him the film and tape Norton would suffer an accident. A fatal one.

'We may well be close to the moment of decision,' Tweed
said. 'Tomorrow we take the train to Colmar and go up into the Vosges. We'll have an advantage there we've
lacked so far.'

He had phoned Beck, had thanked him for saving their
lives. He'd had to take a gentle lecture from the Swiss
about the risk of leaving the hotel. In his bedroom he was outlining his plan of action to Newman and Paula.

'What advantage?' Paula queried.

'So far it's been like street righting - we've been in cities,
not sure where the opposition would strike at us
next. Out
in the open we'll see them coming - in the mountains.'

'When we go up to see Amberg at the Château Noir?'
Newman suggested.

Earlier, Tweed had told them of his conversation over lunch with Eve. He had recalled the information she had
given him about Amberg leaving for France. Newman was dubious when Tweed confirmed that was their destination.

'Here we have Beck's protection,' he pointed out. 'The
moment we cross into France we're on our own. There
appears to be a huge apparatus operating against us. Have
you any idea who is controlling it? If it's the film and the tape Dyson brought here, what could be on it to cause all
these deaths?'

'I've no idea. That's why I'm going to see Amberg. I'm
convinced he's taken the film and the tape with him.
Maybe he's been threatened - so he's using possession of the film and the tape to stay alive. That's one thing.'

'What's another?' Newman asked.

'I'm determined to watch that film, to listen to that tape.
I've phoned Monica and she's been in touch with Crombie,
who's supervising clearing the rubble at Park Crescent.'

'Why?' Paula queried.

'Because he's still digging for my safe - which has the copies of the film and the tape inside it. No sign of it yet.'

'I'd also like to know what Cardon has been up to,'
Newman remarked. 'We hardly saw him in Zurich.'

'Then let him tell you. I'll get him along here now.'

Tweed grabbed the phone, dialled Cardon's room
number, asked him to come at once. He looked at New
man when he put down the receiver.

'You want to know. Ask him yourself.. .'

Tweed stood staring out of the window while they
waited. An incredibly huge oil tanker was moving upriver.
Along its deck was a network of pipes and warning notices.
Newman let in Cardon when he knocked on the door.

'The floor is yours,' Tweed said, moving around
restlessly.

'Philip,' Newman began, 'we're interested in what you spent your time doing in Zurich.'

'Using the photocopy of Joel Dyson Paula helped to produce. Criss-crossing Zurich hour after hour. Looking
for Dyson.' Cardon grinned. 'Then I found him.'

'You did!' Paula exclaimed. 'Where? Why didn't you
grab him? He can probably tell us all we desperately need
to know.'

'Hold your horses.' Cardon smiled at her. 'I spotted him
getting into a cab in Bahnhofstrasse. Couldn't grab him
when the cab was moving, could I?'

'You lost him, then?'

'I said hold your horses,' Cardon went on patiently. 'I
took another cab, followed him to Kloten Airport. Lots of
people about - a plane had just come in. Plus security men.
Again, couldn't just walk up and stick a gun in his ribs.'

'I suppose not,' Paula agreed. 'What happened next?'

'The only thing that could happen. I watched him check
in. I was close behind him. He had one case. He really has a
foxy-looking face.'

'He's a creep!' Newman snapped.

'Do get on with it,' Paula urged, knowing Cardon was
playing with her.

'He'd worked it so he just had time to catch his flight.
Without a ticket - and no time to get one -I couldn't follow
him through Passport Control and Customs. Guess what his destination was.'

'The planet Mars,' Paula said in exasperation.

'Not quite as far as that. His destination was Basle. He's
somewhere in this city.'

Paula looked stunned. Newman suggested a course of
action immediately.

'Let's trawl Basle like we did Zurich. Philip came up trumps there eventually. We all have photocopies of the sketch of Dyson.'

'No,' said Tweed. 'Beck told us to stay in the hotel. We
ignored his advice - at least, I did. The result? I came
within a hair's breadth of getting us all killed. Basle, like
Zurich, is a big city. Within a few hours - tomorrow
morning - we leave for Colmar. I'm not risking anyone's
life again in this city.'

'What about the weapons we're carrying?' Cardon quer
ied. 'Won't Beck want them back?'

'Significantly, knowing we will be venturing into France,
he hasn't mentioned them. And Arthur Beck never forgets
a thing.'

'But we'll be crossing a frontier,' Paula reminded him.

'Bob, you remember when we once went to Colmar? It's
the most curious set-up at the station here. You walk direct
from the Swiss Bahnhof into the French station. If we catch
a train at eleven in the morning there should be no one manning either control point. There wasn't before.'