The Power

HUGE IRA BOMB DESTROYS LONDON BUILDING

That's not the significant item. I'll show you in the dining-room.' Butler joined them outside and they took the lift to the ground floor. Tweed held on to Paula's arm, keeping up the fiction that she was an invalid.

In the dining-room Tweed sat with Paula at a table with a panoramic view of the harbour over the grey slate rooftops of the small port. After ordering a substantial breakfast of bacon and eggs he folded the paper, handed it to Paula.

That's the intriguing bit,' he told her, keeping his voice down.

'GHOST' ROADBLOCKS IN WEST COUNTRY LAST NIGHT

Paula read the text below the headline. The gist was that a series of roadblocks had been established on all the main routes out of Cornwall. Motorists had been stopped and told it was a census to check the amount of traffic passing through. The strange twist was that no police force or council office had any knowledge of them.

'What is this weird business?' she asked Tweed.

'Not reassuring,' Tweed replied quietly. 'They – whoever they are – were looking for us. Again it confirms my fear about the extent of the vast network we're up against. To be able to organize something like that so rapidly.' He smiled. 'Enough to put me off my breakfast -but it won't.'

'It's like a noose closing round us,' Paula commented.

'Oh, we'll find a way of eluding them.' Tweed checked his watch. 'I must be at that phone box to call Cord Dillon just after nine thirty.' He glanced across at a distant table where Butler sat with Nield. 'Luckily you'll have some reliable company while I'm away.' 'But I'm coming with you to the phone box,' she insisted.

'Certainly, Paula, I fancy a drive to Bodmin Moor myself,' Newman told her. 'I'd like to get the atmosphere of where this ghastly massacre took place. Odd there's nothing about it in the paper. Meat and drink for the tabloids.'

They were standing outside the phone box while Tweed held the door half open in case someone else tried to use it. Tweed swung round.

'That's something else I find sinister – the absence of any report about the massacre at Tresillian Manor. It looks as though someone has silenced Roy Buchanan – and he's a man not easily silenced.' He looked back the way they had come as Cardon loped towards them, smiling.

'Morning, everyone. What a beautiful day. Sorry to be late but I slept in. I usually do if nothing's happening.'

'Too much is happening,' Tweed snapped.

'Bob is taking me for a drive to Bodmin Moor,' Paula reminded Cardon.

'Can I come too?' Cardon asked. 'Butler and Nield are ample guard for Tweed.' He grinned at Newman. 'Carry your bag, sir?'

'As I told you, we're going to interview one of the servant girls who works at Tresillian Manor,' Paula said. 'I think she might not say a word if too many people arrived. But thank you, anyway, Philip.'

'I could stay with the car if you're keeping it out of sight,' Cardon persisted.

'We'll be doing just that,' Paula agreed.

Take Philip with you,' Tweed ordered. 'I don't like this idea of yours, but as you're being obstinate I'll only let you go if you have two men with you. Now, I must make that phone call…'

At the London end the receiver was lifted swiftly when Tweed had dialled the number. He instantly recognized the distinctive American voice that answered.

'Who is this calling?' Dillon demanded.

'Tweed. Monica said you wanted to talk to me urgently.'

'Monica was dead right. Are you OK? I walked to Park Crescent… Say, where are you calling from?'

'Public phone box…'

'Like me. I said I walked to Park Crescent – saw your building. A hole in the wall. Are you sure you're OK?'

'I wasn't inside when it happened,' Tweed assured him. 'Neither was anyone else. They were warned in the nick of time. Why are you in London?'

'Tweed, I'm on the run. In Washington I'd have ended up on a slab. This is a tough one. Certain people – a small army of professionals – are out to liquidate all of us. They're controlled from the very top. We haven't a hope.'

'Cord, I need to know what it's all about. Up to now I'm in the dark. Shadow-boxing. Give me a lead, for God's sake. Where are you staying?'

'At a crummy little London hotel which I've just left. I can see the entrance from this box. Keep moving is the name of the game. Survival. I called to warn you to do just that – if you want to go on living.'

'Cord, I need data,' Tweed said grimly.

'It's about a guy called Joel Dyson – some film he took, a tape recording he made. That's all I can tell you till we meet some day. If we're both still standing up. Get out of the country, Tweed. One thing I'll give you – the only other American you can trust is a Barton Ives, Special Agent, FBI. He knows it all. I'm on my way. Jesus! I don't even know where I might be safe.'

'Cord.' Tweed spoke with great emphasis. 'Head for Switzerland. For Zurich. Stay at the Hotel Gotthard – same name as the pass south into Italy. It's a three-minute walk from the main railway station.'

'I'll think about it…'

'Don't. Just do it. I'll meet you there when I'm able to make the trip.'

'You could be right. Jesus!' Dillon repeated. 'They are arriving at my hotel. I've left my bag inside a locker at one of the main terminals. Got to go now.'

'Cord…'

'One more thing, Tweed, then I'm moving. You ever meet a man called Norton, shoot him before he kills you…Norton. Got it…?'

The connection was broken.