The Power

14

It was dark as they waited close to Padstow harbour. Newman sat with Paula alongside him in his Mercedes. Cardon had taken over the wheel of the Escort. Butler and Nield had taken the Sierra – but at that moment they were both outside, watching the phone box with Tweed inside it.

A storm had blown up, the sea was in a rage. Paula got out of the Merc., leaned in to speak to Newman.

'I'm going to get a closer look. It's really wild tonight.'

'I'll come with you,' Newman said, jumping out of his seat.

They walked near the edge of South Quay, but not too close. The gale nearly blew them off their feet. Fascinated, Paula watched the boats in the outer harbour swaying and tossing. Huge waves rolled in, crashed against the rear wall, exploded in a burst of surf and spume rising way up above the wall. One smaller craft looked as though it was going to be upended at any moment.

Newman grasped her arm to prevent her getting any nearer to the brink. She glanced over her shoulder where the interior light shone down on the occupant of the telephone box.

Tweed had dialled the Surrey mansion, was put through very quickly to Monica. He spoke rapidly.

'Short of time. Monica, I want you to prepare a profile on a man called Gaunt. Lives at Tresillian Manor on Bodmin Moor. You won't hear from me for some time, but don't worry.'

'What the hell is going on?'

It was the first time he'd ever heard her swear. Even on the phone he could sense her tension – a tension which probably pervaded the whole mansion.

'No idea yet,' he answered. 'Now, put me on to Howard…

Tweed, are you all right?' were Howard's first words.

'Yes. We're moving on. Had a word with the PM yet?'

'No, we're completely cut off from the outside world -which is an eerie feeling. I did get one thing out of that fool of a private secretary when I threatened to go up to Downing Street. He said I wouldn't be admitted, that there's a major terrorist hunt in progress. I can't imagine what he's talking about.'

Then you haven't got much imagination, Tweed thought. He had a pad and a pen at the ready.

'Can you give me Commander Crombie's private number? I may need to contact him.' He scribbled down figures of a phone number in London. 'Thanks. Now listen, Howard, you may not hear from me again for a while. Don't worry about it. I'll be in a safe place with my team.'

'Well, I hope you know what you're doing. Where is this safe place?'

'Sorry, I'm leaving no forwarding address. Must go…'

'Wait! I've just remembered. Had a call from Cord Dillon. Take down this number… Got it? He must be in Switzerland. He wants you to call him urgently. Gave me different times. Half a sec. Just checked my watch. You could get him now, allowing for the time difference. There are only fifteen-minute periods during the times he gave me.'

'I'd better get off this line, then…'

'But I need to know where I can get in touch with you.'

'No forwarding address…'

Tweed put down the phone, fished in his pocket. He needed more coins. The wind nearly hurled him back inside the box as he emerged. Battling against the gale he beckoned to Butler and Nield as Paula and Newman came back to the Merc. Tweed climbed into the back, called out brusquely.

'I need all the change you've got to make a long-distance call. Hurry it up

'Not another call?' Paula exclaimed. 'Maybe we'd better set up a coffee and sandwich bar for you inside that box,' she teased.

'It's not funny. Just give me the change. Cord Dillon is waiting for me to ring. Sounds like a fugitive, from the way Howard reported it. The Deputy Director of the CIA -something is terribly wrong…'

Armed with a large collection of coins Tweed returned to the box. The first number Howard had passed to him was 010.41. Switzerland. Followed by 1. Zurich. Followed by the rest of the numbers. The operator put him through quickly and he began listening to the ringing sound. He checked his watch. He was damned close to the end of the fifteen-minute period.

'Who is this calling?'

Dillon's abrasive American voice. No doubt about it.

'Tweed here. I got your message from Howard…'

'Where are you calling from? I can't hang about here much longer

'Public phone box…'

'Like me. In Shopville. Just listen. Joel Dyson is here. Still alive. Least he was when I spotted him, then lost the guy. So is Special Agent Barton Ives, FBI. Again I go and lose him. At least he's here.'

'You're staying at…

The place you suggested. No names. Don't see how they can tap every goddamn phone in this country, but you just never know.'

'Cord…'

'I said just listen. I'm filling you in on the situation. Too many Americans here who don't look like tourists. I guess they're after Dyson. Ives, too.'

Tell me about this Barton Ives…'

'Not over the phone. Maybe we can meet some place some day. If I'm still walking around…'

'Cord. You may see me sooner than you think. Keep under good cover

…'

'What is good cover in this situation? Got to go. Hang in there, Tweed…'

There was a click. Tweed sighed, pushed open the door as another gale-force gust tried to slam it shut on him. He walked back to the Merc, with his head bowed, followed by Butler and Nield, and dived inside the back. The wind closed the door for him. Paula twisted round in the front passenger seat.

'It's quite a night. You should see what's happening in the harbour.'

'Which is exactly what I shouldn't see. Bob, get moving. You've found St Mawgan, Paula?'

'I can take us straight'there.'

'That will be a miracle.'

Paula didn't reply. Tweed was tauter than a guitar string.

Newman drove along the A389 once he was clear of Padstow. Cardon followed in the Escort and the Sierra, with Butler at the wheel and Nield beside him, brought up the rear. The wind beat against the side of the Merc., bent over hedges as though intent on tearing them up by the roots. 'We're heading for Wadebridge,' Tweed called out.

'We could have taken a side road and come out on the A39 much further west.'

'Who is the bloody navigator?' Paula snapped. She'd had enough of Tweed's brusqueness. 'I'm keeping us on A-roads. On a night like this we don't want to be driving on windy B-roads. Not until we have to later.'

'She's right,' Newman said. 'I'm driving and this is a big car to take down narrow country roads on a night like this.'

'Sorry, Paula,' said Tweed, who realized he'd been sharp with her. 'I'll leave the two of you to get us there.'

Tweed was enduring a mixture of emotions – impatience to reach their ultimate destination and anxiety about the safety of Cord Dillon.

'What about accommodation for the night?' Paula queried after a while. 'Did you manage to fix up rooms for the night at St Mawgan?'

'Yes. The Falcon Inn only has four rooms but we will cope somehow.'

'One for you,' Newman said, 'one for Paula. I'll share with Cardon and Butler and Nield won't mind sharing the other. It's a nice place, the Falcon, Paula, and just about the most difficult place on earth to find.'

'The latter being the main reason why you chose it?' Paula asked Tweed over her shoulder.

'Partly,' he said and relapsed into silence.

Paula guided them to the right on to the A39, another good wide road, and they drove on through the night, meeting no other traffic, the wind still hammering the car. Later she guided them off the A39 with a fresh right turn on to the Newquay road, the A3059. She soon warned Newman they had to keep a lookout for a side road. It was Tweed who spotted the turning.

'Right here,' he called out. 'We're getting close now to where we turn off yet again…'

Paula was conscious they were getting into very remote country. They drove down a steep narrow winding hill and Tweed warned Newman to crawl. He then completed answering Paula's question.

'St Mawgan is close to what is called Newquay Airport. We are booked to catch the 11.05 flight to Heathrow. It arrives at 12.15 p.m. During one of my visits to that phone box I called this airport, booked our seats in our own names.'

'Was that wise?' Paula ventured.

'It was deliberate. I am leaving a trail for the enemy to follow. I want him out in the open, where I can see him, identify him – and deal with him,' Tweed concluded grimly.

At St Mawgan it was nine o'clock at night. In Washington it was four in the afternoon as Jeb Galloway, Vice President, paced slowly round his office while his aide waited for him to speak.

'I'm secretly in touch with someone in Europe to find out what the hell is going on, Sam,' Galloway said eventually. 'The difficulty was to find someone I could totally trust, but I think I found the man.'

Galloway, forty-five years old, was six feet tall and heavily built. Clean-shaven, with fair hair, he was dressed immaculately in a blue Brooks Brothers business suit. Strong-featured, he had a long nose, grey eyes and a determined mouth and well-shaped jaw.

'That could be dangerous, sir,' Sam suggested. 'You've sent this emissary to Europe on a secret mission without the President's knowledge?'

'He was there already. He contacted me. I've also had a talk with a top gun in the establishment. He also approached me. He's as worried as I am about the mounting world crisis. And March doesn't give a damn.'

'Isn't this possibly a catastrophic move?' Sam persisted.

'If Brad March ever finds out he'll close all doors to you.'

Galloway smiled wryly, a smile which had made him very popular. It was the smile of a man of integrity and conviction. He waved a large hand as he went on.

'All doors are closed to me now. March doesn't tell me a thing that matters. And I've heard a whisper that he's assembled a secret paramilitary force, his own Praetorian Guard – like a Julius Caesar.'

'Whispers! Sounds like a load of crap. March wouldn't do thatit's against the Constitution.'

'Brad isn't too hot on obeying the Constitution – if some overt move helps him to increase his power.'

'Who are you in contact with in Europe?' Sam asked.

Sam was a short plump man of fifty-eight. He'd had experience of serving under more than one president, knew the pitfalls of the Washington power game. Galloway mentioned a name. Sam looked dubious.

'Wouldn't play poker with that guy. I heard he had to flee to Europe overnight. Some mysterious investigation his new boss in Memphis chopped. That guy is trouble.'

'I'm still keeping in touch. Rare type, Sam – an honest man.'

The Falcon Inn at St Mawgan was a compact building of old grey stone. It stood on the edge of the lane at the very bottom of the steep winding hill. Newman drove the Merc. slowly past it, turned right down a narrow lane alongside the inn.

The car park is a little way from the Falcon,' he explained to Paula. 'Hidden well away behind it.'

His headlights swept over a small village shop, swung to the right. They shone down an even narrower track with ramps.

'This is a pretty lonely spot,' Paula commented.

They had reached a dead end, a forest-shrouded bowl which was the car park. No other vehicles were parked. Behind them Cardon followed in the Escort while Butler and Nield brought up the rear end of their small cavalcade in the Sierra. Newman had switched off his engine but he left on the headlights so Tweed and Paula, climbing out of the car, could see. Paula adjusted her shoulder-bag as she stood in the bitter cold, staring round at the bowl overhung with dense trees rising up slopes.

'Don't like this,' she said. 'It's creepy. And anyone could tamper with the cars while we're asleep in the Falcon.'

'You have a point there,' Tweed agreed. He looked at Butler, Nield and Cardon who had joined them. 'I think we ought to organize a roster among us so someone is always here to guard the cars.'

'You and Paula can get your beauty sleep,' Newman decided. The four of us will take it in turn through the night to sit in the Merc.'

'I've got a better idea,' suggested Butler. The four of us split into twos. I take the Sierra back, park it out front of the inn. That way we have the back and the front under surveillance.'

'Agreed,' said Tweed. 'Now let's go and see what we can get for dinner…'

It was the middle of the night when Butler, slumped behind the wheel of the Sierra parked outside the Falcon, heard a car approaching down the steep hill. He sat up, took a bottle of beer he'd kept for the purpose, swilled some round in his mouth, spat it out of the window he'd opened. Newman was taking his duty stretch in the Merc, in the park behind the inn where he could also keep an eye on the Escort. In the wing mirror Butler saw the headlights of the oncoming car dip. When it stopped close to him he saw it was a cream Chevrolet. He recognized the driver as soon as he stepped out and came over.

It was the big American with dark brows which almost met across his boxer's nose. The American who'd tried to pick a quarrel with Newman in the bar at the Metropole in Padstow.. Butler had seen the Yank as he slipped past the bar entrance on his way with the others to the elevator. But the Yank had not seen him.

'You been here long, buddy?' the American asked.

'Hours. What's it to you? I had a skinful back in the inn and I'm not risking getting caught by a patrol car. So you have a problem, mister?'

'Maybe my approach was wrong.'

'So, we've got that settled. You lost?'

'You know the area?'

The American was eyeing Butler carefully. He leaned inside the window. Butler chose that moment to manufacture a large belch. Beer fumes assailed the American's nostrils. His brutal face showed distaste.

'I asked you a question.'

'I know the area. And I asked you a question, mate.'

'You been here long?' the American persisted.

'I told you. Something wrong with your memory?' Butler snapped.

'Sorry. Wrong approach again. It's a friggin' cold night. I'm looking for a Mercedes 280E. Blue colour. Seen a car like that around here?'

'No.'

'Sure?' the American persisted further.

There you go again. Asking the question I've answered. And you still haven't answered mine. You lost or something?'

'My pal and I – the one in the Merc. – were going to meet with each other. I've lost the note he gave me of the name of the hick place he said he'd wait.'

'I was right, mate,' Butler jeered. 'You are lost.'

'How do I get out of this dump?'

'This is a very small and attractive village. You piss off out of it by driving straight on. Get it?'

The American gave him a savage look, walked back to his Chevrolet, clashed the gears and gunned the motor as he drove off, not giving a damn how many people he woke in the middle of the night.

'And you just missed getting a bullet in your gullet,' Butler said aloud.

He holstered the Walther he'd been holding in his lap under his windcheater. Checking his watch, he saw it was 3 a.m. Nield would be coming to take his turn while Cardon relieved Newman at any moment. He grabbed for his Walther again as a slim figure appeared next to his window. It was Nield.

'Time for your beauty sleep, Harry. Had a restful doze?'

Newquay Airport – several miles outside Newquay itself-was one of the bleakest departure points Paula had ever seen. Perched on a lonely plateau in the middle of nowhere, it was little more than a grassy field crossed by concrete runways. An eight-foot wire fence surrounded it and 'reception' was little more than a single-storey shed. They had found a place they could leave the cars and Tweed had reassured the attendant.

'It's a business trip and we might not be back for some time. All right to leave our cars?'

'At your own risk, guv'nor…'

Newman asked the girl behind the counter the question after they had checked in with their luggage when Tweed had collected and paid for the tickets.

'Yesterday a helicopter buzzed us as Padstow, nearly sank the boat we were in,' he lied smoothly. 'Does anyone ever hire choppers from here?'

'It happens occasionally, sir. Yesterday? I heard two Americans hired a machine for a few hours. It caused a bit of gossip – one of them had a British pilot's licence, which is unusual. And your flight is ready for departure…'

Newman exploded after they had all trudged across to the waiting machine with their luggage. It was a sizeable plane but he pointed at the nose.

' Look at those things!'

'They're propellers,' Tweed said quietly, knowing Newman disliked prop aircraft. 'It will fly, you know.'

'Yes, but will it get there? And we seem to be the only passengers for the 11.05 flight

The Brymon Airways aircraft was in mid-air before Paula looked down on the grey landscape. She was seated next to Tweed who stared ahead grimly.

'A penny for your thoughts. You've been very quiet since Harry Butler told us at breakfast about the reappearance of the American brute.'

'I'm worried and relieved at the same time,' Tweed admitted. 'Staggered that one of them should turn up at an out of the way place like St Mawgan. You realize what that means?'

'No, but you might tell me. I expect you will anyway.'

'For one to arrive in St Mawgan they must have an army of them combing Cornwall for us. '

That's the worry. What's the relief?'

'That I guessed right early on in this sequence of macabre and mass-murder campaigns against us. To operate on such a scale calls for an organization of enormous magnitude. With all this firepower against us the ultimate enemy can only be one source.'

'You're not going to tell me what it is, are you? Before you say it, I'm sure you need more data to be absolutely sure. But where are we going now? London could be a death-trap.'

'It would be exactly that,' Tweed agreed. 'Which is why we're flying on to the one safe haven.'

'I suppose I shouldn't ask where?' Paula remarked.

'Switzerland. Where we have a powerful friend.'