The Power

16

The move to the Hotel Gotthard, only a short distance behind the Schweizerhof, had been completed by eight in the evening. Tweed arrived in his room, threw back the lid of his case, went down to the bar. He ordered a glass of champagne, paid for it and began exploring the hotel.

With the glass in his hand he appeared to be looking for someone. He tipped some of the contents into a plant pot and continued checking on the few people who sat in the lounge area. No one suspicious anywhere, no sound of an American voice.

Strolling slowly along he passed a man sitting in a chair reading a paper. A slim individual, smartly dressed, he glanced up, folded his paper, followed Tweed to a quiet area near the cheaper restaurant fronting on the Bahnhofstrasse.

'Excuse me, sir. Have you a light?'

Tweed tensed, turned round slowly. The slim man was clean-shaven, his dark hair slicked back over his head. About thirty years old, he held a cigarette in his hand. Tweed continued staring at him as he reached for the lighter he carried for other people's cigarettes.

As he ignited it the man leaned forward, holding one hand to shield the flame although there wasn't a current of air in the place. The man took his time getting his cigarette lit and it was then Tweed saw the open folder held in the palm of the extended hand, the printing inside below a photo of himself.

Federal Police. P. Schmidt. A visiting card had been attached in the lower half with Sellotape. With the compliments of Arthur Beck.

'Thank you, sir,' the slim man said. 'It's very quiet here. February, I expect…'

Tweed went back up in the lift with mixed feelings. It was very good of Beck to post one of his men inside the hotel. But it also indicated that Beck was worried about their safety.

He inserted the key into his door, opened it, reached for the switch to illuminate the room before entering it. On the carpeted floor was a long white envelope which had been slipped under the door.

Tweed closed and locked the door. Using a penknife, he slit open the envelope carefully. There was one sheet of folded paper inside. No address at the top and a brief hand-written message.

Call me from a safe phone at this number… Between 8p.m. and 8.15p.m. this evening. Dillon

He was startled. Dillon must either be staying in the hotel, as he had suggested he should – or he had observed their arrival. Tweed checked his watch. 8.08p.m. He had seven minutes to reach an outside phone. Picking up the phone he dialled Butler's room number.

Tweed here. Harry, we have to go out. Very fast…'

'I'm on my way…'

Tweed had his overcoat on when Butler arrived wearing a padded windcheater. He opened the front, whipped a 7.65-mm. Walther automatic out of a hip holster, grinned and replaced the weapon. Tweed waited until they were hurrying on foot up the Bahnhofstrasse in a bitterly cold night before he asked the question.

'Where the hell did you get that? We ditched all weapons on our way to Newquay Airport.'

'By courtesy of Chief of Police Beck. You didn't see the canvas hold-all he handed to Paula after you'd left the car outside the Schweizerhof?'

'No, I damn well didn't.'

'It contained Walthers for Pete Nield and me, a. 32 Browning automatic for Paula and a Smith amp; Wesson for Newman. Plus ammo for all the guns. Paula guessed what was in the hold-all, passed it to Newman before she followed you inside. There were also special certificates to carry a firearm, signed by Beck, for each of us.'

For Butler it was a long speech. By the time he had ended it they had arrived at the down escalator into Shopville. Tweed's only reply was a grunt. He liked people to keep him informed but it had been a rush, moving to the Gotthard.

At that time of night the underground complex was quiet and few people were about. Tweed deliberately didn't glance inside the phone cubicles which were occupied. If one contained Cord Dillon he wasn't risking drawing attention to him.,

'I won't be long,' he told Butler as he entered an empty cubicle.

He dialled the Zurich number, standing sideways. Butler was taking an apparent interest in a closed vegetable shop opposite.

'Who is it?' Dillon's voice asked brusquely.

'Tweed here. Got your message…

'Just listen. Special Agent Barton Ives is in town. He will try to contact you if it's safe…'

'Why did he leave the States? I need some data…'

'He was investigating a chain of serial murders in Tennessee, Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, Georgia and Florida. All of them women. Raped, murdered

'So why would he need to flee to Europe?'

'Ask him. Got to go now. Zurich is swarming with Norton's gunmen. I have a hunch Norton will be here soon, may be already. Then the earthquake rocks Zurich.'

'Cord, how on earth do these serial murders link up with what's going on…'

'Not over the phone. Ask Barton. Stay under cover. I'm doing just that…'

'Since we don't know what Norton looks like it doesn't help to know we may be enjoying his company…'

'No one enjoys that. They just end up dead. Got to go…'

Again the line was cut before Tweed could ask him a vital question. The abrupt termination of the call worried Tweed as he walked back to the Gotthard with Butler. Dillon was a tough character and he'd never known him be scared of anyone before. This Norton must be quite something.

Norton was waiting at London Airport when United flight 918 landed from Washington. He stood among a small crowd of people who were waiting to greet arrivals. Alongside him stood a porter holding a large heavy envelope Norton had given him together with a?20 tip.

Marvin Mencken appeared first followed by four of his men. A tall well-built man, Mencken had a cadaverous face and behind his back he was nicknamed 'the Skeleton'. Wearing a dark blue trench coat and carrying his bag, his narrow foxy eyes swept the concourse as he paused.

That's him,' Norton told the porter. 'The one in a dark blue trench coat.'

The porter, who had been given very precise instructions, hurried forward. Sidling his way between people he stopped in front of Mencken, presented him with the envelope.

'I've been asked to hand you this.'

'Who by?' Mencken flashed back, his eyes darting round the concourse as he took the envelope. 'Point him out to me.'

'Not part of my instructions, sir…'

'Look, you bum…' Mencken had dropped his bag, his hand grasped the porter by the shirt collar. 'You're goin' to point him out to me. Then you get fifty dollars. Play dumb and I'll tear your throat out.'

The porter, scared stiff, gulped. Indignation overtook fear. This was his airport. Reaching up, he dug his fingernails deep into the back of the hand holding him. Mencken let go, was about to tread hard on one of the porter's feet when his victim spoke.

'Any more of this and I'm calling Security. I can see the Chief over there.'

'Get lost,' Mencken snarled.

He couldn't afford trouble here – especially if Norton was watching him. He ripped open the envelope. Inside were forty one-way Swissair tickets to Zurich, a wad of banknotes, high Swiss denominations, and a typed instruction.

Board the flight with your friends. At Zurich you receive fresh orders.

The instruction ended with a flourishing 'N' written in ink. Norton. Mencken gritted his teeth. Sara Maranoff had told him in her curt way that he was second in command to Norton. Which was something he didn't appreciate. Especially as he had no idea what Norton looked like. Always just an abrasive voice on the phone.

Mencken had divided his group of forty men into sections of five, each with a leader. He began to distribute five tickets to each section leader, gave them the instruction for arrival in Zurich.

'You hang around the carousel at Kloten. I may give you orders then. Or I may wait till we hit the concourse. Just depends the mood I'm in. Well, look at the time – move ass…'

'I've made an appointment to see Walter Amberg at the Zurcher Kredit Bank in Taistrasse,' Tweed announced.

They were all having an excellent breakfast at a long table in La Soupiere. This was the high-class dining-room on the first floor of the Schweizerhof. Having slept at the Gotthard they had wandered round to the Schweizerhof in pairs. It confirmed the impression they were staying at the hotel.

At Tweed's suggestion, the previous evening at nine o'clock Newman and Butler, carrying keys to all their six rooms, had paid a brief visit to the Schweizerhof. Each had taken three rooms, had then pulled back the covers, kicked off their shoes and rolled in the beds, rumpling sheets and pillows. This further confirmed the impression to the management that they were sleeping there.

'Waiter is the twin of poor Julius,' Paula recalled in a whisper.

'The identical twin. Seen together you couldn't tell them apart,' Tweed agreed. 'The Swiss do have a sense of humour. Julius and Walter used to wear exactly the same outfits – so often their own staff got them mixed up.'

'And does Walter know about Julius's murder?' Paula asked in the same low voice.

'No. Which is unfortunate. No one – even Buchanan -had thought of asking who should be informed. I think the Chief Inspector was too appalled by the scale of the massacre. I shall have to break the news to Walter. Would you like to come with me?'

'Yes, please,' said Paula. 'Had Julius a wife?'

'He had, but I don't know her address. I did think of trying to get hold of it – but it's hardly the type of news you want to tell people over the phone.'

'A Swiss wife?' queried Paula, her curiosity aroused.

'No, English as a matter of fact. Much younger than her husband was. I think her name is Eve. Walter will have to undertake that unpleasant task. Walter is Chairman – Julius was Chief Executive, the man who really ran the bank and its various branch offices.'

'Is Walter up to it?' asked Newman. To taking over and running the organization?'

'No idea.' Tweed polished off his bacon and eggs, pushed his plate back. 'You know, Paula, among all the things which have happened one stands out, puzzles me.'

'And that is?'

'Why, after shooting down Julius Amberg at Tresillian Manor, did the assassin throw acid all over his face? Not for revenge – we're not dealing with that kind of enemy. So why the acid?'