The Power

21

Walking briskly into the Oval Office Sara Maranoff knew the moment she saw the President that he was expecting a visit from his latest girl friend, Ms Hamilton. Bradford. March was freshly shaven, wore a smart grey suit, had a bottle of champagne in the ice bucket.

'Senator Wingfield has asked to come and see you.'

That friggin' wooden Indian? Stall the bastard Tell him I'm up to my neck in paperwork for a new bill. Oh, I didn't tell you, Ms Hamilton is calling on me in half an hour. See I'm not disturbed while we talk.'

'Sure, boss.' Sara's expression suggested it was news to her. And she liked the word 'talk'. He wouldn't waste time talking to her. 'Norton is on the line,' she went on. 'Sounds to be in a hurry.'

'Does he? I'm in a hurry – for him to finish the jobs he was sent out to do. Put him on the line

'Norton here. We're closing in on Tweed. Nearly got him today…'

'Nearly! You mean the pest is hospitalized?'

'Not exactly. I've thought up a new angle to fix him for all time. Thought you'd like a bulletin…'

'Oh, you're issuing bulletins now, are you?' Livid, March leaned across the desk, shouting down the phone. 'For bulletin I read bullshit. The only bulletin I want from you is that Tweed, Dyson, Ives and Dillon are all gone to join the fathers they never had. How is Mencken working out?'

'He takes orders…'

'More calls like this and you will be taking orders from him.. .'

He crashed down the phone and Sara shuddered inwardly. If Brad went on like that he was going to shatter the instrument. It would be expensive replacing that special private phone. Sara was money-conscious; She tried another tack.

'I just heard you've recalled Ambassador Anderson from Switzerland. That you're sending out Mike Gallagher in his place.'

'I congratulate you on your source of information,' March said sarcastically.

'Anderson is an experienced diplomat. Gallagher is raw, a rough diamond. He could cause trouble, the language he uses.'

'Gallagher is a man I trust. Anderson has been interfering with things that don't goddamn concern him. He is out. Out!'

'Gallagher hasn't left the States yet. You could change your mind. I would if I were you…'

'But you're not me!' March roared at her. 'When you're sitting in this chair you can decide who goes where. And Gallagher contributed plenty to my election campaign.'

She sighed. Normally she could handle Brad, but there were times when he acted like a maddened bull. This was one of them. Time to change his mood. A reference to Ms Hamilton, bringing her back into his thoughts, should do the trick.

'Another bottle of champagne – to oil the works?' she suggested.

March glared at her and Sara realized her tactic had misfired. He pointed a short stubby finger across the room.

'The door is there. Walk. Preferably through it without opening it…'

'Thank you, Sara,' said Senator Wingfield. 'Don't worry about it. I know you tried.'

He put down the phone in the room at his Chevy Chase residence where the Three Wise Men were gathered. The banker and the elder statesman, nursing their drinks at the round table, watched the Senator as he joined them. Wingfield shook his head regretfully.

'I'm sorry, gentlemen. The President refuses to see me at the Oval Office. Some nonsense about paperwork piling 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 charcoal. 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 restaurant. 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 amp; 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.'