The Power

22

Tweed unlocked the door, Paula backed into his room, gun pointed at the American, and Newman nudged him inside with the Smith amp; Wesson muzzle. As Tweed followed them, locking the door again, Newman slipped his revolver into his holster, began to feel the captive all over for concealed weapons.

'I'm loaded,' Ives told him. 'Under the left armpit.'

Newman hauled out the weapon. The American also favoured a. 38 Smith amp; Wesson. Paula noted that all his clothes, a business suit under his open trench coat, were of Swiss make. With his neatly trimmed short hair he reminded her of a tough teddy bear.

'I'll need to see some identification,' Tweed told him.

'Can I reach into my breast pocket? You folks sure don't take any chances. That's good

'He's clean now,' Newman said, checking the revolver and slipping it inside his large jacket pocket.

Ives produced a folder, handed it to Tweed, looked at Paula and grinned wearily.

'I could do with a glass of water, if that's permitted.'

She poured him mineral water, handed him the glass. He swallowed the contents with one gulp, sighed with relief. Tweed examined the folder carefully, checked the photo, the details printed behind the plastic cover.

'You do appear to be Special Agent Barton Ives,' he said, handing back the folder. 'Welcome to Zurich. And sit down.'

'You make it sound like I just arrived,' the American commented as he sat in an armchair and crossed his legs. 'Fact is I've been here a while, never staying in one place for more than a night. That gets kinda tiring, I can tell you. Cord sends his regards.'

'Do you mean you've been moving round Switzerland or just inside Zurich?' Tweed enquired, still standing up.

'Zurich and some of the hick places just out of town. I was real worried about this Swiss system which means you've gotta register at a hotel, give them your details.'

'So you were compelled to register under your own name?'

'You think I fled from the States with a bundle of phoney identities?' Ives asked aggressively. He leaned forward. 'I had to run like hell to stay alive, packed one bag and boarded the first flight.'

'How did you recognize me in the hall?' Tweed pressed on. 'There are hardly any photos of me in existence.'

'That was Cord. He described you from your hair down to your toetips. Only way I agreed to take the chance, to come and see you. Cord was very pushy about me seeing you, Tweed.'

Tweed sat down. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. He took his time and Ives, sitting erect, clasped his hands in his lap, waiting patiently. Apart from his Swiss outfit, he was Paula's idea of an FBI agent. Wary, watchful and controlled. Tweed put on his glasses, studied Ives for a moment before he spoke again.

'You said you fled from the States, that you had to run like hell to stay alive. Why? And who was pursuing you?'

Ives looked pointedly at Paula. He switched his gaze to Newman behind him who still held his gun in his hand.

'I can't answer those questions unless we're alone. I know the guy is Robert Newman – seen enough of his pics at one time in papers over pieces he wrote and he hasn't changed.'

'Did Cord advise you to take that attitude?' Tweed asked.

'No, I'm taking the attitude.' Aggressive again. Paula thought she understood: Ives had been staying under cover for some time. This was his first excursion into the open. Despite his outward air of self-control he was probably a bit trigger happy. 'What I have to tell you is confidential, top secret – you name it.'

'Both Paula and Bob are trusted members of my team. You talk in front of them or you just go away somewhere…'

'Cord said you were tough.' Ives waved his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'God help you if any of this strays beyond this room.'

'Is that a threat?' Tweed enquired mildly.

'No, it's stating the situation. You'd become targets for people who never miss.'

They do sometimes,' Tweed observed. 'I'm still waiting. Would you like some coffee? There's plenty left in the pot.'

'I'd be grateful for that.' Ives looked at Paula. 'Very grateful. My mouth feels like the Sahara…'

Tweed waited again while Paula poured a cup. Ives refused sugar or milk. He took the Cup and saucer from her and gulped half the contents down.

'That's better, a whole lot better.' He seemed to relax for the first time since he'd entered the room. 'Well, here goes. I was born and raised in New York, but I was stationed in Tennessee in the South. I was investigating the disappearance of huge sums of money. We thought at first someone was laundering drug money, but now I think the money went into a political fund…'

'Are you talking about bank robberies?' Tweed asked.

'Hell, no. Creative accounting. I'd interview a key witness, get a tape recording of what was said, then the witness would disappear off the face of the earth. I never did find where the bodies were buried.'

'Bodies? Plural?'

'Ten. Including three women.'

'That's mass murder,' Tweed said slowly. He paused. 'But why would the FBI be called in if the crimes were all committed in Tennessee?'

'They weren't. They crossed state lines. That's when the FBI is called in. I'm sure you know that. The trail led me from Tennessee to Mississippi, Louisiana, Oklahoma, New Mexico and Arizona.'

'That's a lot of territory. Earlier you said you thought at first someone was laundering drug money. Who did you mean?'

Ives took a deep breath, sighed. Again he looked at Paula and Newman who were hanging on every word,

'I'm talking about Jeb Galloway, now Vice President of the United States.'

There was a hush in the room. Tweed walked across to the closed curtains, opened them a little, peered out. It had begun to drizzle and the street had a sweaty look. He went back to his chair, sat down and stared at Barton Ives.

'Are you sure about this?' he asked.

'Positive,' Ives snapped.

'I understood Galloway came from the Philadelphia area in the north-east.'

'He does.' Ives smiled bitterly. 'Which was why Bradford March, who is a Southerner, had him on the ticket for the election as running mate. Galloway was able to deliver New York, Pennsylvania and other key states.'

'So what was Galloway's connection with the Southern states where you carried out your investigation?'

'Quite a few years ago Galloway moved his electronics outfit to Phoenix, Arizona. It was the trend. The climate in Arizona was unpolluted, the unions hadn't the tight grip they exercised in the North. The money-laundering operation was controlled from that outfit in Phoenix.'

'And you say this money ended up…'

'In Bradford March's war chest to fight the election. I doubt he knew it was stolen money. What politician enquires too closely the origin of desperately needed funds for a presidential election?'

'And the ten witnesses who disappeared?'

'Were murdered,' Ives corrected. 'Any one of them could have testified to the illegality of the operation. Most of them were married, had families. I even had a witness who saw a woman I'd interviewed dragged into a car late at night. Neither was ever seen again. I was closing in on Galloway when the election took place. That was when I found myself dodging bullets.'

'You mean that literally?'

'I do,' Ives assured him. 'I'd driven back to Memphis to report my findings to my chief, Murcall. I found Murcall had been replaced by a guy I didn't know called Foley. He told me to close my investigation. Orders from Washington. That was just after the election

'You mentioned bullets,' Tweed reminded him.

'Goddamnit! Let me finish my story. It was night. On my way home to my apartment from FBI HQ a red Caddy was following me. In a quiet street it drew alongside. I ducked just in time – they machine-gunned my car. When I got to my apartment a guy slipped into the elevator with me. I shoved my gun into his side, searched him, found he had an automatic. He tried to grab it and I hit him on the head. That was when I packed and took off for the airport.'

'And flew here?' Tweed enquired. 'Why?'

'Switzerland seemed a safe place, but they followed me. Don't ask me how. I'm pretty good at spotting tails. But Galloway has plenty of money. He's used it to hire a lot of people to come after me-'

Ives broke off as the phone rang. Tweed jumped up, answered it.

'Sorry to bother you,' Butler's voice said quickly. 'But I think you'd better come to my room pretty damn fast.'

'I'll come down and collect it.' Tweed turned to face the others. 'There's someone arrived downstairs I must see. But they'd better not see you, Ives. I may be a little while.'

'I'd like to visit the bathroom,' Ives said.

'Certainly,' Newman agreed. 'But I'm coming with you -for protection after what you've told us…'

Tweed waited until the door had closed and he was alone with Paula.

'That was Butler,' he whispered.' Could be bad news. I want you to have your Browning in your hand the whole time I'm away. Anyone knocks on the door after I've gone – don't answer it. When I get back I'll rap on the door like this…' He beat a short tattoo on the top of a desk.

'Is it closing in on us?' Paula asked calmly. 'Maybe since we have Barton Ives.'

'It could be, Hear…'

Afterwards, Tweed was never sure what instinct had made him grab hold of his raincoat before he hurried to Butler's room. He knocked on the door, which was opened a few inches. Butler peered out, swung the door wide open and closed and locked it the moment Tweed was inside. In his right hand he held his Walther.

The room was in darkness. Tweed remained quite still as Butler touched his arm.

'I'll guide you over to the window. Then I'll open the curtains a fraction. You won't like what you see…'

Arriving at the window, Butler pulled open the curtains a few inches. Tweed peered down into Bahnhofstrasse. It was still drizzling, a fine veil which blurred the street lamps. Tweed counted four men standing in the rain and all wore American-style trench coats.

'I see them,'he said grimly.

'There are more,' Butler warned him. 'Pete spotted them first from his window. We count ten men leaning against tree trunks, walls, just inside shop doorways. We are surrounded.'

'So we are.' Tweed mused in the dark. 'We do have in our room a fugitive from the States they've attempted to kill at least twice.'

'I'd like to do something about this,' Butler said. 'We are surrounded,' he repeated.

'Perhaps not. Get your coat on, Harry. I have a phone call to make. From Shopville.'

They'll see you come out. They could be waiting for you.'

'We may not be as surrounded as you think. Ready? Good. There's an exit they may well not know about. A single door leading direct into the Hummer Bar – well away from the main entrance…'

Tweed was proved right. No one waited in the deserted side-street beyond the door leading from the Hummer Bar. They descended into Shopville, Tweed walked into the first empty phone cubicle, dialled Beck's private number at his Berne HQ. The Swiss answered the phone at once.

'Beck…'

'Arthur, Tweed here…'

'There has been a lot of violence in Zurich since I left-'

'I know,' Tweed interrupted him. Talk about that later – an emergency has arisen…'

'Details?'Beck demanded.

'The Gotthard, where we are staying, is practically besieged by ten Americans standing in the drizzle. Wearing belted trench coats, leaning against trees, walls. It may be because someone new has arrived, but I'm not sure about that.'

'They saw you leave?'

'No, they've missed the side-door exit from the Hummer Bar. I'm talking from a Shopville phone.'

'Bloody nerve!' Beck prided himself on his command of the English language. 'I've had enough of them. Fortunately Zurich police HQ is close to the Gotthard. They'll find themselves moved pretty damned quick, and their so-called diplomatic passports won't help them. That's it? Right. I'm calling Zurich now…'

Tweed and Butler returned the way they had come, entering the hotel via the Hummer Bar. They heard the sound of police car sirens before they'd closed the side door. Tweed thanked Butler, went up to his room. When Newman opened the door Ives was standing at the window, peering through a crack in the curtain. Paula sat a distance away, gun in her hand.

'That's sorted out,' Tweed announced. 'So we'll all have a decent meal in the Hummer Bar restaurant…'

A patrol car full of uniformed police stopped in a side street just off Bahnhofstrasse. A lieutenant, followed by his men, ran into Bahnhofstrasse, paused, glanced round. The lieutenant unbuttoned the flap of his holster before he approached a tall, heavily built man wearing a coat and a slouch hat, brim pulled well down against the persistent drizzle. Uniformed police from other patrol cars were flooding into the street.

'You can't stand loitering here,' the police officer told the man. 'We've had a complaint from a Swiss woman – she's frightened to walk along here.'

'Don't ruffle the feathers, buddy,' the man replied with a pronounced American accent. 'I'm a diplomat. You can't touch me.'

He reached inside his pocket, the officer whipped out his gun.

'No call to get nervy,' the American continued. 'I'm showing you my passport.'

The officer flipped open the folder, closed it, handed it back.

'We're not convinced those are genuine. Where are you staying?'

'Baur-en-Ville. Now look here, buddy…'

Then get back inside your hotel now. And don't come out again tonight.'

'Christ! You can't do this

'The Baur-en-Ville. Now! Or I'll haul you off in that police van over there and you can spend the night in a cell. Arrested as a suspect character.,.'

The American swore foully, pulled up his collar, walked off in the direction of the hotel. Other Americans, similarly accosted, were leaving, trudging off through the drizzle which had given the street a surface like a band of wet blue leather. All was quiet in minutes.

In the restaurant Paula sat opposite Ives. She thought he looked more like a teddy bear than ever with his ice-blue button eyes, his closely trimmed brown hair. He looked up from his menu and smiled, the most charming smile. So why did she feel disturbed?

Tweed sat beside her with Newman opposite him. They had a table by the wall with no one near them. Tweed was studying his irienu when he asked Ives the question.

'I heard a rumour that while you were in Memphis you had another job, investigating a spate of serial murders in different states.'

Ives hesitated for a fraction of a second. Paula was watching him, felt he was unsure whether to reveal dangerous information.

'Hell,' Ives addressed Tweed, 'that was one of my failures. I spent months on that grim case, got nowhere. Serial murderers are the most difficult to catch. Murcall, my old boss, switched me to checking Galloway, the embezzlements.'

'Which was not one of your failures,' Tweed observed, 'even though you were later removed from that case.'

He ordered the same as Paula had chosen, filet de fera with boiled potatoes, a fresh salad and mineral water to drink. Ives plumped for lobsters – this was a lobster bar and the German word for lobster was Hummer. Newman once again ordered his favourite dish which he had lived off at main meals since they arrived – emince de veau with rosti potatoes. He drank white wine while Ives ordered half a bottle of Beaujolais. When the waiter had gone Tweed continued asking questions, gazing at Ives.

'Why would Galloway want you killed since you had no evidence strong enough, no witnesses left alive to confront him with in an American court of law?'

'Galloway,' Ives responded promptly, 'is a success in both business and politics. He made it by taking no chances, leaving no loose ends. I'm a loose end.'

Paula sensed Ives was tense. Whenever a new customer entered the restaurant he glanced quickly over his shoulder. Newman was unusually silent. Only Tweed seemed completely relaxed as he glanced slowly round the restaurant.

The dining-room was oblong, divided from the bar with sheets of frosted glass which had Edwardian couples etched on its surface. The main colour motif of the room was red. The ceiling was divided into large crimson panels, the walls were covered with carmine velvet. The small table lamps which provided the main illumination had crimson shades and the tablecloths were pink.

Paula thought it was a daring decor which could so easily have been chichi. But it worked: the whole atmosphere of the Hummer Bar suggested a warm and welcoming intimacy. She felt relaxed – except for an aura of tension which seemed to originate from Barton Ives. She thought she now understood it – Ives probably hadn't relaxed for a second since leaving the States. Now he was finding it difficult to adjust to the pleasant and secure surroundings. Other tables were full but the restaurant wasn't noisy. Just a gentle chatter and the occasional chuckle of pure enjoyment.

'I wonder who those guys were standing about outside in the rain,'Ives said suddenly.

'Doesn't matter now,' Tweed told him. 'They've all gone, I heard. Chased away by the police.'

The police?'

'That was what I heard at reception.'

'You think those characters knew I'd arrived here?'

'I very much doubt it,' Tweed reassured him. 'I expect they were looking for me. Oh, by the way, have you taken a room here in your own name?'

'Had to, didn't I?' Ives flared up. 'I told you – I'm not carrying any phoney papers.'

'I check details,' Tweed told him quietly. 'Our job is to protect you. How is Dillon? And how did you happen to meet him here in Zurich?'

'Jesus Christ! One question at a time.' Ives quietened down. 'Cord is restless, jumps at his own shadow. I met him by accident in Sprungli. He didn't immediately know who I was when I sat opposite him. I was wearing tinted glasses. Damned near fell off his chair when he realized it 'was me.'

'How did you two first meet?' Tweed went on. 'The Deputy Director of the CIA doesn't normally have contact with the FBI. The CIA isn't supposed to operate inside the United States.'

'But they do when it suits them. I found the head man of a sabotage ring Cord was looking for. He was always grateful for that.'

'He would be…'

Their meal arrived and no one spoke as they consumed the excellent food. Paula, who ate quickly, as usual finished first. She watched Ives handling his lavish helping of lobster. When they had all finished Ives reached into his pocket.

'Goddamnit, I've left my cigarettes in my room. Won't belong.'

Newman offered his pack of Silk Cut.

'Thanks,' Ives said, 'but I only smoke Lucky Strike…'

'Seems very edgy,' Newman commented after Ives had gone.

'You can understand it – after what he's been through,' Paula countered. 'Who wouldn't be?'

'We'll wait for coffee until he gets back,' Tweed said and checked his watch.

Ten minutes later Tweed suddenly stood up. He put his hand on Paula's shoulder to keep her in her chair.

'Bob, I want to make an urgent call. Your room is much closer than mine. Could I borrow your key?'

He was absent for longer than Paula had expected. When he came back into the restaurant he asked the waiter for the bill, scribbled his room number and signature. Hurrying to the table, he remained standing, leaning forward and keeping his voice down.

'Did Ives return?'

'No, he didn't,' Paula said, alarmed. 'Is something the matter?'

'You could say that. I've phoned police headquarters -luckily Beck had flown in from Berne to check the situation after my first phone call. He's on his way over with a team of specialists.'

'Specialists?' Newman queried. 'What kind?'

'His top man with a machine-pistol. And a chemist with his equipment. Plus a bomb squad team.'

'What on earth for…'Paula began.

'Beck is in the entrance now,' Newman told Tweed.

They walked over to where the Swiss police chief waited, fresh as paint in his business suit, calm in a crisis.

'I have this Barton Ives' room number from reception and a master key,' Beck said as he ushered them out of the restaurant.

'I could be wrong about this,'Tweed warned.

'Never known your instinct to be wrong yet. I have armed guards at either end of the corridor where his room is. And I'd like to have your room key for the chemist and the bomb squad. Thank you…'

Mystified, Paula and Newman stood with Tweed and

Beck as the lift ascended. Beck stepped out first, looked in both directions, waved for them to follow him out. He was striding ahead of them when Newman asked Tweed what the devil was going on.

'For one thing, my room lock has been tampered with since we came down to dinner. I was careful not to turn the key, let alone go inside. Also the so-called Barton Ives had the wrong answers to quite a few questions.'

'So called?' Paula repeated.

She got no reply. They had come close to the room taken by Ives. Beck's hand gestured for them to keep well back. Standing against the wall opposite the closed door was a uniformed policeman. He wore a flak jacket and was aiming a sub-machine-gun at the door. Two other men, pistols in hand, were flattened against the wall on either side of the door. A fourth man stood close by, holding a short wide-barrelled gun. Tear-gas. Beck was on red alert.

Taking out his own pistol, Beck leaned past one of the men against the wall, rapped on the door with the muzzle.

'Police. Open up. A team of armed men are outside.'

He waited. A long silence. Eventually Beck pressed an ear to the door, listened. Stepping back, he tossed the master key to the other man pressed against the wall. Paula saw the man with the machine-gun stiffen. The policeman with the key quietly inserted it in the lock, turned it, took hold of the handle, glanced at the man with the flak jacket, who nodded.

The door was hurled wide open. Flak Jacket literally dived into the room, sprawled on the carpet, swinging the muzzle of his weapon in a wide arc. He called over his shoulder to Beck, who had stepped in behind him, his gun ready.

'Empty, Chief…'

'Check the bathroom. Same approach…'

A minute later they realized the bathroom was also empty. Beck looked at Tweed.

'The bird has flown. So you were right. Now for your room. You all stay here, standing where Stefan sprawled. You don't touch anything. You don't drink anything.' He pointed to a half-empty bottle of mineral water. 'You don't use the bathroom…'

A policeman with his pistol in his hand stood outside the room while they waited. Newman asked the question in a low tone.

'Look, Tweed, what is this all about?'

'I am certain we've just dined with a man Dillon warned me against for fear of our lives. A man called Norton.'