The Power

30

Norton was the first to arrive in Colmar. Clad in a black astrakhan coat and a fur hat, he looked like a Russian professor as he peered through his half-moon glasses at the receptionist of the Hotel Bristol.

What was it about the new arrival that made the girl behind the counter shiver inwardly? He stood motionless and the eyes behind the lenses which stared at her seemed dead, devoid of all human feeling.

'I want to book a double room for five days,' Norton told her. 'I have business elsewhere so I may not be here every night. I will pay in advance for the five days…'

He registered in the name of Ben Thalmann, paid in French francs, then produced the Michelin map of the Vosges area he had purchased in Basle. He had left that city within twenty minutes of speaking to President March.

'I have to visit the Chateau Noir, the residence of a Mr Amberg, a Swiss. Can you show me how to reach this chateau by driving there?'

'You'll have to hurry, sir,' she replied in her excellent English. 'It gets dark early and there is snow on the mountains. The roads will be icy…'

'Just show me

She stopped talking, studied the map, marked a route up the N83 to Kaysersberg and then high up into the Vosges mountains along the N415. It became complicated and she carefully drew her pen along a side road. She was repeating her warnings about the hazards when Norton interrupted her brusquely.

'Can I use that phone to make a private call?'

'Certainly, sir…'

Discreetly, she opened a door behind her and closed it. The truth was she was only too anxious to escape from the presence of that black figure. Norton smiled as he dialled the number of the Drei Konige. He had sensed the fear the girl had felt and it gave him a kick. He asked the hotel operator for Tweed. There was a brief pause.

'Who is speaking?' a man's voice enquired.

'Barton Ives,' Norton said through the silk handkerchief he had stuffed in the mouthpiece. 'Who is that?'

'Tweed here. Where are you, Ives…?'

Norton put down the phone. Tweed was still in Basle. At last he had arrived ahead of the enemy. Which would give him time to prepare the death-trap. And it was interesting that Tweed expected to meet Barton Ives. Clean up the whole lot out here in the wilds of Alsace.

Norton hurried outside and got behind the wheel of the blue Renault he'd hired in Basle. He had never stayed at the Drei Konige – he had simply had an early lunch and sat in the lobby area afterwards. In time to see Tweed and his friends arrive.

Using the same approach, he wouldn't be staying at the Hotel Bristol. He had picked up a brochure in the railway station opposite the hotel, a brochure which gave the names of several small hotels in the Old Town. One of those hotels would be his base.

He drove rapidly across the flatlands beyond Colmar. It was a cold sunny afternoon, the air fresh as wine. But this was wine territory – grids of vineyards stretched away on either side as he came close to the foothills.

He drove more slowly through the medieval town of Kaysersberg, little more than a large village. Norton did not notice its picturesqueness. He did notice a narrow stone bridge spanning a small river in the centre.

An excellent place to plant a bomb under the bridge, detonated by remote control. Mencken, who still had to reach Colmar, was an expert with explosives. Driving from Basle to Colmar, Norton had observed a stone quarry, a shed with the warning sign in French, Danger -Explosives. He had marked this location on his map.

He drove on beyond Kaysersberg into the foothills. Looming above them was the long chain of the snowbound Vosges mountains. Norton had taken the precaution of hiring a car with snow tyres. The road began to twist and climb, up, up, up…

There was no other traffic and dense stands of firs began to close in on both sides. The road surface was icy, treacherous, then covered with snow. The temperature nose-dived. The firs were blanketed with frozen snow, the branches pressed down under the weight. It was like Siberia,

Norton smiled to himself. This was ideal territory for what he had in mind. At numerous places the topography lent itself to lethal ambushes. He foresaw that Tweed and his minions would disappear from the face of the earth until spring came – only spring would reveal the frozen vehicles, the rotting bones of their occupants.

On the other side of the road the mountain slope fell away into a sheer abyss. Norton had a view of a deep ravine plunging into the depths. The territory was getting better and better. He had no doubt Tweed would be driving up to see Amberg at the Chateau Noir.

He drove on up the steep winding ascent, alert for hidden ice under the snow. By his side the map the girl at the Bristol had marked lay open. He glanced at it frequently. Soon he'd be coming to the turn-off on to the side road leading to Lac Noir.

The intense cold was penetrating his coat. He turned up the heaters full on. His breath steamed up his glasses. He took them off – they were merely a disguise. Still only rare. signs of human habitation – the odd whitewashed old house with its ancient pantile roof crusted with snow. Norton could stand the cold, but this was something else again.

He passed through a small village called Orbey, which was on his route. No sign of a soul. Everyone huddled inside, he imagined. By now he had turned off the N415 and studied the map more frequently. Driving along a narrow road he suddenly arrived at Lac Noir and gasped.

Once, still with the FBI, Norton had operated in Europe for the State Department on secret missions – which under American law were forbidden and were extremely illegal. Norton was familiar with the Continent, but he had never seen anything like this.

On the far side of the lonely silent lake rose a sheer granite wall, towering above him. At its summit was perched a castle with turrets and lights in some of the windows. He was staring up at the Chateau Noir. On an impulse, he decided to visit the elusive Mr Amberg.

Norton drove up a steep spiralling road which, again, the girl at the Bristol had marked for him on the map. Arriving at the summit, he saw the castle's high point was a massive keep.

Most people would have been overawed by the grandeur of the edifice. To Norton it was just the type of a monster of a building they'd erected in medieval times. A high wall surrounded the chateau and Norton scanned it swiftly before leaving his car and approaching on foot the tall wrought-iron gates which closed a gap in the wall.

He pressed the button below a speakphone with a metal grille embedded in the left-hand pillar. He'd have to hurry this up: he wanted to be out of the mountains before dusk descended on those hideous roads. A voice said something in German,

'I don't speak German,' Norton replied, muffling his American accent.

'Then kindly identify yourself,' the precise voice said in English.

'Tweed. Tweed…'

'Please be so good as to enter.'

There was the sound of a buzzer. Norton pushed at both gates. The left-hand one opened. He took out a matchbook, inserted it in the lock. He suspected the gates opened and closed automatically from controls inside the chateau. It was a trick he'd used before. And sure enough, as he walked across the paved courtyard and glanced back, the gate was closing.

As he hurried up the wide flight of stone steps leading to a massive porch he took out the Luger from his shoulder holster, held it by his side. The great wooden door swung inwards, a small portly man with black hair brushed back from his high forehead stood inside the entrance. He wore a black business suit and surprise, then alarm, appeared in his shrewd blue eyes:

'You're not Tweed.'

He was starting to swing the door shut when Norton showed him the Luger. He lapsed into his normal voice.

'Mr Amberg? Don't lie. I've a nervous trigger finger.'

'Yes, but…'

'Let's talk inside. You could catch a cold. You have two items I'm in the market for. You can make a lot of money, Mr Amberg. Let's negotiate.'

While he spoke Amberg backed inside and Norton followed still holding the Luger. He had the impression of a vast hall which was dimly lit by wall sconces.

'I have no idea of what you are talking about, Mr Tweed.'

Norton was puzzled by the emphasis the banker put on the name. His words echoed round the enormous hall. Norton, watching Amberg closely, was vaguely aware that a wide staircase climbed out of the hall to his left, climbed a considerable height. He also thought there was the silhouette of someone on the staircase.

The next moment Amberg took a handkerchief out of his pocket as though about to blow his nose. There was a click, an object landed at Norton's feet. Amberg was backing away. Grey vapour enveloped Norton and his vision swam. Swiftly holstering the Luger – Norton was no longer able to see clearly – he held his breath and grabbed for a handkerchief with his left hand. The tear-gas had reached his eyes just before he clamped the handkerchief over them. Amberg had covered his own face with his handkerchief.

Norton, able to see – but with blurred vision – turned round and headed back to the door. Removing the handkerchief, he turned the lock on the door and hauled the heavy slab open. Staggering out on to the porch, he grasped the round black iron handle, pulled the door shut, took in a deep breath.

Stumbling towards the gate, his vision was better with the cold air clearing his eyes. He'd only taken a small quantity of the stuff, mostly in his left eye. The matchbook had prevented the gate locking. In a hurry to get away, he still paused to retrieve the matchbook – he might want to use the same trick when he returned to the Chateau Noir.

He stood by his car, sucking in great breaths of the mountain air, then slid behind the wheel, closed the door quietly, turned on the ignition. The girl at the Bristol had marked an alternative route back via the D417 down the Col de la Schlucht. He'd go back that way.

He turned the car round, determined to check the second route Tweed might use to visit the Chateau Noir. His left eye was still watering as he drove carefully, expertly negotiating the bends in the road.

Norton was livid – and furious with himself. He had broken his golden rule – never act on impulse, always check out the target in advance, then send in the soldiers.

He had given in to the temptation to do the job on his own. Never again…

His great regret was that he'd not had the remotest idea what the figure which had stood on the stairs looked like. Who the hell could that have been, the figure which had fired the gas pistol? One thing was for sure – he was returning to the Chateau Noir with Mencken's complete team. Norton had observed a lot during his brief humiliation. There was a wire – presumably electrified – spanning the top of the wall which surrounded the stone monstrosity.

Norton had also noticed a stone-flagged path leading behind the chateau in the direction of the towering keep. One man on top of that with a machine-pistol could command all the exits and entrances.

He had turned on to the D417 a while back, a much more main highway. He reached a point where a large building carried the legend LA SCHLUCHT 1139. He was 1139 metres high, over three thousand feet. Norton drove on and it was then he encountered a hideous and endless spiral of hairpin bends.

At one point he stopped, marked the location on his map. To his left a sheer granite cliff rose vertically from the road. To his right the world dropped into another bottomless abyss. The cliff wall was covered with steel mesh to prevent it crumbling on to the road. A first-rate ambush point.

He was still well above the snow line as he drove on down and round icy spiral bends. Despite the risk he kept his foot on the accelerator – the light was fading. Dusk was beginning to fall over the Vosges.

Norton kept moving, meeting no traffic. He dropped below the snow line and rammed his foot down further. The lights were on in Colmar as he entered the town. He stopped outside the station, went inside to ask how to get to the Old Town, saw a huge wall map of Colmar.

He soon realized that the Old Town where the small hotels were situated was called Little Venice. Amazing how many Venices there were in Europe. The next thing to do when he'd found a room was to call the Bristol, ask to speak to a Mr Tweed. He felt sure that was where he'd hit the sack. When Tweed came on the line – if he did -he'd put down the receiver. That should twitch at his nerves. Mr Tweed didn't know it, but they'd bury him in Alsace.