The Power

6

Tweed drove the Ford Escort with headlights undipped as he followed the lonely road in pitch darkness across the moor, heading back to the A30. Paula, acting as navigator, sat beside him while Cardon was alone in the back. Behind them Nield, driving the Sierra, had Butler sitting alongside him. He used the red lights of the Escort to warn him of oncoming bends. His own headlights were dipped to avoid a blinding glare in Tweed's rear-view mirror.

'Why are we going to Padstow?' Paula asked.

To go underground until I've identified the enemy.'

'Not like you to run,' she probed.

'A tactical retreat. We may be up against the most powerful and dangerous enemy we've ever confronted.'

'What makes you think that?'

'First, Amberg begs me to join him at Tresillian Manor. With a lot of protection. Maybe we were the targets for the killer as much as he was.'

'And second?'

'Within a short time of the massacre a massive bomb destroys Park Crescent. Diabolical synchronization?'

'Not plausible,' she argued. 'I still maintain that no one could have timed the two events so close together.'

'I suspect the whole plot was triggered off by the arrival of Joel Dyson two days ago from the States. That conjures up a very powerful network with a long reach. Also, how many people knew the location of SIS HQ? The top-flight security services in Europe – and America.'

'You make it frightening,' Paula commented.

'You should be frightened. It must take a vast network to organize all that. Which is why we're spending a day or two in Padstow. Right off the beaten track.'

'So it could be unfortunate,' Cardon suggested, 'that by chance Jennie Blade lives in Padstow.'

'It doesn't help,' Tweed agreed, 'but I've booked rooms at the Metropole – which is in a strategic location. I stopped there overnight with Newman a few years ago.'

'And Philip,' Paula teased Cardon, 'you seem to have fallen for the golden lovely.'

'Fooled you, didn't I?' Cardon chuckled. 'She was pretending to take a fancy to me, that she thinks I'm the best thing since sliced bread. I wondered immediately: "What's this girl really after?"'

'Didn't know you were a cynic about women.'

'Not a cynic,' Cardon told her cheerfully. 'Just a realist. Are you offended?'

'Not in the least. Now I think you've got your feet on the ground. And what on earth is this ahead of us?'

Tweed had slowed. In his headlights red and white cones barred the way with a large notice. It carried the word DIVERSION and an arrow pointing to the right up a narrow lane. It was raining now and between the wipers he had set in motion Tweed saw men in yellow oilskins and peaked caps. A burly individual waved a red lamp and walked towards the driver's side of the car as Tweed stopped, keeping the engine running. In the back Cardon had his Walther in his right hand, inside his windcheater.

'Sorry, buddy,' the burly man with the lamp shouted as he came closer. 'There's been a multiple pile-up on the A30. Go this route and you're back on the highway a short way to the west…'

Accent and language were muffled American, Tweed noted.

Tweed,' Paula whispered, 'I've checked the map and the only turn-off to the right is a dead end. That is, before we reach the A30. The lane he's diverting us to leads close to another tor with a stone quarry close by.'

'Could I see some identification?' Tweed asked through his open window.

'What the bloody hell for?' The man's face turned ugly. He was reaching inside his slicker as he went on. 'You can't get through…

'Don't do it!' Paula warned.

Her Browning automatic was pointed past Tweed at the man outside. He withdrew his hand as though he'd burnt it. He was looking uncertain and then turned to signal to the other men when Tweed reacted.

Ramming his foot down, he shot forward, scattering cones like ninepins. Men jumped out of the way and a missile of some sort landed on the bonnet, burst, spread a light grey-coloured vapour.

Tear-gas!' Tweed snapped.

He closed his window, driving with one hand, maintaining his speed. A glance in his rear-view mirror showed him the Sierra roaring after him. He heard two reports.

Shots had been fired. Nothing hit his vehicle. A quick second glance in the mirror showed him the Sierra rocketing up behind him: no apparent damage.

Thank you, Paula,' Tweed said. 'I was suspicious but you confirmed it. A multiple pile-up? On the A30 in February and at this time of night? And a road crew with an American foreman? The whole set-up was phoney, stank to high heaven.'

'So what had they waiting for us up at that dead end?' Paula mused.

'A dead end – for all of us,' Cardon suggested.

'You have a macabre sense of humour. It doesn't bear contemplating – out in the middle of that moor…'

She started checking her map again. Tweed was driving at speed, lights undipped, swerving round corners. He was anxious to reach the main road.

'What worries me,' he said, 'is how did that gang of thugs know we would be travelling along that road at this hour? Again it suggests a powerful, well-organized network. I get the feeling our every move is being monitored.'

'We're close to the A30,' Paula warned. 'As to how they could know where we were – Buchanan told us your presence down here was reported by all the media. They could have flown down from London to St Mawgan Airport – arranging in advance for hire cars to be waiting. And this is where they stole the equipment from

Tweed had slowed down, paused at the T-junction on to the A30 to look both ways. Yards to the left, road repair equipment was stacked on a verge, flashing lights illuminating cones and other material. Tweed drove out, turned right to the west, his headlights showing a great belt of the road descending a long hill. No other traffic in sight. The rain had stopped but the road surface gleamed in the moonlight.

'You could be right, Paula,' he remarked. There would be time for the opposition to fly down from London. But these are people who can move like lightning. I still find it puzzling why the anonymous call was made to the media. I'm going to pull in here, have a word with Pete Nield, make sure they're both all right.'

Paula saw a lay-by was coming up. Tweed signalled, pulled off the main road into it. He stopped, still keeping his engine running as the Sierra drew in behind him. It was Butler who got out of the car, used a torch to check the side of his vehicle, then walked up to Tweed who had lowered his window.

'You handled that well, Chief,' he commented. 'Nothing like a reception committee to welcome us to Cornwall.'

'I heard shots,' Tweed replied.

'You did. One bullet went wide. The other ricocheted off the side of the Sierra. I just found the point where it dented the metal. Maybe time we moved on…'

They were driving again through the night along the deserted A30 when Paula made her suggestion.

There are only three people who could have cooperated with the killer who committed the massacre,' she said.

'Gaunt or Jennie Blade,' Tweed anticipated her. 'And we saw two people on High Tor. But who is the third?'

'Celia Yeo, the young red-headed girl who was helping in the kitchen.'

'Why pick on her?'

'Because I ask questions. After the police doctor had examined the staff he remarked that the one who had got off lightest from being coshed was Celia. Said he was surprised she had become unconscious – so slight was the bruise on her head.'

'Not very conclusive,' Tweed objected.

There's more. I talked to Cook when Celia was outside in the scullery. Apparently the girl she recently replaced was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver, had both legs broken. Celia turned up at the manor offering her services the following day, which Cook thought was rather odd.'

'Still not sufficient to convince our jovial Chief Inspector, Roy Buchanan,' Tweed persisted.

There's more still. I had a little chat with Celia on the quiet. She's a mulish type, hard as nails, and has avaricious eyes. That girl would do almost anything for money. And she lives in Five Lanes – where the real postman came from. I think I'll drive over there and talk to her again. Her day off is tomorrow. And I saw her sneak back across the grounds with a scarlet tea towel in her hands. She said she'd hung it out to dry – it was still dripping water. She could have hung it from the branch of a tree at the edge of the estate to signal to the killer -signal to him that Amberg had arrived. I don't think she'd known what was going to happen.'

'Bit of a far-fetched theory,' Tweed commented.

'Hold on, Chief,' Cardon called out. 'Paula has made a pretty solid case for your so-called far-fetched theory.'

'If you say so,' Tweed responded impatiently, concentrating on his driving. 'One thing I insist on, Paula. You're not going back to Bodmin Moor on your own.'

'Maybe Bob Newman will come with me – if he's reached Padstow.. .'

Paula saw why Tweed had referred to the Hotel Metropole's strategic position as soon as they arrived. Perched high up, it looked down on and across the estuary of the River Camel. Gleaming like a sheet of quicksilver by the light of the moon, it appeared to be about a quarter of a mile wide from Padstow to the opposite shore.

Parked outside, in the forecourt in front of the large Victorian building, was Newman's Mercedes 280E. Its owner appeared from inside as Tweed was registering for his party. Newman frowned at Paula, slipped her a sheet of folded paper as he passed her, which she palmed. He walked outside as though he'd never seen them before in his life.

She showed Tweed the note as they travelled up in the lift to their rooms. Tweed had a suite, No. 11, on the first floor, while Paula's double room was on the second.

'Come down and see me within five minutes,' Tweed told Paula after he'd read the note.

Butler and Nield, acting as guards, had rooms close to Paula's. Tweed had requested this at the desk.

'Miss Grey is recovering from a serious illness,' he had informed the receptionist. 'Pneumonia. She might need assistance walking when she leaves her room…'

Paula closed her room door. The lights were on, the curtains drawn. She moved swiftly, sensing the urgency in Tweed's order. Opening her case, she threw the lid back, lifted out her favourite navy blue suit, hung it in the wardrobe, hurried back to the lift.

Tweed had a much larger room with a sitting area. He stood in the middle, still wearing his trench coat in spite of the heated atmosphere. Handing her the note, he began pacing like a caged tiger. The note was terse.

Meet me in my car -parked halfway up Station Road. Have phoned H. Very big trouble. H. wants you to call him. Have found safe phone. Bob.

'You said you were ravenous just before we reached here,' Paula reminded him.

'Food will have to wait. I phoned the dining-room. They will serve us later.' His brusque tone softened. 'But you can go straight down to dinner – you've had a pretty rough day.'

'Nothing doing. I'm coming with you.'

'So is Butler…'

Outside the hotel an icy breeze blew from the north. As they climbed the hill Paula asked her question.

'Why do they call this Station Road?'

'Because at the bottom of the hill behind us is a building which is the old station. Now it's Customs amp; Excise. The trains don't run here any more. Haven't for years. The line was eliminated long ago. Here we are. You sit next to Bob. Maybe he'll be better company than I am tonight. While I remember, Bob, I'd like to borrow your field glasses.'

Newman drove to the top of the road, turned right down New Street. Lined with two-storey grey stone terrace houses, it made Paula feel they had arrived in old Cornwall. Newman paused, pointed to a wooden cabin set back from the road. No light in the windows.

'Believe it or not, that's the police station. Unmanned. So, if we hit trouble, don't expect any help from the police.'

'Comforting,' Paula commented.

Newman swung right again down St Edmund's Lane, an even narrower and bleaker street at night. It descended steeply and it too was hemmed in on either side with old grey stone terrace houses. No one about, not a soul, and the lighting was dim, Newman paused for a moment, pointed to a gap in the wall to their right with a shadowed pathway leading uphill.

'That's a short cut on foot back to the Metropole.'

'I wouldn't advise going up there after dark,' said Butler, seated next to Tweed.

It was the first thing he'd said since they had entered the car. Paula, feeling edgy, took the remark personally.

'I suppose that was for my benefit. Harry, I'll have you know I can take care of myself.'

'I wouldn't go that way at night myself,' Butler told her equably.

Newman drove to the bottom of the lane and Paula leaned forward, anxious to get some idea of Padstow's layout. Turning to the left along a level road, Newman gestured to his right.

'That's a dock beyond the car park with the estuary on the far side. I'm now driving along a one-way street. If I'd turned right at the bottom of St Edmund's Lane it's two-way traffic. Ahead is the harbour, a complex system. I can show you better in the morning. Tweed, I decided it might be better if I stayed elsewhere as an unknown reserve. I have a room overlooking the harbour in the Old Custom House, the building on your left. It's a very good hotel. And there is your phone box. I have to park a bit further on. See you in the morning?'

'Yes. We'll be walking past your hotel at ten o'clock on the dot. Good night. Take care…'

Newman had paused, while Tweed and Paula got out of the car. Butler followed them, crossed to the carpark where he had a clear view of the old-fashioned red phone box. The raw wind hit them as Tweed struggled to haul the door open and Paula dived inside with him. It was with some trepidation that Tweed dialled Howard's number at the Surrey mansion.

'Who is this?' Howard's voice enquired after Tweed had been passed through an operator.

Tweed. I gather you wanted to talk to-'

'Is that a safe phone?' Howard interrupted, his voice tense.

'It should be. It's a public call box. If you don't mind I won't say where I'm speaking from.'

'Oh, damn that, I don't care. As long as you're well away from London…'

'I am…'

'Tweed, the situation is desperate, unprecedented. You'll hardly believe what's happening.'

'Try me,' Tweed suggested quietly.

'As you know, our HQ has been totally destroyed by the bomb. But I can't get through to the PM. He seems to have cut himself off from me. Every time I try to reach him some fool of a private secretary feeds me a load of codswallop as to why I can't contact him. But I know the PM is in Downing Street. The secretary let that slip.'

'I see. Any theory as to why this is happening?'

'Well, the PM is having trouble with Washington. He needs America's support, as you know, over Europe and the Middle East. Washington is being very distant with London.'

'Precisely who in Washington?' Tweed enquired.

'I gather it's the Oval Office. President March himself.'

'Rather a rough diamond, I've heard.'

'Should never have been elected,' Howard stormed. 'Just because he's a powerful orator, talks the language of the people.' He sighed with disgust. 'The people – and some of them he mixes with are hardly out of the top drawer.'

'What you're saying is we've lost the PM's support? Even with this bomb outrage?'

'It would seem so. I can't believe it.' Howard sounded to be in despair. 'I really can't believe it,' he repeated, 'but it's happening.'

'I want you to call Commander Crombie…'

'I spoke to him a few minutes ago. At least he is talking to me. He said it was too early to be positive, but his experts have found relics of the device which detonated the bomb. It's definitely not IRA, Crombie says. A very sophisticated and advanced mechanism was used – something they've never encountered before. The press will continue to say it was the IRA, and Crombie won't contradict them.'

'He sounds to be moving fast.'

'Something else difficult to believe. Crombie has teams working round the clock on clearing the debris – three shifts every twenty-four hours. I think it's discovery of this new device which has electrified him.'

'Howard, phone Crombie on my behalf. Tell him it is very important to find amid that mountain of rubble my office safe. It contains a film and a tape recording. They could be the key to all that's happening. I'm guessing.'

'You usually guess correctly,' Howard admitted. 'I will make that call to Crombie – mentioning you. What do the film and the tape contain?'

'If I knew that I might know who is masterminding these attacks on us.'

'Could take weeks to find,' Howard warned. 'And then it may be crushed to nothing – or its contents will be.'

'That's what I like about you, Howard – your eternal optimism. Just call Crombie.'

'I've said I will. Have you any solid ideas?' Howard pleaded.

'One or two. Give me a little time…'

Tweed's expression was grave as he left the box-with Paula. Butler strolled across the road to meet them. The alert bodyguard was smiling.

'Cheer up! We'll break this thing sooner or later. Oh, while you were on the phone Newman came back for a moment on foot. Full of apologies. He forgot to mention that Monica took a call from Cord Dillon earlier in the afternoon before the fireworks display. Dillon is somewhere in London.'

Tweed stared. Cord Dillon was Deputy Director of the CIA. A very tough, able man – what was he doing in London at a time like this?

'Dillon wants to talk to you urgently.' He handed Tweed a folded piece of paper. 'Newman gave me that to hand on to you. The number of some London phone box. You can reach Dillon between 9.30 a.m. and 10 a.m. at that number tomorrow morning. Monica said it sounded as though he was keeping under cover. Wouldn't say where he was staying.'

'Let's get back to the Metropole…'

Tweed walked beside Paula, told her the gist of his talk with Howard. They turned up St Edmund's Lane. Butler was following several paces behind them, reeling as though he was drunk. His right hand gripped the Walther inside his windcheater as they plodded uphill and took the long way back, ignoring the short cut to the hotel. Paula was relieved: the path which turned off the lane was a tunnel of eerie darkness.

'What on earth is going on?' she asked. 'That business about not being able to reach the PM. I'm scared.'

'With good reason. Interesting that Washington business – and now Dillon turns up out of the blue. My thoughts are turning towards America.'

'Why America? Because of Dillon's arrival?'

'Not entirely. Something rather more sinister.'

'Sorry. Perhaps I'm being rather thick. Probably fatigue. And I do want to drive with Bob Newman back to Bodmin Moor tomorrow to talk again to Celia Yeo. What is it about the States which has suddenly grabbed your attention?'

'America,' Tweed repeated, half to himself, 'where there is so much money and power. '

'Power?' Paula queried.

'Work it out for yourself.'