by Colin Forbes
The Power
( Tweed and Co - 11 )
Colin Forbes
The Power
Colin Forbes
Prologue
Carmel, California, February. The man, windbreaker open at the top, exposing his thick neck, forced the screaming girl inside the one-storey log cabin. One large hand gripped her long blonde hair, the other shoved at the small of her back.
Joel Dyson, one-time society journalist, now a successful member of the notorious international paparazzi, crouched in the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing in the wood. His film camera was aimed at the struggling man and woman as they disappeared through the open door. He had their faces perfectly recorded on film.
The cabin door slammed shut from the inside. The crude edifice was perched in the centre of the clearing, shut off from the outside world by the dense screen of encircling trees. The shutters were closed across the windows but Dyson could still hear the girl's screams of terror.
He glanced down at the ground where his tape recorder was in motion, the revolving tape registering the horrific screaming which suddenly stopped. Had the man struck her in the face to shut her up? There was a loaded pause which Dyson found more disturbing than what he had seen and heard earlier. The stillness of the wintry forest had a menacing atmosphere. Something warned Dyson the silence was ominous.
He had his film camera ready for another close-up when the cabin door opened. He expected two people to emerge, but only the man appeared. He came out, closed the door, rammed a key into the lock, turned it, tossed the key on to the roof. Why had he done that?
The answer surfaced a moment later as smoke drifted out from behind one of the shutters, then the window burst into flames. God! He was leaving her there to burn to ashes. Dyson caught the expression on the man's face, a look of vicious satisfaction, his skin streaming with sweat despite the cold of the early morning. Instinct made Dyson switch off the recorder, haul the tape free, ram it into the pocket of his duffle coat. The man was staring towards Dyson's hiding place. Grabbing a gun from inside his belt, he walked slowly towards where Dyson was crouching.
Had he detected some movement? Dyson had the man's face in his film lens again and the expression was grim, determined. A full-length shot now, showing the gun. Dyson saw the cabin suddenly flare into a raging inferno. Roof ablaze, about to collapse on the girl inside who must be unconscious, maybe dead? The quiet crackle of the flames erupted into a roar.
The man paused, glanced back. Dyson's camera had recorded his initial advance, the pause, the cabin flaring into a funeral pyre. The man turned towards the undergrowth, began that familiar slow deliberate tread. Time to get the hell out of it. Alive if possible. Dyson was thoroughly scared.
Still crouching, he backed away from the undergrowth screen. Camera looped over his shoulder, the tape nestling safely in his pocket. He reached a copse of trees, stood up, resisted the temptation to run. The ground was littered with dry leaves. For the moment his flight was covered by the powerful roar of the dying cabin. He had to get as far away as possible before his flight made too much noise. It was a long way to his Chevy parked inside the woods out of sight of the nearby road.
He paused, heard the deliberate tramp of heavy feet on the leaves behind him coming closer. And there would be others the man could call on – if he dared risk that. On the edge of panic Dyson reached the foot of a tall pine tree. No one ever thinks of looking up.
'It's my last chance to survive…'
Dyson said the words to himself as he shinned agilely from branch to branch. Higher and higher. He had to reach the cover of the foliage. Clawing at branches he heaved himself inside the prickly cover, straddled a stout branch with both legs, waited, terrified.
Through a small hole in the dense screen he could see down to the base of the giant pine. The man appeared, wiped sweat off his left hand on his denims, his right hand gripping the. 38 Police Special. Dyson froze when the man paused at the base of the pine, head cocked to one side, listening. In the next minute Joel Dyson knew he could be dead, his body toppling down through the network of branches until it landed at the killer's feet. With the film camera looped over his arm, the tape in his pocket. It would be all over.
The cold was penetrating Dyson's duffle coat, his hands were frozen. The man below seemed impervious to the temperature made worse by trails of a mist off the Pacific Ocean which were now drifting amid the trees. Dyson forced himself to remain motionless. He'd begun to wonder whether his actions had been worth it – even for so great a potential prize, a vast fortune.
For a few seconds his thoughts filled his mind paralysed with fear. He looked down, blinked. The man had gone. He heard the heavy footsteps withdrawing, crunching dried leaves, retreating towards the cabin which must now be a pile of smoking embers.
Dyson checked his watch. 8 a.m. He compelled himself to stay motionless in his hiding place for half an hour. The man could have set a trap, moving away a short distance and then waiting. But in the deathly silence of the mist-bound forest Dyson had heard the sinister footsteps fading away and no sound of anyone returning.
'Move now,' he told himself, 'before he seals off the whole area…'
Despite the veils of grey mist Dyson had no trouble making his way back to the parked Chevy. He walked rapidly, treading on soft moss wherever he could. At intervals he paused, listening for any signs of pursuit. Nothing. He hurried towards the parked car.
As he threaded his way between the tree-trunks Dyson came alive again, thinking furiously. The nearest airport was San Francisco International. But they'd be watching and waiting there, he felt sure. Far safer to drive the much longer route south through California to Los Angeles Airport. The all-powerful forces the man controlled wouldn't expect him to take that route.
From LA he could catch a flight to London. There he could transfer to another flight direct to Zurich in Switzerland. Julius Amberg, president of the Zurcher Kredit Bank, owed him. Dyson's mind went back several years.
Bob Newman, the famous international foreign correspondent, had done him a bigger favour than he'd realized at the time. Dyson had taken some embarrassing photos of Amberg with his mistress in Geneva. He'd been going to sell them to Der Spiegel. Amberg was hitting the headlines at that time, acting as go-between in a big financial takeover.
'Give those pics to Amberg,' Newman had urged. 'He is a powerful man and you might need his help one day. Forget the money just for once, Joel – important allies are worth their weight in gold…'
Reluctantly, Dyson had agreed. Now Amberg could repay the 'debt' by holding the film and the tape in his vault. What safer place in the world to hide a fortune?
As he came closer to his Chevy Dyson checked in his mind any loopholes in his plan. He voiced his thoughts aloud in a bare whisper.
'The Chevy was hired in Salinas. They'll take time tracing the car, the description and registration number. I'll dump it in LA. By the time they track it I'll be long gone…'
He approached the concealed vehicle cautiously. They might just have found it. God knew there were enough of them – and professionals to their fingertips…
An hour later he was driving south along the coastal highway, crossing the bridge at Big Sur. Hardly any traffic. To his right the wind off the ocean blew against the side of the car. Huge waves created a curtain of white surf rising thirty feet high. Dyson had reached Santa Barbara when the shock hit him.
The tape recorder! In his haste to escape the man he had left the machine on the ground. It wouldn't take them long to visit his insurance company – to check the serial number of the machine with his insurance policy. Jesus! They'd then have a positive identification of who had crouched in the undergrowth near the cabin. Up to that moment Dyson had
half-cherished the illusion it would take them time to finger him.
It was a very worried Joel Dyson who reached Los Angeles, crawled with the traffic, handed in his Chevy and took a cab to the airport. Here he walked into another piece of bad luck.
He entered the vast concourse, carrying the bag containing a set of clothes he'd been careful to purchase at several shops after handing back the Chevy. He bought a United Airlines return ticket to London – the return was to throw off his track anyone who traced the reservation.
The flight left in three-quarters of an hour. Dyson was congratulating himself on his speedy departure as he checked in his bag. That was when he heard the crafty voice as he left the counter.
'Found a chick in London who's dropping her panties for the wrong man?'
'What?'
Dyson swung round and stared at a small man with a face closely resembling a monkey's. Which was why he was known as the Monkey. Nick Rossi was a small-time operator who watched the airports in the hope of picking up useful information he could peddle to the press for a small sum.
'I'm taking a well-earned holiday,' he snapped. 'And if I'm lucky I'll find an available chick. Sorry, Nick, no sale.'
'Which is why you're taking your camera with you?'
The Monkey grinned knowingly. A dead half-smoked cigarette was glued to the right-hand corner of his thin lips.
'You should know opportunities hit you in the kisser when you least expect it. Keep out of the rain…'
Dyson hurried away, swearing foully under his breath. He had thought of offering the Monkey a fistful of bills to keep him quiet – but that would have whetted his greedy appetite. Dyson only relaxed when the jumbo jet had taken off, swung out over Catalina Island and the Pacific Ocean, then turned east back over the mainland on its non-stop eleven-hour polar route flight to London. A double whiskey provided by the stewardess also helped.
His mood of relaxation didn't last long. As the machine flew on through the night, still climbing, he furtively glanced round, checking the other passengers. His chance encounter with Nick Rossi could prove fatal. Had they had time to rush a man aboard at the last moment? He doubted it. A second glass of whiskey relaxed him again.
Dyson dared not go to sleep even though most of the passengers of the half-filled jumbo were now comatose. The film camera nestled on his lap, concealed under a newspaper. Frequently he put his hand inside the pocket of his coat folded on the empty seat beside him. He felt relieved when he found the tape was still there…
Bob Newman. The name kept repeating itself in Dyson's mind as he disembarked at Heathrow. He changed his plan of action on impulse. Instead of immediately buying a
Swissair ticket to Zurich he hurried outside the concourse, climbed into a taxi and gave the driver the address of Newman's flat in Beresforde Road, South Kensington. In his haste, he failed to notice the small stocky man in a dark belted raincoat who watched him, followed him, signalled with his hand, stroking the left side of his face as a grey Volvo appeared. Then the man ran to a phone box.
'Ed, here. London Airport. The subject came in off the LA flight, walked out, took a taxi somewhere.'
'Did he now?' The gravelly voice of Norton was abrasive. 'With a tail, I trust?'
The grey Volvo was passing. We had three cars cruising round…'
'I know that. Nick Rossi came across good. Wait there. Don't go to sleep. The subject may come back. Report to me any developments.'
'I'll stay tuned…'
The stocky man realized the phone had cut out, the connection broken. Typical. He had never seen Norton, had only heard his gravelly American voice on phones. He had commented on this to another member of the unit.
'That's your good luck,' his colleague had warned. 'No one knows what he looks like. You ever meet Norton, know who he is, you're dead …'
Arriving at Newman's flat, which faced the church of St Mark's, Dyson told the cab driver to wait. An elegant slim blonde girl answered the door, but made no attempt to invite him inside. Dyson produced an old press card carrying his photo.
'Sorry to disturb you. I'm Joel Dyson, an old friend of Bob Newman's, I need to see him urgently. He's expecting me,' he lied.
'He didn't say anything,..'
'He wouldn't. Our business is confidential. And urgent,' he repeated. 'Matter of life and death.'
My death, he thought. The blonde examined the press card, looked at him, seemed uncertain how to respond as she handed back the card. Dyson forced himself to smile, to relax. She didn't smile back at him, but nodded.
'Have you something to write down an address? He's with the General amp; Cumbria Assurance Company in Park Crescent. Twenty minutes from here by cab…'
Thanking her after he'd scribbled in his notebook, Dyson, camera looped over his shoulder, hurried back to the cab, gave the driver an address in Soho. Earlier, on his way from the airport, he had glanced back a couple of times through the rear window. He didn't notice the grey Volvo driving one vehicle behind the cab. He really had little anxiety that he could have been followed.
Joel Dyson had badly underestimated the energy and power of the force reaching out towards him. During the eleven-hour flight from LA his San Francisco apartment had been turned over, examined for clues under a microscope. All main Californian airports had been checked -hence the swift contact with Nick Rossi. Wires had hummed between the States and Europe. Arrangements for the target's 'reception' had been made. Identity had been established by the tape recorder.
En route to the Soho address, Dyson was contemplating the value of the film and the tape. Five million dollars? No. Ten million dollars at least. The man would find ways of raising the money when faced with total destruction. Joel was on a big high when he left the cab in a street in Soho. He never even noticed the grey Volvo which slowed, then parked.
***
'Need to use your copying room for a film and a tape, Sammy. And I'm in a pissing great hurry,' Dyson told the cockney owner of the shop.
Outside it appeared to be an outlet for soft-porn films. But Dyson knew London well and had used the cockney's facilities in the past.
'Cost you, mate,' Sammy told him quickly. 'I don't let just anyone muck about with my equipment. Extra charge in case it's illegal, which it probably is.'
'Just watch the door. I don't want interruptions,' Dyson snapped. 'And here's your outrageous fee.'
Before disappearing into the back room he dropped two one-hundred dollar bills on the counter. Sammy, a ginger-haired hunchback, suppressed a whistle of surprise. He held the bills up to the light. They looked OK.
When Dyson came out of the room he had four canisters inside his bag. Two originals – film and tape – and one copy of each. Nodding to Sammy, he walked into the street, hailed a passing cab, told the driver to take him to Park Crescent.
Dyson had taken another impulsive decision the moment the cab had moved off from Beresforde Road -changing his next destination to Sammy's in Soho. Much safer to have twin sets of the film and the tape – one hidden in London, the other in Zurich. He prayed Newman would be at Park Crescent.
Inside a first-floor office at the Park Crescent HQ of the SIS, Bob Newman sat drinking coffee with Monica, Deputy Director Tweed's faithful and long-time assistant. Of uncertain age, Monica wore her grey hair tied back in a bun. Seated behind her desk, she was enjoying a chat with the foreign correspondent. In his early forties, of medium build, and clean-shaven, his hair brown, with a capable manner, Newman had been fully vetted and had often worked with her chief.
'I said Tweed was away,' she remarked. 'Actually he's in Paris. Expected back any time now.'
'He's like a dragonfly,' Newman commented. 'Zigzagging all over the place. I think he likes travel.'
'You're one to talk,' she chaffed him. 'As a foreign correspondent you've been everywhere-'
She broke off as the phone rang. It was George, the ex-Army man who acted as door-keeper and guard downstairs. Monica frowned, looked at Newman, said 'Who?' for
the second time. 'Tell him to wait – and keep a close eye on him.'
'Someone for you,' she said as she put down the phone. 'A man called Joel Dyson. Says it's desperately urgent he sees you at once.'
'Joel Dyson? How the devil did he know I was here? He used to be one of my journalist informants. Nowadays he has sunk to the level of one of the paparazzi. Takes pics of so-called celebrities – married – enjoying a tumble with the wrong woman. Sells them to the press for huge sums. I suppose I'd better see him, but not up here.'
'The waiting-room,' Monica decided. She phoned George to give him instructions. Newman said he'd like her to come with him as a witness. 'I'll bring my notebook, then,' she replied.
Facing George's desk, the waiting-room was a bleak bare room with scrubbed floorboards, a wooden table and several hard-backed chairs. It was not designed to encourage visitors to linger.
Monica was surprised at how smartly Joel Dyson was dressed. While driving down through California he had stopped at a motel, hired a room, stripped off his duffle coat, denims and open-necked shirt. Substituting from his bag an American business suit, a Brooks Brothers shirt and tie, a vicuna coat, he had then slipped away from the motel unseen by the proprietor, his room already paid for the night.
A small slim man, in his thirties, he had a plump face with pouched lips, a receding chin and an ingratiating smile. Monica instantly mistrusted him. Her second surprise was his voice. He spoke with an upper-crust English accent. Joel could switch from convincing American to equally acceptable English with ease. He had, in fact, British nationality.
'How the devil did you find me here?' Newman demanded.
'No need to get stroppy. Called at your apartment. You do have a nice taste in blonde companions. She said you'd be here.'
Molly! Newman groaned inwardly. He was on the verge of gently ending the friendship – she was quickly showing signs that she expected him to take her seriously. Now he'd have to speed up the process of disengagement.