by Colin Forbes
'Yes, bless him. He phones me with regular reports. There's still a mountain of rubble to remove. No sign of that safe you mentioned yet.'
They've overlooked Crombie,' Tweed said with grim satisfaction. Try and throw an iron cordon round someone and a loophole is always left. Now, listen to me, Howard. I want you to phone Crombie, tell him when he uncovers that safe to let you know at once and keep it hidden. The moment you hear he has found it send that armoured car disguised as a security truck to collect it and take it down to you. Understood?'
'I'll call him as soon as we've finished talking. We are all feeling marooned here, Tweed. I tried to reach the PM three times today. Blocked off every time. He's abandoned us,' he repeated.
'Face up to it, Howard. He's done just that…' Tweed's next call was to Jim Corcoran at London Airport. Again he had to coax the Chief Security Officer to do what he asked him. Eventually, he agreed. Tweed thanked him, told him in due course he'd realize he had done the right thing.
His third call, the briefest, was to Newquay Airport. He made certain arrangements on the basis of the data the girl receptionist gave him, then mopped his forehead, walked out of the box and into the bar. But he felt better. Very shortly they would be on the move.
Inside the bar, which was quiet, Tweed joined Newman, Paula and Cardon who were occupying the secluded corner on the upper level in front of the fire. When Newman asked him what he was drinking he said mineral water.
'Did you phone Howard?' Paula asked. 'I thought so. What sort of a mood is he in?'
'Feeling trapped. He's had no contact with the PM. He can't get through to him.'
'That's how I feel,'Paula said. Trapped.'
'Cheer up. And have your bag packed for an early departure tomorrow morning. You'll have to ditch the Browning before we leave. I must warn the others. No weapons.'
'I'll dump mine in the sea. But where are we going? Is anywhere safe any more?'
'One place is. Which is where we're going. It's time to smoke out whoever is after us. I'm leading them into a trap. Thank you,' he said as Newman put a glass before him. He drank greedily. All the recent activity had dehydrated him.
'We've been trying to work out who is behind all these attempts to wipe us out,' Newman began. The answer could be summed up in the name of one individual: Gaunt.'
'An assumption so far,' Tweed pointed out. 'Evidence?'
'Gaunt leased his manor for varying periods to Julius Amberg. Whoever unleashed that massacre knew the banker would be there. Who could have told them? Gaunt. We were nearly killed by that powerboat. Who knew we were taking that particular ferry to Rock? Gaunt. Who was absent from Tresillian Manor when Celia Yeo was hurled from the summit of High Tor? Gaunt – and Jennie.'
'Possibly.' Tweed drank more water. 'Are you suggesting he has the organization to arrange for that massive car bomb to be parked outside our building? He doesn't even know where SIS headquarters are – were.'
That is a difficult one to answer,' Newman admitted. 'Incidentally, Butler and Nield followed you in here at separate intervals. Butler is sitting in a corner behind you where he can survey the whole bar. Nield is chatting up the barmaid…'
Leaning against the counter, Pete Nield was joking with the fair-haired girl. He asked her a question when he felt he had established an easy relationship.
'I hear that Squire Gaunt is off on his travels again in that floating palace of his. He could cross the Atlantic in that huge cabin cruiser.'
'Oh, I don't think he's done that. He flies to America. You see, he likes to go off in her by himself to Europe.'
'A trip to jolly old Paris?' Nield suggested.
'Maybe. But he's been cruising up the Rhine. I heard that when he was in here one night and he'd had rather a lot to drink.'
'A nice chap, though,' Nield probed.
The girl paused polishing a glass. 'That depends on his mood, between you and me. Sometimes he is and then again he can cut you dead.' 'I hear he lives in a lovely manor on Bodmin Moor. Must be peaceful out there.' 'Too lonely for me. I'd get the creeps…'
The very courteous and able manager of the Metropole met them in the hall as they returned. He spoke in a low voice to Tweed.
'I thought you might like to know two Americans have been enquiring about you, sir. Wanted to know how long you were staying. I said I'd no idea.'
'Are they staying here?' Newman asked quickly.
'No. But they're in the bar at the moment.'
Think I'll pop in and take a look at them…'
Newman headed for the bar as the others waited for the lift. Two tall heavily built men were standing by the bar counter with drinks in front of them. Both wore loud check sports jackets and denims and had American style trench coats folded over their arms. Newman ordered a Scotch. The larger of the two men was standing next to Newman, had dense black hair, thick brows which almost met across the bridge of his broken nose.
'Your Scotch, Mr Newman,' said the barman, recognizing his customer. 'Thank you, sir,' he said as Newman paid.
'Newman? Robert Newman, the nosy foreign correspondent?' the big American enquired in a bullying tone.
'I'm retired,' Newman replied, refusing to be provoked. 'So no longer nosy, as you put it.'
'Old habits die hard,' the American said aggressively.
His elbow toppled his own drink. Liquid spilt over the counter and the barman hastily mopped up.
'Buddy,' the American went on, 'that was my whisky you just knocked over. So what are you going to do about it?'
'Buy you another,' Newman continued amiably. 'Give this gentleman a fresh drink, please,' he said to the barman and put more money on the counter.
'They said you were something else again at one time,' the American sneered. 'Good thing you retired – seems like you lost your guts.'
'Your friend has just collapsed.'
As the American jerked his head to his left where his companion stood looking puzzled, Newman grabbed his drink, walked out of the bar and up the stairs. The enemy was moving in at very close quarters.
'I'm calling a council of war, Paula. In my suite. If you have just stepped out of the bath, five minutes from now will do.'
Paula put down the phone in her room on the second floor. Tweed had sounded imperative, calm, determined. She had not just stepped out of the bath. She went back to the window, her lights off, watching in the dark the final incoming surge of the tide. In the moonlight the edges of the remaining sandbanks looked like filleted fish. Even as she watched they were submerged. The water now stretched from shore to shore and Porthilly Cove, which had been a huge sand beach, was filled with water.
It was frightening, she thought, as she descended the stairs – the unstoppable force of the sea. She made a similar remark to Tweed as she entered his suite while Newman closed and locked the door.
'And that's what we're up against,' Tweed said, 'an unstoppable force. Power in its most extreme and ruthless form.'
His audience remained silent. They were all there -Cardon, Butler and Nield, seated while Tweed stood in the middle of the large room, the curtains closed behind him. He looked at Newman. 'Tell them about your encounter in the bar downstairs.'
They listened while Newman related tersely what had happened in the bar. He was inclined to play down the confrontation. Paula was surprised he had kept his temper and said so.
'His reaction was perfect,' Tweed told her. 'They were trying to start a fight, probably challenge him to come outside with them. Supposing they had knives?'
'Why would two Americans pick on Bob?' she persisted.
The enemy is closing in on us. It's the moment I have been waiting for. We are going to break out. My crazy idea as to who was behind all this murder and destruction could be right.'
'And the enemy's identity?' Paula pressed on.
'Work it out for yourself. You have the same data I have. List what has happened. From the beginning.'
'There was that horrible massacre at Tresillian Manor -
when I was nearly a victim,' she reminded him.
'Chief target – besides ourselves?' Tweed rapped out.
'Julius Amberg, Swiss banker from Zurich.'
'Now, go back a few days to my office in Park Crescent. When Bob and Monica had an unexpected visitor.'
'Well, he left them a film and a tape recording. Copies, he said. He took the originals with him.'
'You've missed something,' Tweed snapped. 'Newman gave us a detailed description of that visit by Joel Dyson. What was inside his case?'
'Oh, I remember. Several lots of American clothes…
'Which strongly suggests he had just flown in from the States. Dyson spent most of his time operating over there although he's British. Found there were much more profitable pickings on the other side of the Atlantic. Go on. Next event.'
'That massive bomb parked outside Park Crescent which destroyed the whole building.'
'Just another bomb?' Tweed enquired.
'No. You told us Commander Crombie had said they'd found relics of the trigger device – that it wasn't the IRA. A more sophisticated device than he'd ever seen.'
'And,' Tweed reminded her, 'how many people know where SIS headquarters were located? What sort of profession? What sort of organization could arrange for the massacre at the manor which almost coincided with the bomb outrage in London?'
'A pretty big one.'
'An international one,' Tweed added.
'I still don't think the massacre and the London bomb are linked,' Paula said obstinately. 'There wasn't time.'
'What happened next?' Tweed continued.
'Celia Yeo, the servant girl I feel sure had signalled the arrival of Amberg's guests, was thrown off High Tor.'
'And then?'
'We arrived here. Gaunt turns up with Jennie Blade. While we're crossing to Rock – at Gaunt's suggestion – that powerboat tries to run us down. We check the house with no name and find the signalling lamp used to send coded messages you spotted from the cove. Then we find out the house with no name belongs to Gaunt. Finally, that helicopter appears to search for us.'
'Not finally yet,' Tweed observed. 'What happens when we get back to the hotel this evening?'
'Oh, those two Americans who've been asking for you try to incite Bob into a free-for-all.'
'Now go back a year or two. To Zurich.'
'I'm not with you…'
Tweed,' Newman intervened, 'is referring to when I persuaded Joel Dyson to hand to Julius Amberg the compromising photos he'd taken of the banker – instead of selling them to the press.'
'I'd forgotten that for the moment,' Paula admitted. 'I do remember that Jim Corcoran at London Airport found out that Dyson flew to Zurich after he'd left the film and tape copies at Park Crescent. And he'd just been in America.'
'It begins to link up, doesn't it? Tweed summarized.
'Does it?' Paula frowned. 'I must be thick.'
'Not at all,' Tweed reassured her. 'It's simply that if I'm right the truth is so awesome, of such magnitude, it is difficult to grasp. We are in real peril here – so we are leaving tonight. Before dinner. We tell reception we've been called away on urgent business. Philip, Pete, Harry -pay your bills separately, including your rooms for tonight.'
'I'd better go pack. Won't take me long,' Paula said. 'But where are we going?'
'There's a small pub hotel at a place called St Mawgan out in the country near Newquay, further west. Newman and I stayed there overnight once when we were down here. I'll phone them from that infernal phone box. I'm beginning to feel I live inside that box.'
Newman jumped up, a newspaper tucked under his arm. 'I am off to pack my things and check out of the Old Custom House. I'll wait for you by the phone box.' He waved the paper. 'Still nothing in the press about the massacre on Bodmin Moor, which I find sinister. News is all about the States and President March not yet agreeing to back the PM over the crises in Europe and the Middle East. Without American co-operation we can't take strong measures, can't take any measures
…'
'Hurry, everyone,' Tweed urged. 'We want to get out of Padstow alive.'
13
President Bradford March sat sprawled in his swivel chair behind the antique desk in the Oval Office. His stance was, to say the least, inelegant. The chair was pushed well back from the desk and his stockinged feet rested on the surface, crossed at the ankles. He was looking out of the tall Georgian windows at Washington's Pennsylvania Avenue. The view was fuzzy due to the grey drizzle still falling. He turned back to face the only other occupant of the room, a woman.
'Shit, Sara, I'm goin' to have to kick ass to get those jerks in Europe movin' -Norton hasn't reported for two days.'
'He does have a difficult assignment, Brad,' she reminded him.
'Which is why I appointed him head of Unit One. Time he wrapped up the whole job in my book.'
Unlike most presidents – who were often six feet tall or over – Bradford March was a stocky man of medium height with a lot of black hair and thick black brows. Fifty-five years old, his aggressive chin was running to jowls, black as his hair. He shaved twice a day, when he felt like it. Above his short thick nose his ice-cold eyes moved restlessly.
He wore crumpled blue denims and a creased check shirt, open two buttons below the neck, exposing the dense hair on his barrel chest. He belched loudly, slapped his hard rounded stomach.
'That's good beer. Fix me another. Then call Norton. I'm going to kick ass.'
'Is that wise, Brad?'
Sara, March's personal assistant, the only person privy to his secrets, was a hard-faced woman of forty with long dark hair, a prominent nose and a wide thin-lipped mouth. She had been with him since the early days of his career -all the way from when he had sneaked in to become senator of a Southern state by a handful of votes. A' handful delivered by a power broker after Sara had handed over to him one hundred thousand dollars in used currency.
Tall and slim, always dressed in black, she was the only person – apart from his wife – permitted to call him Brad. March's wife, Betty, had drifted away from him although she still lived in the White House. Sara was the one who kept a watchful eye on her.
'Time for Betty to have a lollipop, Brad,' she would say.
'Jesus Christ! Do I have to? Again.'
'We don't want her walking, do we? A sable stole will settle her for a while.'
'OK. If you can find the cash.'
'Brad, I can always find the cash. I just twist someone's arm, somebody who owes us a favour. Plenty of them around…'
March sat facing the north wall occupied by an elaborate marble fireplace. Sara came back with a bottle of beer from the fridge, uncapped. Knowing what he wanted she wiped the top and neck of the bottle with a crisp white napkin. March took the bottle from her, upended it and drank.
That's better,' he said, placing the bottle on the desk and wiping his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. 'You know what? Some faggot on the staff here – I posted him to the Aleutians – wanted me to see a speech therapist.' He opened his mouth and bellowed with laughter. 'A speech therapist! You know how I barnstormed my way into the White House? Because I talk like the folks down in the street. It's called empathy – whatever the hell that is. Get Norton on the private phone.'
Sara was used to these sudden switches in subject. She stood with her arms folded, frowning at him. He looked up, spat out the question.
'You got something on your mind?'
'Brad, what is it Norton's looking for? Besides certain people?'
'Certain people being Cord Dillon and Barton Ives. Is my ass covered with Dillon runnin' out? Deputy Director of the CIA. Questions will be asked when the press wakes up, finds he's gone missing.'
'Your ass is covered. I've spread the rumour he's been ill, has gone abroad for a long vacation.'
'Long vacation?' March grinned to himself. When Norton found Dillon his vacation would be permanent. No point in letting Sara know how rough he could play. 'What's getting to you?'
he snapped.
This Unit One. I think Senator Wingfield has caught a whiff of its existence.'
'That aristocratic old creep? Just because he happens to be Chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Maybe his ancestors were one of the Pilgrim Fathers. He looks like one.'
'He carries a lot of clout, Brad. And Unit One is strictly an illegal organization. Trouble is, some members of Unit One are still here, not in Europe.'
'You're smart.'March grinned again. 'Real smart. So we may send the rest to Europe to Norton as reinforcements. Nothing left here then for old Wingfield to get a whiff of. I'll think about that.'
'That would be best. As you say, nothing left for him to get a hold on.'
'It's like tapes and documents,' March went on, folding his hands behind his thick neck. 'Never record anything on tape – reading about Nixon taught me that. Nothing goes down on paper. That way, no evidence. We go on keeping everything verbal.' He winked.
'Best way,' Sara agreed. 'It's worked like a dream so far.
Is the British Prime Minister co-operating?'
'The Brits do what I tell them to do. Norton is operating in London like he was in Louisiana. No interference. Their Prime Minister has no balls. He has two volcanoes smoking on his stoop – Russia and the Mid-East. He daren't move without my backing, which I'm withholding.' 'Sitting in his shoes I wouldn't either,' Sara commented. 'How do you handle the guy?'
'Oh, I borrow a tactic our wily Secretary of State uses if he wants to stall…' March was referring to the American equivalent of the British Foreign Secretary. 'I tell him I have the problem under consideration.'
This FBI agent, Barton Ives, who has also disappeared – how does he fit into the picture? Operated in the South, didn't he – when you were a senator?'
'He could get in my way.' A crafty expression appeared on March's face, his eyes half-closed like a hyena poised to strike. 'You can leave him to Norton.'
'Pardon me for treading in the wrong territory.' Sara smiled. She knew she'd made a mistake. 'Brad, I don't tread on sensitive ground – could be a minefield.'
'Sara Maranoff,' the President said slowly, 'you could get blown to small pieces doin' just that – walking into a minefield.' His expression changed, became amiable as a family man. 'That was a clever idea of yours – suggesting I tell the Prime Minister we have people over there tracking a gang of terrorists planning to assassinate me. He shut his trap fast when I fed him that one. You're a real smart lady.'