by Colin Forbes
'And I'll accompany her,' Newman announced. 'Dillon told us before he leapt aboard that tram that the opposition has photos of Tweed – and of Paula.'
'Don't leave her side for a moment,' Tweed ordered.
Cardon had just left the room after saying he was going to have a quick bath when the phone rang. Tweed raised his brows, glanced at Newman, let it ring several times before he answered.
'Yes, who is it?'
'Tweed?' a hoarse voice said. 'Cord here. I've got a bad cold, goddamnit…'
'You do sound awful…'
'Tweed, do you want to meet Barton Ives or is this a bad time? I can send him along to the Gotthard now.'
'Do it,' Tweed agreed and then the connection was broken.
He put down the phone slowly. 'At long last we are about to meet Barton Ives, unless he changes his mind. He's also running for his life. We mustn't overwhelm him with too many people.'
He reached for the phone, called Cardon, Butler and Nield in their rooms. He gave each the same instruction.
'From now on don't come to my room or approach me. Your first priority is still our protection – but stay in the background…'
They waited thirty minutes and no one arrived. Tweed was still studying his list of people whom he had linked together. He checked his watch, folded the sheet he had torn from his notebook, slipped it into his wallet and stood up.
'You don't think he's coming after all?' Paula suggested.
'I was doubtful from the beginning. He's survived so far by staying in deep cover. It takes a great effort of will to emerge into the open in that sort of situation. I'm hungry. They serve marvellous food in the Hummer Bar restaurant. We'll go down, the three of us, and eat…'
Tweed was locking his door as Newman strolled slowly down the corridor. He stretched a hand across his face, a mannerism Paula had noted when he was puzzled by something.
She brought up the rear as Tweed followed Newman. It was very quiet in the corridor as they headed for the lift. A man was walking towards them with a deliberate tread. As he passed Newman Paula automatically noticed that he was of medium height and athletic build. He had a large head, was clean-shaven and his dark hair was cut short. His eyes, under thick brows, were blue and penetrating. He reached out a hand as Tweed was passing him, grasped his arm.
Paula's hand was inside her shoulder-bag, gripping the butt of her . 32 Browning in a flash. Newman had swung round, had taken three swift strides and pressed the muzzle of his Smith amp; Wesson into the stranger's spine.
'You wanted something?' Newman snapped.
'Hold it, fellas,' he whispered. He stretched out both hands and his square-tipped fingers touched the walls. 'Cord said it would be OK. I'm Special Agent Barton Ives, FBI.'
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 Ten
nessee 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 m
y 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.