The Power tac-11

by Colin Forbes

  'Why would Galloway want you killed since you had no evidence strong enough, no witnesses left alive to confront him with in an American court of law?'

  'Galloway,' Ives responded promptly, 'is a success in both business and politics. He made it by taking no chances, leaving no loose ends. I'm a loose end.'

  Paula sensed Ives was tense. Whenever a new customer entered the restaurant he glanced quickly over his shoulder. Newman was unusually silent. Only Tweed seemed completely relaxed as he glanced slowly round the restaurant.

  The dining-room was oblong, divided from the bar with sheets of frosted glass which had Edwardian couples etched on its surface. The main colour motif of the room was red. The ceiling was divided into large crimson panels, the walls were covered with carmine velvet. The small table lamps which provided the main illumination had crimson shades and the tablecloths were pink.

  Paula thought it was a daring decor which could so easily have been chichi. But it worked: the whole atmosphere of the Hummer Bar suggested a warm and welcoming intimacy. She felt relaxed – except for an aura of tension which seemed to originate from Barton Ives. She thought she now understood it – Ives probably hadn't relaxed for a second since leaving the States. Now he was finding it difficult to adjust to the pleasant and secure surroundings. Other tables were full but the restaurant wasn't noisy. Just a gentle chatter and the occasional chuckle of pure enjoyment.

  'I wonder who those guys were standing about outside in the rain,'Ives said suddenly.

  'Doesn't matter now,' Tweed told him. 'They've all gone, I heard. Chased away by the police.'

  The police?'

  'That was what I heard at reception.'

  'You think those characters knew I'd arrived here?'

  'I very much doubt it,' Tweed reassured him. 'I expect they were looking for me. Oh, by the way, have you taken a room here in your own name?'

  'Had to, didn't I?' Ives flared up. 'I told you – I'm not carrying any phoney papers.'

  'I check details,' Tweed told him quietly. 'Our job is to protect you. How is Dillon? And how did you happen to meet him here in Zurich?'

  'Jesus Christ! One question at a time.' Ives quietened down. 'Cord is restless, jumps at his own shadow. I met him by accident in Sprungli. He didn't immediately know who I was when I sat opposite him. I was wearing tinted glasses. Damned near fell off his chair when he realized it 'was me.'

  'How did you two first meet?' Tweed went on. 'The Deputy Director of the CIA doesn't normally have contact with the FBI. The CIA isn't supposed to operate inside the United States.'

  'But they do when it suits them. I found the head man of a sabotage ring Cord was looking for. He was always grateful for that.'

  'He would be…'

  Their meal arrived and no one spoke as they consumed the excellent food. Paula, who ate quickly, as usual finished first. She watched Ives handling his lavish helping of lobster. When they had all finished Ives reached into his pocket.

  'Goddamnit, I've left my cigarettes in my room. Won't belong.'

  Newman offered his pack of Silk Cut.

  'Thanks,' Ives said, 'but I only smoke Lucky Strike…'

  'Seems very edgy,' Newman commented after Ives had gone.

  'You can understand it – after what he's been through,' Paula countered. 'Who wouldn't be?'

  'We'll wait for coffee until he gets back,' Tweed said and checked his watch.

  Ten minutes later Tweed suddenly stood up. He put his hand on Paula's shoulder to keep her in her chair.

  'Bob, I want to make an urgent call. Your room is much closer than mine. Could I borrow your key?'

  He was absent for longer than Paula had expected. When he came back into the restaurant he asked the waiter for the bill, scribbled his room number and signature. Hurrying to the table, he remained standing, leaning forward and keeping his voice down.

  'Did Ives return?'

  'No, he didn't,' Paula said, alarmed. 'Is something the matter?'

  'You could say that. I've phoned police headquarters -luckily Beck had flown in from Berne to check the situation after my first phone call. He's on his way over with a team of specialists.'

  'Specialists?' Newman queried. 'What kind?'

  'His top man with a machine-pistol. And a chemist with his equipment. Plus a bomb squad team.'

  'What on earth for…'Paula began.

  'Beck is in the entrance now,' Newman told Tweed.

  They walked over to where the Swiss police chief waited, fresh as paint in his business suit, calm in a crisis.

  'I have this Barton Ives' room number from reception and a master key,' Beck said as he ushered them out of the restaurant.

  'I could be wrong about this,'Tweed warned.

  'Never known your instinct to be wrong yet. I have armed guards at either end of the corridor where his room is. And I'd like to have your room key for the chemist and the bomb squad. Thank you…'

  Mystified, Paula and Newman stood with Tweed and

  Beck as the lift ascended. Beck stepped out first, looked in both directions, waved for them to follow him out. He was striding ahead of them when Newman asked Tweed what the devil was going on.

  'For one thing, my room lock has been tampered with since we came down to dinner. I was careful not to turn the key, let alone go inside. Also the so-called Barton Ives had the wrong answers to quite a few questions.'

  'So called?' Paula repeated.

  She got no reply. They had come close to the room taken by Ives. Beck's hand gestured for them to keep well back. Standing against the wall opposite the closed door was a uniformed policeman. He wore a flak jacket and was aiming a sub-machine-gun at the door. Two other men, pistols in hand, were flattened against the wall on either side of the door. A fourth man stood close by, holding a short wide-barrelled gun. Tear-gas. Beck was on red alert.

  Taking out his own pistol, Beck leaned past one of the men against the wall, rapped on the door with the muzzle.

  'Police. Open up. A team of armed men are outside.'

  He waited. A long silence. Eventually Beck pressed an ear to the door, listened. Stepping back, he tossed the master key to the other man pressed against the wall. Paula saw the man with the machine-gun stiffen. The policeman with the key quietly inserted it in the lock, turned it, took hold of the handle, glanced at the man with the flak jacket, who nodded.

  The door was hurled wide open. Flak Jacket literally dived into the room, sprawled on the carpet, swinging the muzzle of his weapon in a wide arc. He called over his shoulder to Beck, who had stepped in behind him, his gun ready.

  'Empty, Chief…'

  'Check the bathroom. Same approach…'

  A minute later they realized the bathroom was also empty. Beck looked at Tweed.

  'The bird has flown. So you were right. Now for your room. You all stay here, standing where Stefan sprawled. You don't touch anything. You don't drink anything.' He pointed to a half-empty bottle of mineral water. 'You don't use the bathroom…'

  A policeman with his pistol in his hand stood outside the room while they waited. Newman asked the question in a low tone.

  'Look, Tweed, what is this all about?'

  'I am certain we've just dined with a man Dillon warned me against for fear of our lives. A man called Norton.'

  23

  Beck reappeared after about ten minutes. He waved for them to follow him. As they left the room two policemen wearing protective clothing, one carrying a tool-kit box, arrived, slipped inside the room.

  'Bomb squad boys,' Beck remarked. 'Your room is clean – as regards explosives…'

  When they entered Tweed's room a small gnome-like figure in civilian clothes was waiting for them. On a table a compact leather case was open and inside lay a collection of instruments. The only one Paula recognized was a calibrated dropper – like an eye dropper. A small container made of thick glass with a screw top stood next to the case. Inside it was half full with a crimson liquid. Beck introduced the gnome.

  '
This is our chemical specialist, Dr Brand.'

  'After what I found, Beck,' the gnome said, 'you might be interested to take them into the bathroom.'

  Tweed stood with Beck just inside the bathroom doorway. Paula peered over Tweed's shoulder.

  'Now have a good look round,' Beck suggested to Tweed. 'You're exceptionally observant. Notice anything not the way you left it before dinner?'

  Tweed stared slowly round. His eyes lingered on items from his spongebag he'd placed on a glass shelf over the basin. He shook his head.

  'It appears to be the same. I can't see anything unusual.'

  'When do you use the mouthwash?' Beck enquired, pointing to a bottle.

  'First thing every morning. It freshens me up for the day.'

  'In that case,' Beck said cheerfully, 'you had only a few hours to live. Come back into the bedroom.' He looked at the gnome. 'My friend here uses the mouth-wash every morning when he gets up.'

  'I gargle with it,' Tweed added.

  'Then maybe you would sniff this,' Dr Brand suggested and unscrewed the cap on the small thick glass container. He held it a moment before handing it to Tweed. 'Be very careful. It contains a small quantity of the mouthwash and a certain solvent I tested it with.'

  Tweed raised the container, took a cautious sniff. Paula saw his facial muscles stiffen for a second. He handed it back to Brand, who immediately screwed on the cap.

  'A faint aroma of bitter almonds,' Tweed said slowly.

  'That's right,' Brand said agreeably. 'Prussic acid. I calculate you'd have gargled for two seconds. I placed the mouthwash bottle back exactly as I found it after I tested.'

  'So did someone else,' Beck said grimly, 'after he used a pick lock to get into your room.'

  'Prussic acid. Oh, my God,' Paula said half to herself.

  She had a sudden vivid picture of Amberg at Tresillian Manor in Cornwall, his face destroyed with acid.

  Beck and his team had left as Tweed sat with Newman and Paula in the bedroom. Before leaving he'd reported to Tweed that not a single fingerprint had been found in the room occupied by the man who'd registered as Barton Ives.

  'Probably wore surgical gloves before he even entered the room,' he commented. 'And all the glasses and cutlery he used at dinner has been washed. His case also has disappeared. It's as though he'd never been here. And Brand has taken the mouthwash bottle with him. Take care…'

  Newman had ordered a double Scotch from room service when they were alone while Paula decided she needed a glass of white wine. Tweed stayed with mineral water.

  'God! That has shaken me,' Paula said. 'How on earth did you spot that it wasn't Barton Ives?'

  'An accumulation of things,' Tweed told them. 'First the phone call from a hoarse-voiced man asking if Barton Ives could come. He opened up with "Cord here" – something like that. Unlike many Americans, Dillon is very formal, always introduces himself by his surname. Not conclusive.'

  'Why phone at all?'Paula asked.

  'To make sure the real Barton Ives hadn't already come to see us. After he'd arrived he kept referring to Dillon as Cord, which increased my suspicion. From his own made-up story about how they met, he was only an acquaintance. Still not conclusive

  'So what was – conclusive?' Paula persisted.

  'An accumulation of implausible things, as I just said. The real giveaway was no reference on his part to pursuing the serial murderer – and that information came from Dillon, so has to be true. Then I bring up the subject over dinner – and he dismisses it in two or three sentences! A gory long-drawn-out case like that. Then there was the story he'd thought up as to why he had fled the States. Why should Galloway send over an army to kill "Ives" when he'd admitted he had no evidence that would be accepted in court? A rubbish story. Then at dinner he kept checking every customer who entered the restaurant.'

  'What was the significance of that?' Paula enquired.

  'Link it with his nervousness about the men who'd been watching the hotel…'

  'Yes,' Newman intervened, 'he was obsessed with them. While you were away he kept peering out to see if they had gone away.'

  'No,' Tweed contradicted. 'To make sure they were still there! '

  'Don't follow that,' Paula commented, frowning.

  'You're usually quicker,' he gently chided her. The men outside were Norton's. Placed there in case the real Barton Ives arrived and tried to enter the hotel. That would have been a disaster for Norton, impersonating Ives. His men were there to take care of the real Ives for good if he showed up.'

  'So when you came back from phoning Beck…' Paula began.

  'My story,' Tweed interjected. 'Yes, it was my remark -invented – that reception had told me the police had removed the watchers which told Norton he was in trouble. Again, the real Ives could have walked in on us. Hence his exit to his room, supposedly for cigarettes.'

  'And to your room,' she reminded him.

  'Well, that's why he came here – to kill me. But for Beck bringing Dr Brand he'd have succeeded. I find the method he chose interesting.'

  'Not the word I'd have used,' she remarked. 'But using acid does make me wonder if Norton was the fake postman who committed the massacre at Tresillian Manor.'

  'I was going to say interesting because it's a measure of the ruthlessness of the man – and his determination. He was worried stiff Ives himself might turn up but he still went ahead and tried to murder me.'

  'What is the programme for tomorrow?' Newman asked impatiently.

  'I have a ten o'clock appointment with that detective of Eve Amberg's, Theo Strebel,' Tweed reminded him. 'I'm hoping he'll lead me to wherever Klara, Helen Prey's friend, has moved to. I want to talk to her again. I have an idea she knows more than she realizes. Then in the evening it's drinks with Gaunt's girl friend, Jennie Blade, at 6 p.m. downstairs in the Hummer Bar.'

  'I wonder how Squire Gaunt fits into all this,' Paula mused.

  'He was in Cornwall at the time of the massacre,' Tweed reminded her.'He could be a key figure.'

  While it was dark and drizzling in Zurich, it was still daylight in Washington. 'A kinda daylight,' March reflected as he gazed out of the window. It was snowing heavily. The traffic down on Pennsylvania Avenue was already getting snarled up. He pressed a button on his intercom.

  'Sara, get hold of the shit-kicker who's supposed to send out snow ploughs. I want them on Pennsylvania Avenue in ten minutes. When the machines get moving let the press know I gave the order.'

  'Good thinking, boss

  'Sure is. Let the folks know their President is lookin' after them.'

  'There's a call, long distance, on your private phone. The caller won't give a name. Said you might be interested in a couple of items you were searching for…'

  'Put them through. And put a trace on the call…'

  'They're leery, boss. They rang off, said they'd call again shortly. I'll try a trace… Hold it, I think they're back on the line…'

  'Who is this?' March barked when the connection was made.

  'No names. Got a pad and pen? Good…'The voice was husky. 'I have a film and a tape recording for sale. The price is still twenty million dollars

  'A courier is on the way to Zurich with the pay-off. I need first to be sure…'

  'You need to shut your trap…'

  March's mouth became ugly. You didn't talk to the President of the United States that way.

  The voice went on: 'I know you're trying to trace this call. Write this down. The three possible rendezvous for the exchange – money for film and tape. On the Zurichberg, Orelli-strasse by the hotel. I'll spell it… Next possible place, airfield at Hausen am Albis. Here's that spelling… Third is Regensburg, outside Zurich… I'll be in touch again with specific details

  The connection was broken. March was puzzled by the voice. Husky, yes. Growly, yes – very growly. But twice it had become high-pitched, sounded like a woman. Sara came on the internal line a few minutes later.

  'No luck, boss. Trace took us to Zuric
h in Switzerland. Couldn't get the number in Zurich…'

  'Hell! Don't know why we bought that trace equipment…'

  March slammed down the phone. He'd pass this info, over to Norton when he next came through.

  In Zurich the woman who had called March smiled at the man who had listened. She had disguised her voice by speaking from the bottom of her throat. 'March would never recognize your voice even if he ever met you,' the man said, wrapping his arm round her.

  'I growled. That's the trick. Twenty million dollars. That should enable us to live in style.'

  'You were great. What about going to bed to celebrate?'

  'Why did I think you had that in mind?'

  The following morning Tweed had breakfast with Paula and Newman in the first-floor dining-room, La Soupiere, at the Hotel Schweizerhof. Butler, Cardon and Nield sat by themselves at separate tables. The previous evening Butler and Nield had visited the hotel, entered all six rooms and rumpled the bedclothes.

  'Since Norton knows we're staying at the Gotthard,' Paula suggested, 'is there any point in us remaining there?'

  'None at all,' Tweed agreed. 'Which is why we're moving our things back here after breakfast. I've already paid our bill at the Gotthard, told Harry, Pete and Philip to do the same thing.'

  'What is the next move?' Newman asked. 'I'd like to get to grips with Norton and Co.'

  'If he is the real enemy,' Tweed remarked. 'Nothing is certain. I'm now convinced few of the people we've met here – and in Cornwall – are what they seem.'

  'That's reassuring,' Paula said ironically. 'Anyone in particular you're after?'

  'I need more data before I can plan an elaborate trap. Elaborate because someone is masterminding a complex plot. I only realized that after we arrived here.'

  He was keeping his thoughts all to himself once again, Paula said to herself. She tried another tack.

  'Well, we're staying in Zurich, then.'

  'No, we aren't,' Tweed told her. Tomorrow we catch an express train from the Hauptbahnhof to Basle.'

  'Why Basle?'

  'I phoned the Zurcher Kredit before breakfast to speak to Amberg. Luckily I got Amberg's personal assistant. She told me he had left suddenly for Basle in a great rush.'