The Power (3 page)

'Can't - or won't?' Newman snapped again.

'Pass.'

'Then get to hell out of here and take your junk with
you.'

The contents of those two canisters could shake the world, shatter Europe to its foundations, destroy any influence Britain has internationally. I'm running scared, Bob - scared as a rabbit with the ferrets inches from its tail.'

Dyson took a cigarette from a gold case and Newman tried an experiment: he used his own lighter to ignite the
cigarette. Dyson couldn't hold the tip still, his hand
trembling like a leaf in the wind. Reluctantly, Newman decided he was not putting on another of his chameleon-
like acts.

'If we agree to keep this stuff we have to know where to
get in touch with you,' he said. 'Otherwise, forget it.'

Newman had noticed something when Dyson had
extracted the two canisters inside his case.
Rammed in on top of some clothes which looked new - and American in
style - was a film camera with a coiled hanging strap.

'I've got to rush now,' Dyson protested, lifting his case off the table.

'I said, how do we get in touch with you? Where will you
be staying?'

'Contact that Swiss banker you introduced me to. Julius Amberg in Zurich.
Look,
I'm going to miss my plane
...'

'Then shove off.'

Monica escorted him to the door, nodded to George to
unlock the front door. Dyson disappeared like the wind.

'I'm taking these canisters straight down to the explosives boffins in the Engine Room for testing,' Monica said the moment she came back.

'Wise precaution,' Newman agreed. 'Then what?'

'Put them in Tweed's safe until he gets back...'

The driver behind the wheel of the grey Volvo, still parked
within sight of the building where Dyson emerged, signal
led to the driver of another car, a silver Renault, parked
behind him, by stroking a hand over his head. 'Volvo'
picked up his mobile phone as Dyson stepped inside a taxi
he'd hailed, dialled.

'Jerry here again.'

'Developments?' Norton's gravelly voice demanded.

'Subject called at a soft-porn shop in Soho. Came out,
took another taxi to a Park Crescent
building. Went...'

'Park Crescent? God Almighty, not there! Number of the building?'

'General & Cumbria Assurance.' The driver gave him the number. He had strolled round the crescent and back
to his car while Dyson was inside. 'When Dyson left the
Renault took over—'

'General & Cumbria.' Norton had interrupted him,
sounded to be thinking aloud. 'I know what that place is.
What was Dyson carrying - when he left?'

'Just his bag...'

'He must have left them there for safe keeping.' The
voice became even grimmer. 'We'll have to take out the whole building. You'll be needed to prepare the vehicle -and the explosives. The job must be done in the next
forty-eight hours. Get back to headquarters...'

PART ONE

The Massacre

1

Two days later Paula Grey was following the other guests into the large dining-room of Tresillian Manor for lunch. The Elizabethan gem was located on an isolated stretch of
Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. She had been staying with friends in Sherborne when the call from Tweed came
through early in the morning.

'Paula, a strange emergency has arisen. I'm just back
from Paris and I had a call from Julius Amberg, the Swiss
banker. He sounded frightened. He's flown over here from
Zurich to a friend's house on Bodmin Moor ...'

He had given her careful directions where to turn off the
A30, which spanned the moor. She had said she would drive there at once.

''I'll be there in time for lunch,' Tweed had continued. 'I am bringing a heavy bodyguard - Butler, Nield and Cardon. Armed. Which is what Amberg begged me to do.'

'What on earth for?'she had asked.

'He wouldn't say on the phone. He was calling from
Tresillian Manor. Apparently he flew from Zurich to
London Airport this morning, called me here at Park Crescent before I'd arrived. He then caught a Brymon
Airways flight to Newquay Airport and called me again from Bodmin Moor. He has his own team of guards with
him but doesn't have that much confidence in them. He
spoke as though in fear of his life. That isn't like Amberg.
We'll all meet up at the manor...'

It had been a pleasant drive from Sherborne for Paula - a
cold February morning with the sun shining brilliantly out
of a duck-egg blue sky. Pleasant until she had turned down the side road across Bodmin Moor. The sense of isolation
had descended on her immediately, the bleak deserted
moor closing in on her.

She had stopped the car, switched off the engine for a
moment, listened. Not a sign of human life anywhere
among the barren reaches of gorse-covered heathland. In
the distance she saw a dominant
cone-like hill rising up -
Brown Willy. It was the silence which seemed menacing.

Despite the sunlight, a sense of doom gripped her. Of impending tragedy. She shook off the dark mood as she started up the car and drove on.

'You're just being silly,' she told herself.

Tresillian Manor was hidden from the outside world
because it was located in a bowl. Wrought-iron gates were wide open with a curving drive beyond.

Lousy security, Paula thought as she drove in past the
stone pillar carrying the name of the house on a brass plate.
Tall firs surrounded the estate, isolating it further from the outside world. Paula gasped as she turned a corner, slowed
on the tarred drive.

Built of grey stone, it was a smaller manor than she had
expected but a beauty. Stately gables reared up at either
end. A massive stone porch guarded the entrance. Six cars, including a Rolls, were parked below the terrace which ran
the full width of the house. Mullion windows completed the architectural masterpiece.

'Welcome to Tresillian Manor,' a small portly man
greeted her. 'I am Julius Amberg. We met briefly in
Zurich.' He peered over her shoulder. 'Where is Tweed?'

'He's coming down with his people from London. I'm sure he'll be here shortly.'

Behind Amberg stood a blank-faced heavily built man.
Paula was shown a cupboard where she divested herself of
her trench-coat. She kept her shoulder-bag, inside which
nestled her Browning .32
automatic.

Drinks were served in a room Amberg called the Great
Hall. Spacious, lofty, with a sculpted plasterwork ceiling,
it seemed as old as time. A few minutes later Paula
followed the other guests across the large entrance hall
into a long narrow dining-room. The table was laid for lunch. Paula counted twelve places. Plenty of room for Tweed and his contingent.

She glanced at her watch. Unusual for him to be late.
Her stomach felt queasy again: she must have eaten
something the previous evening which had disagreed with
her. She'd be relieved when Tweed
did
arrive. The sensation of imminent catastrophe had returned. She studied Amberg, who sat at the head of the table.

The Swiss banker, in his fifties, wore his black hair without a parting, slicked back from his high forehead.
Under thick brows his blue eyes were shrewd, his face
clean-shaven and plump. He smiled at Paula, who sat on
his left.

Tweed is usually so prompt.'

'He'll be here any minute,' she assured him.

She looked down the table at the other six men, none of
whom had spoken a word. All were in their thirties and
wearing black suits. She suspected they were hired from a
private security firm in Switzerland. They didn't inspire
her with confidence - there had been no one at the
entrance gate, and Amberg had opened the door himself
with only one guard behind him.

'It's very good of Squire Gaunt to rent the manor to me at such short notice,' Amberg continued. 'Even though I
have spent longer periods here before. And the butler
and kitchen staff.'

'Squire Gaunt?'

'He owns the manor. The locals call him Squire. He
finds it rather amusing in this day and age.'

'Where is he?'

'Oh, probably riding across the moor. While I'm here
he stays in a cottage he owns at Five Lanes.'

He looked up as someone knocked on the door. The
butler who had served the drinks earlier appeared, his
manner apologetic.

'Excuse me, sir, Cook says she is ready with the
luncheon whenever it suits you.'

Mounce, a Cornishman, wore-a black jacket, grey-
striped trousers, a white shirt and black tie. A
tall, heavily
built man, he had the perfect manners for a butler, Paula thought.

'I'll let you know in a minute, Mounce,' Amberg replied.

'Very good, sir.'

'Gaunt has an excellent cook,' Amberg chattered on as Mounce closed the door. 'I hope you Will like the lunch.
Asparagus mousse for a starter, followed by venison with
wine. She is so good I'd like to steal her off him.'

'Sounds wonderful,' Paula said automatically.

The mention of food had brought back the queasiness.
She was about to speak when Amberg checked his watch.

'Perhaps we ought to start. I'm sure Tweed will under
stand. In any case, that will probably bring him post-haste!'

'Mr Amberg ...' Paula lowered her voice. 'Will you
please excuse me for a moment? You showed me where
the toilet is. Do start the meal - I'll only be a moment.'

'Of course...

As she stood up she looked out of the windows over
looking the curving drive. A postman had appeared, riding slowly on a cycle. She recognized who was arriving from
the blue uniform, the peaked cap pulled well down over
the forehead, and for a second sunlight flashed off the red
and gold badge. Perched on the front carrier was a large
canvas bag.