The Power (81 page)

Tweed followed the tramline along a deserted street
which curved and sloped steadily downwards - towards
the distant Rhine and the Drei K
ö
nige where they had
stayed. Was it a million years ago? There was no other
traffic and Paula found the street, hemmed in on both
sides by tall, solid stone buildings, eerie and unsettling. In
his wing-mirror Tweed saw the station wagon transpor
ting Butler and Nield following him.

'Should be round the next corner if I remember
rightly,' Tweed commented, sensing Paula's unease.

'They go to bed early in Basle,' she remarked.

'Not a lot to stay up for, is there?' Tweed replied.

'Stop the car! There are lights in my bank. Someone
has broken in ...'

Amberg's voice, calling out in surprisingly commanding
and vigorous tone. Tweed signalled, pulled in to the kerb.
Unfastening his belt, he twisted round in his seat, staring
at the banker and Eve, who had laid a restraining hand on
his arm.

'There is a woman who works for you at the bank
...'
Tweed began.

'It can't be her, I tell you,' Amberg rapped back with
an air of authority. 'Karin would have gone home hours ago. Always at the same time to her apartment near by.'

'And always by the same route?' Tweed suggested.

'Yes. It's the quickest way for her to get home. Even
when she's going shopping she goes home first to collect
her basket...'

'Always at the same time and by the same route?'
Tweed repeated.

'Yes. I've already told you that...'

So even Swiss security can be fallible, Tweed thought
grimly. The deadly scenario was so obvious. Someone
had followed Karin home after checking her routine.
They had probably forced her at gunpoint to return after
dark with the keys to the bank. They'd been clever
enough to foresee the alarm system, to force her to deactivate it. Now they were inside and doubtless she knew about the key to the vital safe deposit. Tweed thought he now knew why Mencken had lingered in the restaurant at
the station - waiting for his thugs to do this job.

'I'd better go inside, see what's happening.'

Newman had left the Espace, was now outside Tweed's
open window. His right hand by his side held the Smith &
Wesson.

Take Butler and Nield with you,' Tweed ordered.
'They may have a number of armed men inside.'

'So I'll go with them too,' said Cardon, who had
materialized beside Newman.

'I'm coming,' said Paula, her Browning already in her hand.

'You're staying to guard me,' Tweed told her.

Paula bit her lip, opened her mouth, closed it without saving anything. Tweed had cleverly checkmated her. Newman had to hold on to Amberg's arm to compel him to accompany the team.

'I wonder what hell is going to break loose inside that building,' Paula remarked aloud.

'I'll take the lead,' Newman told the others. 'I don't like
the look of this. They've forgotten to close the door
properly...'
All the lights were on the first floor. The entrance hall
was a cavern of darkness. Newman paused, held the
others back with his left hand while his eyes became accustomed to the dark. He'd have liked to use his pencil flash, but they might have left a lookout at the top of the
wide curving staircase. It had a wrought-iron rail and the
hall floor was solid marble. Some Swiss banks liked to
show clients they had come to the right place.

'Can't hear a thing,' Cardon whispered in his ear. 'It is
'too quiet. Maybe they've come and gone ...'

'Assume an army is waiting up there,' Newman whispered back.

Holding on to the rail to help guide himself, he began
to mount the steps. His rubber-soled shoes made no
sound as he continued higher and higher - the first-floor landing was a surprising distance above the ground floor. Then he heard a voice.

'Come on, my dear, we haven't got all night. Before I
spoil your face for ever open the bloody safe ...'

The voice had spoken English with an upper-crust
accent. Blurred by distance, Newman thought of Gaunt, who, when he had caught up with Butler at Basle Station,
had said he was driving straight on to Ouchy. A brief remark of Butler's which hadn't really registered. Until
now
...

'No! Don't! Please! I'll do it...'

A woman's voice also talking English, a woman's voice
expressing the last extremes of panic. Newman moved,
ran up the last few steps with Cardon at his heels and the others close behind. He ran across the landing to an open doorway framing light, rushed in, crouching low, gun in front of him, then stopped in sheer surprise.

A man was holding a knife close to a woman's throat as
she bent in front of a large safe, operating a combination lock. A small slim man with a plump face and pouched lips. In his thirties, he had a receding chin and a sneering
smile as he watched the terrified woman opening the safe.

There was a click and she heaved the massive door open.

'Drop the knife,' Newman ordered. 'There are four of
us.'

'Stand back or I'll cut her throat,' the slim man
screeched.

Newman smiled, walked forward, placed the muzzle of
his Smith & Wesson carefully against the side of the man's
head. He pressed the metal close to the skull.

'You won't cut anything,' Newman said in a quiet
voice. 'Because if you did in the next second half your
head would be plastered over that wall. So stop playing silly games.
Drop it!
' h
e roared. 'Or you're dead.'

The knife clattered to the floor. Cardon noticed that
the hand which had held the knife was trembling like a
leaf in the wind. The woman's assailant stared at Newman
as though seeing a ghost.

'Who the heck is this creep?' Cardon asked
impatiently.

'Meet Mr Joel Dyson, notorious member of the pap
arazzi mob. Someone outside wants to meet you badly,
Joel.'

PART THREE

The Power

50

In Washington it was late afternoon, the lights were on, blurred in a steady snowfall. President Bradford March
was pacing the Oval Office restlessly when Sara came in.

'What is it now?' he snapped. 'More trouble? And
when do I get a report on the treachery of the Holy
Trinity?'

'It may be good news,' she replied in a soothing tone. 'Norton is on the line.'

'Leave me while I talk to the bastard...'

March took a deep breath as he sank into his chair and
picked up the phone. He was in a foul mood.

'Norton here. I've reached Neuchatel...'

'Have you? Great. Where is the friggin' place?'

'In Switzerland. French-speaking Switzerland
...'

'Cohabiting with the Frogs now, are we? You haven't
got a woman with you, have you? Because if you have I'll
hear about it from Mencken and...'

'I'm alone and in a hurry. Are you going to listen for a
change or shall I put down the receiver?'

'Norton ...' March's tone became dangerously soft. 'If
you ever threaten me again Mencken
takes over
instanter. Get to it.'

'I'm close to Ouchy - where the exchange will take
place. The money for the two items you need. The place is ringed with my troops. I may clean up the whole job
before the night is out...'

'You'd better. You're running out of time. Remember?
I gave you a deadline. Of course, if you obtain what
I'm after without paying over the big bucks there'd be a nice fat bonus waiting for you
.'

'Any point in asking how much?' Norton enquired.

Thought you were in a hurry to get to this Owchy. OK.
You asked. Fifty big ones,' March said, clutching a figure
out of the air.

.'I'll be in touch. My new number at the H
ô
tel Château d'Ouchy is. ..'

'Got it. Get on your horse
...'

In the Neuchatel hotel where he'd paid for a room for
the night so he could use the phone, Norton put down the
receiver. At least this time he'd beaten March to the
punch in contacting him and giving him his new phone
number.

He went downstairs, pulling on his coat, told the recep
tionist he'd be back for dinner later, went out into the
arctic night to drive on to Ouchy.

In Washington March was pulling at his stubby nose
with his thumb and forefinger. A bonus? The only bonus
Norton would get when he returned would be a bullet in
the back of the neck.

March never took a chance he didn't have to. He was working on the assumption that - despite orders - Norton
would take a peek at the film, would listen to the tape
when he laid his hands on them. That risk could only be
eliminated by eliminating Norton. Maybe things were
now looking good. He opened a bottle of beer, drank
from it and wondered about the Holy Trinity.

Senator Wingfield was alone in his study with the curtains
closed against the night. He was also drinking but his
beverage was Brazilian coffee from a Royal Doulton ser
vice arranged on a silver tray. He was studying a typed message which had come special delivery from Europe. No indication on the sheet of paper of the whereabouts of
the sender - except the stamps were Swiss.

'That's right, Galloway,' he said to himself, referring to
the Vice President. 'When the bullets start to fly keep
your head down.'

The experienced Senator was cynically amused that this communication had come direct to him. He could imagine
the brief phone conversation Jeb Galloway had had with his FBI contact.