The Power (86 page)

The old character walked leaning on a stick, staring out
at the lake. Probably came this same walk every day if the
weather was OK. Bored as hell with life. Mencken
promised himself a lot of fun before he ever got into that state. He put a cigarette in his mouth as the old man was
turning on to the footpath. In the next second Norton rammed the muzzle of an HP3S Browning automatic
against Mencken's chest through the open window, pulled
the trigger. The sound of the shot was muffled by the thick scarf round Mencken's neck which fell over his
chest. His head dropped forward.

Norton's gloved hand reached in through the window. He extracted the portion of the unlit cigarette Mencken's
teeth had bitten through, dropped it into undergrowth. Opening the door, a wave of foetid heat swept into his
face. He quickly shoved the body over sideways on to the
floor,
grabbed hold of the Luger, pressed the button to
shut the automatic window, closed the door.

There was no one about, no traffic in sight when he first
hurled the Luger way out into the lake and followed it by
throwing the Browning in the same direction. A glance at
the car before he left showed him that the windows were
already steaming up, masking the view of the corpse even
if someone peered in. He had already phoned Senator
Wingfield and, with luck, he'd be aboard a flight for
Washington before Mencken's body was even discovered.
Yes, you must tie up loose ends.

53

Senator Wingfield had operated the projector screening
the film himself. When he'd seen who starred in the
horror of the burning log cabin he was glad he'd taken
this precaution. His audience in the Chevy Chase study -
the banker and the elder statesman - had sat in stunned
silence through the viewing, listening to the girl's
agonized screaming.

Wingfield switched on the lights, quickly packed film
and tape away in the canisters. The banker reacted first
in a hoarse voice.

'My God! I need a drink. Bourbon ...'

Wingfield, a rare drinker, joined his companions with
a stiff bourbon, seated again at the table. The statesman
cleared his throat, spoke in a controlled tone.

'Well, now we know the worst. And if I had to dream
up a nightmare scenario I couldn't have come up with anything to touch this.'

'And he's still adding to the deficit,' the banker
reminded them, for something to say.

'He's also not taking any action to counter the threat from the East,' the statesman commented.

'Kids' stuff,' Wingfield snapped. 'Compared with what
we have seen. I ran it through before you arrived. This is
a national crisis. March can't be allowed to sit in the
Oval Office any longer. I've taken the most difficult
decision of my whole life.'

'Which is?' enquired the statesman.

'An ex-FBI man called Norton has arrived in
Washington. I knew him years ago. March has announced
he's flying down South tomorrow. I've given Norton certain orders. A serial murderer in the White House - calls for drastic action.'

'How did you get hold of that terrible film?' asked the
banker.

'Sent here by the very cautious special FBI agent Bar
ton Ives. A messenger delivered it - together with a
highly detailed report on the six serial murders never solved in certain Southern states. Damning evidence
against Bradford March.'

'Why very cautious?' enquired the statesman with a
quizzical expression since he'd guessed the answer.

'Because Ives is somewhere in Washington hiding. I doubt I'll ever track him down. And in his letter he says
Tweed, a top security officer from Britain, will be calling
on me. I remember Tweed - the kind of man you don't
forget. He is the one who eventually obtained the film and
tape.'

'What the hell are we going to do?' the banker asked in a desperate tone.

'I can't imagine you doing anything. Someone has to
take the responsibility for initiating drastic action. Guess
I'm elected. I'm using Norton. I met him secretly early this morning. He has his instructions. The President is
due to fly south today from Andrews Air Force Base.'

'What does that mean?' the banker asked, showing a
great degree of nervousness.

'Sure you want to know?' Wingfield fired back.

'The Senator is more than capable of handling the
problem,' the statesman said emphatically. 'Remember
how the John F. Kennedy situation was solved when his
domestic policies were going wildly wrong.'

'I don't think I want to know any more about this,' said
the banker, draining his glass. Time I got back to my
desk...'

'What about this Norton?' the statesman queried when
he was alone with Wingfield. 'He could know too much
for your health.'

'I've thought about that too. We don't have to worry
about Mr Norton. He's a top pro, bought and paid for to
do the job. But I don't delude myself I've bought a tight
mouth. Arrangements have been made. Just wait for this
afternoon . ..'

In the Oval Office President Bradford March was
checking his shave in a mirror - got to be smart when
you're making speeches to the people. Sara came in
without knocking. March grinned as he turned towards her.

'Tell me I look OK for the trip.'

'You look OK, but I think you ought to cancel this
trip.' She was talking at machine-gun rate. 'I've heard
plenty of rumours someone high up is gunning for you.
Dallas all over again is the word . ..'

'Crap! Now I have Unit One pros guarding me. I've
even got a Unit One crew to fly Air Force One from
Andrews. Time I talked to the folks, whipped up the
support with some of the most rabble-rousing stuff of my
career.'

'Don't let anyone hear you call them rabble,' Sara
warned.

'That's what they are.' He gave his famous grin. 'Look,
I should know, that's where I came from. I know the crap
that gets them throwing their hats in the air.'

'Listen to me.' Sara felt she had to make one more
effort. 'Our watchers reported there was a meeting of the
Three Wise Men an hour ago. At Wingfield's place
again...'

'That old political hack
. . .'

'This time both his guests arrived with an FBI guard -
who surrounded each man as he dashed from his limo
into the house.'

'So they're running scared. Is
my
limo ready to take
me to Andrews?'

Norton left the President's plane carrying a case which
was supposed to contain explosive-detection equipment.
As he descended the staircase he blinked in the strong
sunlight. Dressed in an orange boiler suit zipped up to the neck - it carried a badge Ul, Unit One - he made himself resist the temptation to hurry away from Air
Force One.

He was the last maintenance man to leave the aircraft and a motorcade was approaching. The TV crews were already penned up by guards who were careful to let the technicians have a clear view of the aircraft's staircase
March would walk up. The President was very publicity-
conscious.

Underneath his boiler suit Norton wore a grey busi
ness suit. Earlier, arriving at the checkpoint, he had passed through without trouble - simply showing his
Unit One card issued before he'd left for Europe weeks
ago.

He had prowled the maintenance shed looking for a
mechanic close to his build and height wearing one of
the distinctive orange suits. Approaching him from
behind, Norton had put him out of action by using a tyre iron on the back of his skull.

'Sleep well, baby,' he had whispered after taking off
the boiler suit and stuffing the man inside a large waste
bin.

In this way, and by again flourishing his Unit One
card, he had boarded the plane, choosing a moment
when most of the maintenance crew had left. Now, out of sight of the crowds, which were already roaring with
delight, he stripped off the boiler suit, stuffed it into the
waste bin on top of its unconscious owner, smoothed out
the creases of his grey suit and hurried out of the main
entrance, again showing his card.

He had no hesitation in hurrying, wearing only a suit
and no coat in the bitter raw cold which
gripped Washing
ton despite the sun. Again he heard the crowd roar, this
time more prolonged. As he walked towards where he
had parked his car Norton could picture the scene.

Bradford March climbing the steps of the mobile stair
case slowly, pausing at the top. Then swinging round suddenly and hoisting both arms with clenched fists high
in the air. Another louder roar from the crowd. Norton
smiled to himself grimly as he climbed behind the wheel of his car and drove off. He parked his car a good half-
mile away from the air base, positioning it so he could
look towards Andrews.

Air Force One suddenly appeared, climbing steeply as it flew away from the parked car. Norton was peering out
of the open window as he heard the scream of its jets, saw the diminishing silver dart ascend to five thousand feet.

He was wearing wrapround tinted glasses so he wasn't blinded by the sudden brilliant flash. There was a rolling boom as the plane disintegrated and tiny fragments of the fuselage spun out of a cloud of black smoke which had
disfigured the duck-egg blue of the sky. Norton, who had kept his engine running, eased the car out of the side road
and drove on to his house in Georgetown. While serving
with the FBI he had been attached to the Explosives
Division.

'Well, you haven't lost your touch,' he said aloud.

He used his remote-control device to open the door of the
garage located under his house. Having parked the car,
he came out, closed the door, mounted the steps to his
front door. In the house opposite a woman looked out of
her first-floor window, saw him climbing the steps. She
was not surprised - her neighbour, security officer for
some large international bank, often spent long periods
away from home. She left the window to go downstairs.

Norton held his front door key in his hand when he got
to the stoop. He inserted the key in the lock, frowned
when it seemed difficult to turn. For once Norton's nose for danger deserted him - his mind was on what he had
achieved out at Andrews. He turned the key and shards
of the fragmenting front door pierced his body. The force of the explosion was so great it hurled his mangled body
straight across the road. Peering down out of her shat
tered window, the woman opposite saw Norton's
crumpled form lying on her own stoop.