by Colin Forbes
Sara, arms still folded, bobbed her head in acknowledgement of the compliment, but she wasn't fooled. March had used that trick on her before – first hammering her for an indiscretion, then following that up with a tribute to her loyalty. Bradford March might have come from the sticks but he had a native cunning when it came to manipulating people. Wisely, she changed the subject.
'Can I ask you something else? Has Norton found the two pieces of equipment he's endeavouring to locate? I don't know what they are but I do know they worry you.'
March's expression became brooding. 'No, he hasn't. But he will. His job's on the line and he knows it. Sara, maybe we should put a tail on Senator Wingfield? Don't trust him as far as I can spit.'
'Don't do it,' Sara warned. 'He'll know. Then he'll guess there's something to conceal. He could start digging up dirt about Unit One. Let him rest in peace.'
'Which is where I wish he was. In the cemetery. Now, try and get me Norton on the private line. Then go take a shower or something…'
Which was another precaution March had learned from reading up the history of previous occupants of the White House. Never completely trust the one closest to you -man or woman. In a crisis it was the loyal friend who stabbed you in the back. Today's friends – tomorrow's enemies.
Bradford March was not psychic, but on that cold drizzly February morning a meeting of three men was being held not a world away from the Oval Office. The meeting took place in one of the luxurious mansions in Chevy Chase, the most sought after – and exclusive – residential district near Washington.
The small group was seated round a Chippendale table in the study of Senator Charles Wingfield. Even though it was daytime the curtains were drawn closed in the large room at the rear of the house. Illumination came from the glass chandelier suspended above the table.
The Senator, a white-haired vigorous man of sixty and Chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee, looked at his guests as they began sipping the excellent coffee he served.
The short plum-faced guest, in his fifties, was the most powerful banker in the States. Alongside him sat a man known as an elder statesman. The latter was of medium height, bulky build, clad in an immaculate suit and he wore horn-rimmed glasses. Behind the lenses strange penetrating and shrewd eyes watched the other two men. The Senator opened the meeting, going straight to the point.
'I'm getting more and more worried about the President's behaviour. There are two crises brewing up in Europe and both could damage our vital interests.'
'And March is doing nothing to support Europe,' the statesman snapped. 'All he can think of is his "America First, Last and All the Time".'
'Which was the slogan which won him the election,' the banker pointed out.
'You can interpret "America First" as the best reason for our intervening in Europe, for supporting the British in this situation,' the statesman replied waspishly. 'God knows enough history has proved our front line is on the European continent. The Veep has more grasp of foreign affairs in his little finger than March has in his ugly ape-like head.'
By Veep he was referring to the Vice-President, Jeb Galloway. March had chosen Galloway as his running mate because he was from Philadelphia and was popular in the north-east and the so-called 'rust' states of Michigan, etc.
'Galloway is a very different man,' Wingfield agreed. 'He's a cultured man with a global view. But he's still the Veep.'
'Nothing more than a decoration with no say in policy,' the banker reminded them. 'So what can be done?'
'Politics is the art of the possible,' the Senator said in a soothing tone. 'March has done nothing yet we can openly criticize him for. He's quick on his feet and a master of the Washington ball-game. Gentlemen, all we can do is wait.'
'You did say you'd heard rumours that March has secretly organized his own private paramilitary force,' recalled the statesman.
'Rumours. Nothing I can get my teeth into. Washington abounds in rumours. The private army thing may be a trap March has set. We go public about what is nothing but a rumour, he proves we're off the wall, and any influence we possess is destroyed.'
'I may make a statement criticizing his inaction over foreign policy,' the statesman insisted. 'The position is we have no foreign policy. It might stir Galloway into urging immediate action.'
'I still advocate silence,' Senator Wingfield replied.
In certain circles, limited to a very few old Washington hands, they were known as the Three Wise Men. Wingfield was very strong on the strategy of their remaining in the shadows.
They talked for a little while longer. The banker could hold himself in check no longer. He burst out with unusual vehemence.
'The President has done nothing to reduce our soaring deficit. America is going bankrupt. The way he's increasing our debt, we're heading for a crisis right here.'
'He's very popular still,' the Senator warned. 'I would advise both of you to make no public statements pending our next meeting.' He looked at his watch. 'And I am due at the Senate in thirty minutes. ..'
Courteously he ushered them into the hall, shook them by the hand, but was careful not to be present when the front door was opened. The statesman and the banker left the mansion separately – with five minutes between their departures. Outside a chauffeured limousine waited in the drive when each man hurried out of the front entrance.
Back in his study Wingfield decided he would make a few very discreet enquiries. The problem was always to find an ear where the mouth would stay shut afterwards. Calm and dignified during the meeting, inwardly the Senator was a very disturbed man.
14
It was dark as they waited close to Padstow harbour. Newman sat with Paula alongside him in his Mercedes. Cardon had taken over the wheel of the Escort. Butler and Nield had taken the Sierra – but at that moment they were both outside, watching the phone box with Tweed inside it.
A storm had blown up, the sea was in a rage. Paula got out of the Merc., leaned in to speak to Newman.
'I'm going to get a closer look. It's really wild tonight.'
'I'll come with you,' Newman said, jumping out of his seat.
They walked near the edge of South Quay, but not too close. The gale nearly blew them off their feet. Fascinated, Paula watched the boats in the outer harbour swaying and tossing. Huge waves rolled in, crashed against the rear wall, exploded in a burst of surf and spume rising way up above the wall. One smaller craft looked as though it was going to be upended at any moment.
Newman grasped her arm to prevent her getting any nearer to the brink. She glanced over her shoulder where the interior light shone down on the occupant of the telephone box.
Tweed had dialled the Surrey mansion, was put through very quickly to Monica. He spoke rapidly.
'Short of time. Monica, I want you to prepare a profile on a man called Gaunt. Lives at Tresillian Manor on Bodmin Moor. You won't hear from me for some time, but don't worry.'
'What the hell is going on?'
It was the first time he'd ever heard her swear. Even on the phone he could sense her tension – a tension which probably pervaded the whole mansion.
'No idea yet,' he answered. 'Now, put me on to Howard…
Tweed, are you all right?' were Howard's first words.
'Yes. We're moving on. Had a word with the PM yet?'
'No, we're completely cut off from the outside world -which is an eerie feeling. I did get one thing out of that fool of a private secretary when I threatened to go up to Downing Street. He said I wouldn't be admitted, that there's a major terrorist hunt in progress. I can't imagine what he's talking about.'
Then you haven't got much imagination, Tweed thought. He had a pad and a pen at the ready.
'Can you give me Commander Crombie's private number? I may need to contact him.' He scribbled down figures of a phone number in London. 'Thanks. Now listen, Howard, you may not hear from me again for a while. Don't worry about it. I'll be in a safe place with my team.'
'Well, I hope y
ou know what you're doing. Where is this safe place?'
'Sorry, I'm leaving no forwarding address. Must go…'
'Wait! I've just remembered. Had a call from Cord Dillon. Take down this number… Got it? He must be in Switzerland. He wants you to call him urgently. Gave me different times. Half a sec. Just checked my watch. You could get him now, allowing for the time difference. There are only fifteen-minute periods during the times he gave me.'
'I'd better get off this line, then…'
'But I need to know where I can get in touch with you.'
'No forwarding address…'
Tweed put down the phone, fished in his pocket. He needed more coins. The wind nearly hurled him back inside the box as he emerged. Battling against the gale he beckoned to Butler and Nield as Paula and Newman came back to the Merc. Tweed climbed into the back, called out brusquely.
'I need all the change you've got to make a long-distance call. Hurry it up
'Not another call?' Paula exclaimed. 'Maybe we'd better set up a coffee and sandwich bar for you inside that box,' she teased.
'It's not funny. Just give me the change. Cord Dillon is waiting for me to ring. Sounds like a fugitive, from the way Howard reported it. The Deputy Director of the CIA -something is terribly wrong…'
Armed with a large collection of coins Tweed returned to the box. The first number Howard had passed to him was 010.41. Switzerland. Followed by 1. Zurich. Followed by the rest of the numbers. The operator put him through quickly and he began listening to the ringing sound. He checked his watch. He was damned close to the end of the fifteen-minute period.
'Who is this calling?'
Dillon's abrasive American voice. No doubt about it.
'Tweed here. I got your message from Howard…'
'Where are you calling from? I can't hang about here much longer
'Public phone box…'
'Like me. In Shopville. Just listen. Joel Dyson is here. Still alive. Least he was when I spotted him, then lost the guy. So is Special Agent Barton Ives, FBI. Again I go and lose him. At least he's here.'
'You're staying at…
The place you suggested. No names. Don't see how they can tap every goddamn phone in this country, but you just never know.'
'Cord…'
'I said just listen. I'm filling you in on the situation. Too many Americans here who don't look like tourists. I guess they're after Dyson. Ives, too.'
Tell me about this Barton Ives…'
'Not over the phone. Maybe we can meet some place some day. If I'm still walking around…'
'Cord. You may see me sooner than you think. Keep under good cover
…'
'What is good cover in this situation? Got to go. Hang in there, Tweed…'
There was a click. Tweed sighed, pushed open the door as another gale-force gust tried to slam it shut on him. He walked back to the Merc, with his head bowed, followed by Butler and Nield, and dived inside the back. The wind closed the door for him. Paula twisted round in the front passenger seat.
'It's quite a night. You should see what's happening in the harbour.'
'Which is exactly what I shouldn't see. Bob, get moving. You've found St Mawgan, Paula?'
'I can take us straight'there.'
'That will be a miracle.'
Paula didn't reply. Tweed was tauter than a guitar string.
Newman drove along the A389 once he was clear of Padstow. Cardon followed in the Escort and the Sierra, with Butler at the wheel and Nield beside him, brought up the rear. The wind beat against the side of the Merc., bent over hedges as though intent on tearing them up by the roots. 'We're heading for Wadebridge,' Tweed called out.
'We could have taken a side road and come out on the A39 much further west.'
'Who is the bloody navigator?' Paula snapped. She'd had enough of Tweed's brusqueness. 'I'm keeping us on A-roads. On a night like this we don't want to be driving on windy B-roads. Not until we have to later.'
'She's right,' Newman said. 'I'm driving and this is a big car to take down narrow country roads on a night like this.'
'Sorry, Paula,' said Tweed, who realized he'd been sharp with her. 'I'll leave the two of you to get us there.'
Tweed was enduring a mixture of emotions – impatience to reach their ultimate destination and anxiety about the safety of Cord Dillon.
'What about accommodation for the night?' Paula queried after a while. 'Did you manage to fix up rooms for the night at St Mawgan?'
'Yes. The Falcon Inn only has four rooms but we will cope somehow.'
'One for you,' Newman said, 'one for Paula. I'll share with Cardon and Butler and Nield won't mind sharing the other. It's a nice place, the Falcon, Paula, and just about the most difficult place on earth to find.'
'The latter being the main reason why you chose it?' Paula asked Tweed over her shoulder.
'Partly,' he said and relapsed into silence.
Paula guided them to the right on to the A39, another good wide road, and they drove on through the night, meeting no other traffic, the wind still hammering the car. Later she guided them off the A39 with a fresh right turn on to the Newquay road, the A3059. She soon warned Newman they had to keep a lookout for a side road. It was Tweed who spotted the turning.
'Right here,' he called out. 'We're getting close now to where we turn off yet again…'
Paula was conscious they were getting into very remote country. They drove down a steep narrow winding hill and Tweed warned Newman to crawl. He then completed answering Paula's question.
'St Mawgan is close to what is called Newquay Airport. We are booked to catch the 11.05 flight to Heathrow. It arrives at 12.15 p.m. During one of my visits to that phone box I called this airport, booked our seats in our own names.'
'Was that wise?' Paula ventured.
'It was deliberate. I am leaving a trail for the enemy to follow. I want him out in the open, where I can see him, identify him – and deal with him,' Tweed concluded grimly.
At St Mawgan it was nine o'clock at night. In Washington it was four in the afternoon as Jeb Galloway, Vice President, paced slowly round his office while his aide waited for him to speak.
'I'm secretly in touch with someone in Europe to find out what the hell is going on, Sam,' Galloway said eventually. 'The difficulty was to find someone I could totally trust, but I think I found the man.'
Galloway, forty-five years old, was six feet tall and heavily built. Clean-shaven, with fair hair, he was dressed immaculately in a blue Brooks Brothers business suit. Strong-featured, he had a long nose, grey eyes and a determined mouth and well-shaped jaw.
'That could be dangerous, sir,' Sam suggested. 'You've sent this emissary to Europe on a secret mission without the President's knowledge?'
'He was there already. He contacted me. I've also had a talk with a top gun in the establishment. He also approached me. He's as worried as I am about the mounting world crisis. And March doesn't give a damn.'
'Isn't this possibly a catastrophic move?' Sam persisted.
'If Brad March ever finds out he'll close all doors to you.'
Galloway smiled wryly, a smile which had made him very popular. It was the smile of a man of integrity and conviction. He waved a large hand as he went on.
'All doors are closed to me now. March doesn't tell me a thing that matters. And I've heard a whisper that he's assembled a secret paramilitary force, his own Praetorian Guard – like a Julius Caesar.'
'Whispers! Sounds like a load of crap. March wouldn't do thatit's against the Constitution.'
'Brad isn't too hot on obeying the Constitution – if some overt move helps him to increase his power.'
'Who are you in contact with in Europe?' Sam asked.
Sam was a short plump man of fifty-eight. He'd had experience of serving under more than one president, knew the pitfalls of the Washington power game. Galloway mentioned a name. Sam looked dubious.
'Wouldn't play poker with that guy. I heard he had to flee to Europe ov
ernight. Some mysterious investigation his new boss in Memphis chopped. That guy is trouble.'
'I'm still keeping in touch. Rare type, Sam – an honest man.'
The Falcon Inn at St Mawgan was a compact building of old grey stone. It stood on the edge of the lane at the very bottom of the steep winding hill. Newman drove the Merc. slowly past it, turned right down a narrow lane alongside the inn.
The car park is a little way from the Falcon,' he explained to Paula. 'Hidden well away behind it.'
His headlights swept over a small village shop, swung to the right. They shone down an even narrower track with ramps.
'This is a pretty lonely spot,' Paula commented.
They had reached a dead end, a forest-shrouded bowl which was the car park. No other vehicles were parked. Behind them Cardon followed in the Escort while Butler and Nield brought up the rear end of their small cavalcade in the Sierra. Newman had switched off his engine but he left on the headlights so Tweed and Paula, climbing out of the car, could see. Paula adjusted her shoulder-bag as she stood in the bitter cold, staring round at the bowl overhung with dense trees rising up slopes.
'Don't like this,' she said. 'It's creepy. And anyone could tamper with the cars while we're asleep in the Falcon.'
'You have a point there,' Tweed agreed. He looked at Butler, Nield and Cardon who had joined them. 'I think we ought to organize a roster among us so someone is always here to guard the cars.'
'You and Paula can get your beauty sleep,' Newman decided. The four of us will take it in turn through the night to sit in the Merc.'
'I've got a better idea,' suggested Butler. The four of us split into twos. I take the Sierra back, park it out front of the inn. That way we have the back and the front under surveillance.'
'Agreed,' said Tweed. 'Now let's go and see what we can get for dinner…'
