by Colin Forbes
Mr Norton. Welcome. If you really want the two items you are interested in bring the money. Proceed now to Ouchy, Switzerland, Lake Geneva. A room has been reserved for you at the Chateau d'Ouchy. Occupy it this evening. You will hear from me. Do not delay a minute. This time, do bring the money. This is your last chance.
Norton hurled the box into the still black waters of the lake. By the light of his torch beam he watched it sink. He returned to his car, closed the door, the window, and pulled out from the glove compartment a collection of maps until he found one of Switzerland.
It took him a while to trace his finger along the shore of Lake Geneva until he located Ouchy. He picked up his mobile phone. By some miracle Mencken answered at once and the connection was loud and clear.
'Ouchy, Switzerland…' Norton spelt the name of the port. 'Move the entire reserve to this goddamned hick place tonight. Spread them out among as many little hotels as you can find. Call me at eleven tonight but don't come near the Chateau d'Ouchy. OK? What the hell do I care how you make it? Get on it, street bum…'
For the moment Norton was no longer concerned with Tweed. His mind was concentrated on getting hold of the film and the tape – and that meant reaching Ouchy fast. Disinclined to linger by the sinister lake – he had glanced up once and in the moonlight had seen the fateful chateau perched like a menace above him.
He drove on as fast as he dared until he reached the N415 which would take him back to Kaysersberg. There he'd make a brief call at the Green Tree, collect his few things, pay the bill. At a lonely spot he pulled in off the road on to a snow-covered verge, kept the engine running.
Taking out his collection of maps, he studied them and decided to take the autoroute to Basle. From there he'd drive on through the night until he reached Ouchy. As he put away the maps he decided he'd better later call in at the Hotel Bristol to check that all his remaining team had left. A careful man with detail, Norton was a fanatic for checking out everything.
Marvin Mencken had taken a few decisions of his own. After receiving orders from Norton, he used his mobile phone to contact car Yellow and arranged to meet the men in that car in Munster.
The leader of this team was Jason, a professional gunman from New Jersey. With a face like a bulldog and the determination of the animal, he was probably the most ruthless American below the ranks of Norton and Mencken.
Unlike Norton, Mencken was still very much concerned with the fact that Tweed still survived. It was an insult to his professional integrity. Reaching Munster, he parked his car close to Yellow, got out into the bitter night and walked to give special orders to this reserve team. Cars Orange and Brown were already on their way south to Switzerland. Mencken had warned them over his mobile phone first to collect their bags from the Bristol, to pay their bills. In his own cunning way Mencken rivalled Norton in attention to detail.
'Jason,' he began without ceremony, talking through the open window, 'later you grease your butts and move like the wind to this dump, Ouchy. I've marked it on this spare map. OK? It had better be. Put your men up in a small hotel. Avoid the Chateau d'Ouchy – I've written that name down on the edge of the map.'
'You said later. We've got a job to do first?'
Jason spoke in a hoarse tone – he was a three-pack a day smoker. His large head and face were faintly illuminated by a nearby street lamp. With his piggy eyes, his pug nose and his lower teeth protruding slightly above his bottom lip, even Mencken thought he looked horrific.
'You've got three other men,' Mencken continued. 'I want you to drive straight to the Bristol. Make yourselves inconspicuous – and keep a lookout for Tweed and his mob.'
'We lose that guy for ever – and the rest of his team?' Jason suggested hopefully.
'You do just that. I'll be following you, get there later. Do a nice quiet job. Afterwards maybe you can prop them up in their beds in their rooms. Give the night maid a nice surprise,' Mencken suggested with his macabre sense of humour.
44
To the Brasserie!' Tweed called out as they approached closer to the Hotel Bristol. 'And a glass of Riesling!'
It was an attempt to cheer up his passengers. He sensed that reaction was setting in after the events of the day.
'Anyone would think you hadn't eaten or drunk a thing since leaving Colmar,'Paula chided him.
In fact they had taken refreshment 'on the hoof. Before leaving the Bristol in the morning Paula had collected a large quantity of sandwich au jambon – ham inside French bread. She had also had six Thermoses, purchased in Basle, filled with coffee and another one with cold milk. In addition she had brought twelve litre-bottles of mineral water.
They had eaten and slaked their thirst during the first stage of their descent from the chateau, and later after the cataclysmic collapse of the cliff. At the same time, Paula reflected, they had had no more than snacks and she too was feeling peckish.
'Are we safe now?' Amberg suddenly demanded in a commanding voice.
'No,' Tweed told him. 'We are only safe when we have our hands on the film and the tape. So really,' he went on in an offhand manner, 'it's entirely up to you, Amberg.'
'They won't know we're going to Ouchy,' the banker suggested.
'Don't count on that either,' Tweed replied, determined to keep the Swiss rattled.
'Do stop fussing, Walter,' Eve broke in with one of her rare interventions. Her manner was calm, her voice fresh. Paula admired her stamina. 'Walter,' Eve continued, 'if you're nervous don't eat or drink anything at dinner. You might get indigestion. You wouldn't like that, Walter,' she ended, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Amberg relapsed into silence after casting her a venomous look which Paula noticed. The traffic was now very heavy and, following Newman, Tweed was inching the Espace next to the kerb along the wide pavement outside the shops facing the railway station.
He braked as Newman stopped the station wagon ahead. It occurred to Tweed that it was along this same pavement at a later hour that Jennie Blade had encountered the Shadow Man. What had been her description of the sinister figure? A man wearing a long black overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat which completely concealed his face. Had she been telling the truth? he wondered. Newman appeared at his open window.
'I suggest you all get out here and walk straight into the Brasserie where there are other people. Marler is parking the station wagon a short distance away. I'll take over the wheel of the Espace. Paula, could you run back to the BMW which is pulled up a few yards behind? I want you to escort Jennie into the Brasserie. But first tell Gaunt to follow me in the Espace. And tell Gaunt – I don't want any argument.'
'Butler and Nield?' Tweed queried.
Told over my walkie-talkie to follow the convoy. Now, I want to get behind that wheel fast…'
Tweed dropped into the road and hurried to the pavement followed by Paula, Eve, Amberg and Cardon, who had a firm hand on the arm of the Swiss. Newman, Tweed ruminated, was now capable of taking control of the whole operation if anything happened to him.
Eve caught up with him, linked her arm inside his, her rifle concealed under her long trench coat. Paula ran back to where Gaunt had begun to honk his horn non-stop, just when they didn't want to be noticed. Jennie lowered her window when she saw Paula coming. Paula stopped, her tone icy as she addressed Gaunt.
'Stop making that noise at once. Jennie, get out and I will take you inside the Brasserie.'
As Jennie opened the door, moving quickly, Gaunt leaned forward. He glared at Paula.
'Just who do you think you're addressing?' he demanded in a lofty tone.
'You, you stupid arrogant bastard!' she blazed. 'You're putting people's lives in danger. To hell with your own, but get that tin can moving pronto.'
Gaunt was so taken aback, he obeyed. As Paula slammed the door shut he nodded to her, began moving forward, following Newman who was disappearing round the corner in the Espace. Paula took Jennie by the arm, glanced at the mob of people pushing and shoving up against each other while t
hey hurried across to the station. Gaunt had just beaten the lights before they turned red.
Rush hour with a vengeance. Everyone looked sick of doing a day's boring work, sick of trudging through the slush, sick of the penetrating cold. Paula found the normality of all this strangely reassuring after their nightmare trip into the Vosges.
A wave of warmth met them as they pushed open the doors into the well-heated Brasserie. Tweed was already seated at a table in the dining area closest to the hotel with Eve beside him. Cardon sat at the end of the long table where he could survey the whole restaurant.
'A glass of Riesling for everyone who likes the idea,' Tweed announced. 'I think we need a stimulant before we go to our rooms and freshen up before dinner.'
Well, at least we're safe in here, Paula was thinking as she sat next to Cardon and Jennie chose the chair next to hers. Paula agreed enthusiastically to some Riesling and glanced round the restaurant. A handful of locals having a drink on their way home. Then she frowned.
At a table by himself, not ten feet away, sat one of the most repulsive men she'd ever seen, a man who looked just like a bulldog.
Norton drove very slowly when he reached Kaysersberg. The snow was piled up in the ancient narrow streets. This was some country. Hadn't they ever heard of snow-ploughs? He parked the Renault in a side-street some distance from the Green Tree. The less the proprietor of the small hotel knew about him the better.
He met no one as he trudged back through the snow. The old buildings, lit by wrought-iron lamps, had oak beams sunk into the plaster walls. The plaster had a different colour for each building – bright scarlet, deep ochre, flaming orange. Kaysersberg was beautiful, but Norton noticed none of it. Whole lot ought to be pulled down, replaced by modern buildings with plenty of plate-glass.
He walked into the entrance hall of the Green Tree, ignoring the iron scraper outside, littering the carpet with snow. The woman behind the desk called out to him.
'A phone call for you. The same person each time, I think. Called six times. Left a message.'
Norton nodded, took the folded piece of paper. He waited until he'd taken off his fur hat and coat in his small room, then read the message.
Call urgently. Repeat, urgently. Sara.
'Hell. Go jump off a building. A high one,' Norton said out loud.
He checked his watch. It would be 2p.m. in Washington. He'd half a mind to ignore the message. Sitting on the bed, he decided he'd better make the call. Probably he'd get such a lousy connection it would be pointless.
In a grim mood, he started the laborious business of trying to get through to Washington. The connection wasn't lousy, it was perfect, goddamnit. Sara answered.
'He's pretty anxious to talk with you. I'd go easy if I were you. ..'
'You're not me,' Norton snapped.
'Please yourself.' Sara's tone was calm, indifferent. 'I am putting you on the line. Don't ever say I didn't warn you…'
Norton, who had exceptional stamina, was in an ugly mood. It had been a tough day. All attempts to exterminate Tweed had failed. And he hadn't laid his hands on the film or the tape. He wasn't going to bow and scrape.
'Norton?' President Bradford March's tone was aggressive. 'What crap are you feedin' me this time? Give.'
'I know now where what you want is. I'm leaving for some dump called Ouchy in Switzerland. That's where they are. I'll give you my new number after I've got there. Later this evening, European time. We're almost there.'
'I don't give two shits for "almost",' March shouted. 'I should have sent a bell-boy to do this job. Someone is playing you like a fish on a line
Which was true, Norton had realized. Growly Voice had adopted the technique used by kidnappers. Always sending him on to a new destination to wear him down. The aptness of the President's comment did not improve his temper.
'Just you listen to me for once,' he rapped back. 'I'm the guy on the spot. I know the angles now. Get off my back. Hear me? You listenin' in that snazzy office?'
March had not reached the Oval Office by losing self-control in a crisis. His explosions of abuse were always calculated. Leaning back in his chair, March perched his feet on his desk, crossed his ankles while he thought.
'You still there?' Norton demanded abrasively.
'Sure I am,' March replied quietly. 'Is Mencken still around?' he asked casually.
It was Norton's turn to pause. The one possibility which bothered him was that he might be replaced by that scumbag, Mencken. He decided to hold back nothing. March mimicked in a controlled voice Norton's earlier question.
'You still there?'
'Yeah. Let's hope the line holds. You'd better realize we've taken heavy casualties…'
'So this Tweed is smarter than we thought?' commented the President in the same quiet tone.
'He just got lucky.' Norton was leading March away from the subject of Marvin Mencken. 'We've taken some heavy casualties,' he repeated.
'So you can't make the omelette without breakin' a few eggs,' March responded in a bored tone.
'I was going to say we could do with more manpower.'
'Would Mencken need more manpower? You didn't tell me – is Mencken still around?'
'Yes.'
'I can't spare more manpower. I need what I have left here in Washington. Certain guys have to be clamped down on. You said earlier Tweed got lucky,' March recalled, building up to bait Norton some more. 'I'd say he got smart as he's still around.' A pause. 'I don't hear no denial of that. I gave you a time limit, Norton. Time's almost up. I want the film, the tape. I want Tweed, Joel Dyson, Cord Dillon and Barton Ives dumped. For ever. Get on it.
The connection to Washington had gone. Norton slowly put down the receiver and didn't even bother to swear. Ouchy was going to be a blood bath.
***
Inside his study at his Chevy Chase house Senator Wingfield looked round at his two guests seated at the round table with a cold expression. His guests, the banker and the elder statesman, watched him closely, realizing there had been a very serious development.
The Senator had summoned them to attend a meeting of the Three Wise Men urgently at short notice. It was not this factor which caused them to sense the atmosphere of tension inside the comfortable room. Wingfield normally had the appearance of a benevolent father figure, He rarely showed any emotion and it was the grimness of his aristocratic features which held their attention.
'Gentlemen,' Wingfield began, 'I have just received this highly confidential communication from the Vice President. Jeb Galloway has received the report I have inside this folder by special delivery from Europe. It makes incredible reading – I just hope its author is insane.'
'But do you think he is? Insane?' the statesman enquired.
'If he isn't – and I have a horrible idea he's as sane as any man round this table – our country faces the most serious crisis of this century.'
'You know who the report is from?' asked the banker.
'Yes. A special agent of the FBI. A man called Barton Ives.' He extracted the typed sheets from the folder, handed them to the banker. 'Judge for yourselves.'
'These documents allege this Barton Ives knows who is responsible for a number of particularly beastly serial murders in several Southern states,' the banker, who was a fast reader, commented in a shaky voice after a few minutes. 'Each involves the murder of a woman by cutting her throat – after rape had been committed, according to the medical examiner's report in the state concerned. All the murders have remained unsolved, even though they took place several years ago. It's beyond belief.'
'What is?' demanded the statesman as the banker handed him the documents.
'The man he names as the perpetrator of these vile crimes. Not only was the throat of each victim cut with a serrated knife – a kitchen knife is suggested – but similar sadistic mutilations were found on each corpse.'
'Who is this Barton Ives?' the statesman persisted before examining the documents. 'I seem to have heard the name.'
>
'A very senior agent of the FBI,' Wingfield said reluctantly. 'I made discreet enquiries before I called you. Ives was in charge of the investigation linking all six murders. He was about to prepare a comprehensive report when his superior at the Memphis office was posted to Seattle. The new man ordered Ives to discontinue the investigation and destroy the files. He was sent to Memphis on direct orders from Washington. Ives alleges he had to flee to Europe to save his life. My enquiries back up this strange sequence of events.'
There was a heavy silence as the statesman skimmed through the reports. He held each page at the edges between his fingertips, leaving no prints of his own. Dropping the last sheet back inside the folder, he used his elbow to push the folder back to Wingfield across the polished table.
'There is mention of a thumbprint being found on the side of a Lincoln Continental belonging to the sixth raped and murdered woman,' he pointed out. 'Barton Ives says he has that thumbprint and it still exists on the car. So where the hell is the car?'
'I enquired about that,' Wingfield told him. 'Before he left Memphis on his flight to Europe Ives hid the car somewhere. Difficult to achieve – considering the size of the car – but Ives has a wealth of experience. You see, he says he is the only one who knows its location.'
'Well,' said the statesman, 'we've had every kind of corrupt president, quite apart from Watergate. Presidents with mistresses – common enough. Some with illegitimate children. Others who've walked into the Oval Office with little more than the clothes they stood up in. By the time they stepped down from the presidency they were millionaires. So, I suppose one day – in this age of exceptional violence – we should have expected something like this.'
' If it's true, he can't stay untouched in the Oval Office,' the Senator said with great force.
'But you haven't enough evidence there to do anything,' the statesman objected.
'So I need this Barton Ives in this room so we can grill him. I think I'll have a word with the Veep.'
