The Power (23 page)

'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 convic
tion. 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 that- it'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 overnight. 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 . ..'

It was the middle of the night when Butler, slumped behind
the wheel of the Sierra parked outside the Falcon, heard a
car approaching down the steep hill. He sat up, took a
bottle of beer he'd kept for the purpose, swilled some
round in his mouth, spat it out of the window he'd opened.
Newman was taking his duty stretch in the Merc, in the
park behind the inn where he could also keep an eye on the
Escort. In the wing mirror Butler saw the headlights of the oncoming car dip. When it stopped close to him he saw it
was a cream Chevrolet. He recognized the driver as soon as
he stepped out and came over.

It was the big American with dark brows which almost
met across his boxer's nose. The American who'd tried to
pick a quarrel with Newman in the bar at the Metropole in
Padstow.. Butler had seen the Yank as he slipped past the
bar entrance on his way with the others to the elevator. But
the Yank had
not
seen him.

'You been here long, buddy?' the American asked.

'Hours. What's it to you? I had a skinful back in the inn and I'm not risking getting caught by a patrol car. So
you
have a problem, mister?'

'Maybe my approach was wrong.'

'So, we've got that settled. You lost?'

'You know the area?'

The American was eyeing Butler carefully. He leaned
inside the window. Butler chose that moment to manufac
ture a large belch. Beer fumes assailed the American's
nostrils. His brutal face showed distaste.

'I asked you a question.'

'I know the area. And I asked you a question, mate.'

'You been here long?' the American persisted.

'I told you. Something wrong with your memory?' But
ler snapped.

'Sorry. Wrong approach again. It's a friggin' cold night.
I'm looking for a Mercedes 280E. Blue colour. Seen a car
like that around here?'

'No.'

'Sure?' the American persisted further.

There you go again. Asking the question I've answered.
And you still haven't answered mine. You lost or
something?'

'My pal and I - the one in the Merc. - were going to meet
with each other. I've lost the note he gave me of the name of the hick place he said he'd wait.'

'I was right, mate,' Butler jeered. 'You are lost.'

'How do I get out of this dump?'

'This is a very small and attractive village. You piss off
out of it by driving straight on. Get it?'

The American gave him a savage look, walked back to
his Chevrolet, clashed the gears and gunned the motor as
he drove off, not giving a damn how many people he woke
in the middle of the night.

'And you just missed getting a bullet in your gullet,'
Butler said aloud.

He holstered the Walther he'd been holding in his lap
under his windcheater. Checking his watch, he saw it was
3 a.m. Nield would be coming to take his turn while
Cardon relieved Newman at any moment. He grabbed for
his Walther again as a slim figure appeared next to his
window. It was Nield.

'Time for your beauty sleep, Harry. Had a restful doze?'

Newquay Airport - several miles outside Newquay itself-
was one of the bleakest departure points Paula had ever
seen. Perched on a lonely plateau in the middle of
nowhere, it was little more than a grassy field crossed by
concrete runways. An eight-foot wire fence surrounded it and 'reception' was little more than a single-storey shed.
They had found a place they could leave the cars and
Tweed had reassured the attendant.

'It's a business trip and we might not be back for some time. All right to leave our cars?'

'At your own risk, guv'nor.. .'

Newman asked the girl behind the counter the question
after they had checked in with their luggage when Tweed
had collected and paid for the tickets.

'Yesterday a helicopter buzzed us as Padstow, nearly
sank the boat we were in,' he lied smoothly. 'Does anyone
ever hire choppers from here?'

'It happens occasionally, sir. Yesterday? I heard two
Americans hired a machine for a few hours. It caused a bit of gossip - one of them had a British pilot's licence, which is unusual. And your flight is ready for departure ...'

Newman exploded after they had all trudged across to
the waiting machine with their luggage. It was a sizeable
plane but he pointed at the nose.

' Look at those things!'

'They're propellers,' Tweed said quietly, knowing New
man disliked prop aircraft. 'It will fly, you know.'

'Yes, but will it get there? And we seem to be the only
passengers for the 11.05 flight

The Brymon Airways aircraft was in mid-air before
Paula looked down on the grey landscape. She was seated next to Tweed who stared ahead grimly.

'A penny for your thoughts. You've been very quiet
since Harry Butler told us at breakfast about the reappear
ance of the American brute.'

'I'm worried and relieved at the same time,' Tweed admit
ted. 'Staggered that one of them should turn up at an out of
the way place like St Mawgan. You realize what that means?'

'No, but you might tell me. I expect you will anyway.'

'For one to arrive in St Mawgan they must have an army
of them combing Cornwall for us. '

That's the worry. What's the relief?'

'That I guessed right early on in this sequence of
macabre and mass-murder campaigns against us. To
operate on such a scale calls for an organization of enormous magnitude. With all this firepower against us the ultimate enemy can only be one source.'

'You're not going to tell me what it is, are you? Before you
say it, I'm sure you need more data to be absolutely sure.
But where are we going now? London could be a death-trap.'