The Power

'Believe it or not, that's the police station. Unmanned. So, if we hit trouble, don't expect any help from the police.'

'Comforting,' Paula commented.

Newman swung right again down St Edmund's Lane, an even narrower and bleaker street at night. It descended steeply and it too was hemmed in on either side with old grey stone terrace houses. No one about, not a soul, and the lighting was dim, Newman paused for a moment, pointed to a gap in the wall to their right with a shadowed pathway leading uphill.

'That's a short cut on foot back to the Metropole.'

'I wouldn't advise going up there after dark,' said Butler, seated next to Tweed.

It was the first thing he'd said since they had entered the car. Paula, feeling edgy, took the remark personally.

'I suppose that was for my benefit. Harry, I'll have you know I can take care of myself.'

'I wouldn't go that way at night myself,' Butler told her equably.

Newman drove to the bottom of the lane and Paula leaned forward, anxious to get some idea of Padstow's layout. Turning to the left along a level road, Newman gestured to his right.

'That's a dock beyond the car park with the estuary on the far side. I'm now driving along a one-way street. If I'd turned right at the bottom of St Edmund's Lane it's two-way traffic. Ahead is the harbour, a complex system. I can show you better in the morning. Tweed, I decided it might be better if I stayed elsewhere as an unknown reserve. I have a room overlooking the harbour in the Old Custom House, the building on your left. It's a very good hotel. And there is your phone box. I have to park a bit further on. See you in the morning?'

'Yes. We'll be walking past your hotel at ten o'clock on the dot. Good night. Take care…'

Newman had paused, while Tweed and Paula got out of the car. Butler followed them, crossed to the carpark where he had a clear view of the old-fashioned red phone box. The raw wind hit them as Tweed struggled to haul the door open and Paula dived inside with him. It was with some trepidation that Tweed dialled Howard's number at the Surrey mansion.

'Who is this?' Howard's voice enquired after Tweed had been passed through an operator.

Tweed. I gather you wanted to talk to-'

'Is that a safe phone?' Howard interrupted, his voice tense.

'It should be. It's a public call box. If you don't mind I won't say where I'm speaking from.'

'Oh, damn that, I don't care. As long as you're well away from London…'

'I am…'

'Tweed, the situation is desperate, unprecedented. You'll hardly believe what's happening.'

'Try me,' Tweed suggested quietly.

'As you know, our HQ has been totally destroyed by the bomb. But I can't get through to the PM. He seems to have cut himself off from me. Every time I try to reach him some fool of a private secretary feeds me a load of codswallop as to why I can't contact him. But I know the PM is in Downing Street. The secretary let that slip.'

'I see. Any theory as to why this is happening?'

'Well, the PM is having trouble with Washington. He needs America's support, as you know, over Europe and the Middle East. Washington is being very distant with London.'

'Precisely who in Washington?' Tweed enquired.

'I gather it's the Oval Office. President March himself.'

'Rather a rough diamond, I've heard.'

'Should never have been elected,' Howard stormed. 'Just because he's a powerful orator, talks the language of the people.' He sighed with disgust. 'The people – and some of them he mixes with are hardly out of the top drawer.'

'What you're saying is we've lost the PM's support? Even with this bomb outrage?'

'It would seem so. I can't believe it.' Howard sounded to be in despair. 'I really can't believe it,' he repeated, 'but it's happening.'

'I want you to call Commander Crombie…'

'I spoke to him a few minutes ago. At least he is talking to me. He said it was too early to be positive, but his experts have found relics of the device which detonated the bomb. It's definitely not IRA, Crombie says. A very sophisticated and advanced mechanism was used – something they've never encountered before. The press will continue to say it was the IRA, and Crombie won't contradict them.'

'He sounds to be moving fast.'

'Something else difficult to believe. Crombie has teams working round the clock on clearing the debris – three shifts every twenty-four hours. I think it's discovery of this new device which has electrified him.'

'Howard, phone Crombie on my behalf. Tell him it is very important to find amid that mountain of rubble my office safe. It contains a film and a tape recording. They could be the key to all that's happening. I'm guessing.'

'You usually guess correctly,' Howard admitted. 'I will make that call to Crombie – mentioning you. What do the film and the tape contain?'

'If I knew that I might know who is masterminding these attacks on us.'

'Could take weeks to find,' Howard warned. 'And then it may be crushed to nothing – or its contents will be.'

'That's what I like about you, Howard – your eternal optimism. Just call Crombie.'

'I've said I will. Have you any solid ideas?' Howard pleaded.

'One or two. Give me a little time…'

Tweed's expression was grave as he left the box-with Paula. Butler strolled across the road to meet them. The alert bodyguard was smiling.

'Cheer up! We'll break this thing sooner or later. Oh, while you were on the phone Newman came back for a moment on foot. Full of apologies. He forgot to mention that Monica took a call from Cord Dillon earlier in the afternoon before the fireworks display. Dillon is somewhere in London.'

Tweed stared. Cord Dillon was Deputy Director of the CIA. A very tough, able man – what was he doing in London at a time like this?

'Dillon wants to talk to you urgently.' He handed Tweed a folded piece of paper. 'Newman gave me that to hand on to you. The number of some London phone box. You can reach Dillon between 9.30 a.m. and 10 a.m. at that number tomorrow morning. Monica said it sounded as though he was keeping under cover. Wouldn't say where he was staying.'

'Let's get back to the Metropole…'

Tweed walked beside Paula, told her the gist of his talk with Howard. They turned up St Edmund's Lane. Butler was following several paces behind them, reeling as though he was drunk. His right hand gripped the Walther inside his windcheater as they plodded uphill and took the long way back, ignoring the short cut to the hotel. Paula was relieved: the path which turned off the lane was a tunnel of eerie darkness.

'What on earth is going on?' she asked. 'That business about not being able to reach the PM. I'm scared.'

'With good reason. Interesting that Washington business – and now Dillon turns up out of the blue. My thoughts are turning towards America.'

'Why America? Because of Dillon's arrival?'

'Not entirely. Something rather more sinister.'

'Sorry. Perhaps I'm being rather thick. Probably fatigue. And I do want to drive with Bob Newman back to Bodmin Moor tomorrow to talk again to Celia Yeo. What is it about the States which has suddenly grabbed your attention?'

'America,' Tweed repeated, half to himself, 'where there is so much money and power. '

'Power?' Paula queried.

'Work it out for yourself.'

7

Feeling dopey when she woke the following morning in her double bedroom, Paula bathed, dressed for the moor, fixed her face in two minutes and only then pulled back the curtains. She stared at the view in disbelief. Something very weird had happened overnight. The River Camel had disappeared!

She stared at the vast bed of sand, rippled in places, stretching from shore to shore. When she phoned Tweed he said he was just ready for breakfast, so why didn't she come down to the suite?

She was closing her door when another door opened and Pete Nield appeared. He fingered his moustache and grinned.