The Power

'It's about a guy called Joel Dyson – some film he took, a tape recording he made. That's all I can tell you till we meet some day. If we're both still standing up. Get out of the country, Tweed. One thing I'll give you – the only other American you can trust is a Barton Ives, Special Agent, FBI. He knows it all. I'm on my way. Jesus! I don't even know where I might be safe.'

'Cord.' Tweed spoke with great emphasis. 'Head for Switzerland. For Zurich. Stay at the Hotel Gotthard – same name as the pass south into Italy. It's a three-minute walk from the main railway station.'

'I'll think about it…'

'Don't. Just do it. I'll meet you there when I'm able to make the trip.'

'You could be right. Jesus!' Dillon repeated. 'They are arriving at my hotel. I've left my bag inside a locker at one of the main terminals. Got to go now.'

'Cord…'

'One more thing, Tweed, then I'm moving. You ever meet a man called Norton, shoot him before he kills you…Norton. Got it…?'

The connection was broken.

8

Ed, a small pock-marked American, dialled the new number for Norton as he stood inside a phone hood in Piccadilly Underground Station. Norton kept constantly on the move, never stayed at the same place for more than one night.

'Who is it?' Norton's abrasive voice demanded.

'It's Ed. I've been staring at wallpaper since we tracked Joel to London Airport.'

'We? Bill tracked him to the Swissair flight he boarded for Zurich

…'

'Well, we're a team

'You're a schmuck who takes orders from me. And we have more schmucks in Zurich. Guess what happens.'

'No idea,' Ed replied cautiously.

'You always were short of ideas. The people waiting at Zurich Airport lost Joel. Can you believe it?'

'Yes, you just told me…'

'Don't get smart-ass with me. I had another team grouped by the entrance to Amberg's Zurcher Kredit Bank in Talstrasse. Guess again.'

'No… You really had Zurich sewn up.'

'Wrong again. I thought I had Zurich sewn up. So, Joel walks into the Zurcher. Never comes out again. The staff leave, the doors are locked. Still no Joel. You have one guess.'

'Beats me…'

'Seems most things do. Joel must have been let out the back entrance – which the schmucks who call themselves operatives didn't know about. You know Zurich. You know Joel. Get out there to Zurich pretty damned fast. Find him. Got it now?'

'Sure. And when I do find him?'

'Goddamnit!' There was a pause and Ed would not have been surprised to hear a snarl. 'I'll tell you what you do… Norton's voice had gone deceptively soft. 'You break his fingers one by one. You break his arms, his legs, until he tells you where he's hidden what we must find fast. And then you snuff him out.'

'Got it…'

'I do hope so, Ed,' the soft voice went on. 'For your sake.'

'What about Tweed?' Ed ventured.

'He's still around. Not for long. He's a walking corpse. And when you get to London Airport don't forget to buy Swiss currency.'

'I had thought of that.'

'You amaze me…'

The phone went silent.

Tweed was stunned when he left the Padstow phone box and was joined by Butler. Nield waited on the far side of the road. Tweed had never known Dillon be frightened of anyone. So what group could have scared the tough American, made him start running?

'Where is Paula?' he asked.

'She went off with Newman and Cardon towards the harbour. They're collecting the car ready for their drive to Bodmin Moor.'

'I don't like it,' Tweed commented. 'Lord knows what they will run into on that blood-soaked moor…'

Newman had led Paula and Cardon to the harbour to show them the complex layout. Paula saw there was an inner harbour full of water, which puzzled her since the tide was out. She stopped to look at a large luxurious cabin cruiser with an array of radar equipment. Mayflower III.

'That's cost somebody a bomb,' she remarked.

A gnarled old fisherman sorting out his orange-coloured fishing net near by looked up. Paula smiled at him and he walked over to her.

'Admirin' the Squire's boat? It could sail to Europe in bad weather.'

'The Squire?' Paula queried.

'Yes. Squire Gaunt. Lives on the moor. Comes down 'ere quite often and takes her out for days.'

'To somewhere in Europe?' she asked casually.

'Ah! No one knows. Keeps a tight mouth on his doin's, does the Squire. You'll excuse me, lady. This won't earn a crust of bread. Enjoy yourselves.'

Newman led them back into the car park. He pointed to a single-storey building.

'Harbour Master's office. I enquired there about the tidal rise and fall. Seven point six metres, they told me.'

'That's fantastic.' She did a quick calculation. 'Over twenty feet.'

'I'd say you need to be skilled sailing round here,' Newman commented, leading them along a quay.

They reached a narrow footbridge linking one side of the harbour with the other. As they strolled over the white metal bridge Paula stopped, looked down. She realized they were walking over a large lock gate. To her left was the inner harbour full of water, to her right a drop like an abyss to a mudbank. Water trickled through the gate. Only then did she see an outer harbour, exposed to the sea.

It lay to her right and was a basin of mud. Small craft moored to the walls were canted over at a drunken angle. Beyond the closed lock gate on the seaward side a thin channel of water led out of sight towards the ocean. Newman pointed across to the outer jetty enclosing the waterless harbour.

'That's what they call the Pier. When the tide starts coming in you catch the ferry to Rock from some steps on the far side. Now you have to take that coastal path to the cove further out where there is still water.'

Paula saw a flight of steps leading up to a steep path which disappeared behind a new development of fiats, directly overlooking the river.

'Wouldn't like to live there,' she remarked. 'No wonder they're all for sale. It must be as lonely as hell.'

'Padstow is pretty much hidden away,' Newman agreed. 'Which is why Tweed has chosen this place to give himself a little time to think. Turn round and you'll see the whole of the little town.'

Paula swung round. Beyond the harbour and the quays a densely packed series of old buildings was stepped up like a giant staircase. Newman checked his watch, looked at Cardon.

'Now I think it's time we headed for Bodmin Moor and bearded this Celia Yeo – if you can do that with a girl. Philip, you sit in the back and keep your eyes open…'

***

There was a little more traffic on the A30 as Newman swooped down a huge slope and then whipped up the other side. The sun shone down on the moor out of a clear blue sky but Paula found it no less hostile. A strong wind beat against the side of the Mercedes 280E as Newman made his suggestion. He perched dark glasses on the bridge of his strong nose, then rammed a black beret on his head.

'Paula, I think you ought to disguise yourself. We've no idea what may face us at Five Lanes. It's possible we won't want to be recognized.'

'A smart idea,' she agreed.

She took a pair of dark glasses from her shoulder-bag. After putting them on she took out a scarf, wrapped it over her raven-black hair and framed her face. Both actions completely altered her normal appearance. Newman grinned.

'You look like a madonna.'

'Just so long as I don't look like the contemporary Madonna. I suppose not – I'm wearing too many clothes.'

'While I'm waiting with the car,' Cardon called out, 'I'll sit hunched up like a midget.'

'You look like a midget normally,' Newman retorted, which was unfair. Cardon stood five feet ten tall and was very muscular.

Paula called out a warning to Newman. 'We're approaching the turn-off to Five Lanes. Celia lives in a cottage called Grey Tears on the outskirts.'