Colin Forbes: The Power

Wingfield switched on the lights, quickly packed film and tape away in the canisters. The banker reacted first in a hoarse voice.

'My God! I need a drink. Bourbon…'

Wingfield, a rare drinker, joined his companions with a stiff bourbon, seated again at the table. The statesman cleared his throat, spoke in a controlled tone.

'Well, now we know the worst. And if I had to dream up a nightmare scenario I couldn't have come up with anything to touch this.'

'And he's still adding to the deficit,' the banker reminded them, for something to say.

'He's also not taking any action to counter the threat from the East,' the statesman commented.

'Kids' stuff,' Wingfield snapped. 'Compared with what we have seen. I ran it through before you arrived. This is a national crisis. March can't be allowed to sit in the Oval Office any longer. I've taken the most difficult decision of my whole life.'

'Which is?' enquired the statesman.

'An ex-FBI man called Norton has arrived in Washington. I knew him years ago. March has announced he's flying down South tomorrow. I've given Norton certain orders. A serial murderer in the White House – calls for drastic action.'

'How did you get hold of that terrible film?' asked the banker.

'Sent here by the very cautious special FBI agent Barton Ives. A messenger delivered it – together with a highly detailed report on the six serial murders never solved in certain Southern states. Damning evidence against Bradford March.'

'Why very cautious?' enquired the statesman with a quizzical expression since he'd guessed the answer.

'Because Ives is somewhere in Washington hiding. I doubt I'll ever track him down. And in his letter he says Tweed, a top security officer from Britain, will be calling on me. I remember Tweed – the kind of man you don't forget. He is the one who eventually obtained the film and tape.'

'What the hell are we going to do?' the banker asked in a desperate tone.

'I can't imagine you doing anything. Someone has to take the responsibility for initiating drastic action. Guess I'm elected. I'm using Norton. I met him secretly early this morning. He has his instructions. The President is due to fly south today from Andrews Air Force Base.'

'What does that mean?' the banker asked, showing a great degree of nervousness.

'Sure you want to know?' Wingfield fired back.

'The Senator is more than capable of handling the problem,' the statesman said emphatically. 'Remember how the John F. Kennedy situation was solved when his domestic policies were going wildly wrong.'

'I don't think I want to know any more about this,' said the banker, draining his glass. Time I got back to my desk…'

'What about this Norton?' the statesman queried when he was alone with Wingfield. 'He could know too much for your health.'

'I've thought about that too. We don't have to worry about Mr Norton. He's a top pro, bought and paid for to do the job. But I don't delude myself I've bought a tight mouth. Arrangements have been made. Just wait for this afternoon…'

In the Oval Office President Bradford March was checking his shave in a mirror – got to be smart when you're making speeches to the people. Sara came in without knocking. March grinned as he turned towards her.

'Tell me I look OK for the trip.'

'You look OK, but I think you ought to cancel this trip.' She was talking at machine-gun rate. 'I've heard plenty of rumours someone high up is gunning for you. Dallas all over again is the word…'

'Crap! Now I have Unit One pros guarding me. I've even got a Unit One crew to fly Air Force One from Andrews. Time I talked to the folks, whipped up the support with some of the most rabble-rousing stuff of my career.'

'Don't let anyone hear you call them rabble,' Sara warned.

'That's what they are.' He gave his famous grin. 'Look, I should know, that's where I came from. I know the crap that gets them throwing their hats in the air.'

'Listen to me.' Sara felt she had to make one more effort. 'Our watchers reported there was a meeting of the Three Wise Men an hour ago. At Wingfield's place again…'

'That old political hack…'

'This time both his guests arrived with an FBI guard – who surrounded each man as he dashed from his limo into the house.'

'So they're running scared. Is my limo ready to take me to Andrews?'

Norton left the President's plane carrying a case which was supposed to contain explosive-detection equipment. As he descended the staircase he blinked in the strong sunlight. Dressed in an orange boiler suit zipped up to the neck – it carried a badge Ul, Unit One – he made himself resist the temptation to hurry away from Air Force One.

He was the last maintenance man to leave the aircraft and a motorcade was approaching. The TV crews were already penned up by guards who were careful to let the technicians have a clear view of the aircraft's staircase March would walk up. The President was very publicity-conscious.

Underneath his boiler suit Norton wore a grey business suit. Earlier, arriving at the checkpoint, he had passed through without trouble – simply showing his Unit One card issued before he'd left for Europe weeks ago.

He had prowled the maintenance shed looking for a mechanic close to his build and height wearing one of the distinctive orange suits. Approaching him from behind, Norton had put him out of action by using a tyre iron on the back of his skull.

'Sleep well, baby,' he had whispered after taking off the boiler suit and stuffing the man inside a large waste bin.

In this way, and by again flourishing his Unit One card, he had boarded the plane, choosing a moment when most of the maintenance crew had left. Now, out of sight of the crowds, which were already roaring with delight, he stripped off the boiler suit, stuffed it into the waste bin on top of its unconscious owner, smoothed out the creases of his grey suit and hurried out of the main entrance, again showing his card.

He had no hesitation in hurrying, wearing only a suit and no coat in the bitter raw cold which gripped Washington despite the sun. Again he heard the crowd roar, this time more prolonged. As he walked towards where he had parked his car Norton could picture the scene.

Bradford March climbing the steps of the mobile staircase slowly, pausing at the top. Then swinging round suddenly and hoisting both arms with clenched fists high in the air. Another louder roar from the crowd. Norton smiled to himself grimly as he climbed behind the wheel of his car and drove off. He parked his car a good half-mile away from the air base, positioning it so he could look towards Andrews.

Air Force One suddenly appeared, climbing steeply as it flew away from the parked car. Norton was peering out of the open window as he heard the scream of its jets, saw the diminishing silver dart ascend to five thousand feet.

He was wearing wrapround tinted glasses so he wasn't blinded by the sudden brilliant flash. There was a rolling boom as the plane disintegrated and tiny fragments of the fuselage spun out of a cloud of black smoke which had disfigured the duck-egg blue of the sky. Norton, who had kept his engine running, eased the car out of the side road and drove on to his house in Georgetown. While serving with the FBI he had been attached to the Explosives Division.

'Well, you haven't lost your touch,' he said aloud.

He used his remote-control device to open the door of the garage located under his house. Having parked the car, he came out, closed the door, mounted the steps to his front door. In the house opposite a woman looked out of her first-floor window, saw him climbing the steps. She was not surprised – her neighbour, security officer for some large international bank, often spent long periods away from home. She left the window to go downstairs.