Colin Forbes: The Power

Norton held his front door key in his hand when he got to the stoop. He inserted the key in the lock, frowned when it seemed difficult to turn. For once Norton's nose for danger deserted him – his mind was on what he had achieved out at Andrews. He turned the key and shards of the fragmenting front door pierced his body. The force of the explosion was so great it hurled his mangled body straight across the road. Peering down out of her shattered window, the woman opposite saw Norton's crumpled form lying on her own stoop.

Tweed never did keep his appointment to meet Senator Wingfield. He heard the news of the President's plane blowing up soon after take-off from a bell-boy in his hotel, saw it on television with Newman, Paula and Barton Ives in his hotel room.

Time to leave America while we're still alive,' he said, using remote control to switch off the TV. 'You'd best come with us, Ives.'

'Reckon I had,' Ives agreed. 'They play rough over here – and I told you Wingfield was a patriot, a ruthless patriot. But can we make it? They could be coming for us now…'

'So we put into operation Plan Omega,' Tweed told him. 'Worked out in advance for just this situation by Bob Newman and Paula – although we never anticipated a resort to assassination. Ives, you just stick with us and remember from now on your name is Chuck Kingsley when you check in at the airport.'

'Dulles?'

'No, not Dulles. That's a key part of Omega. I have to call Marler's room, let him know we're leaving within thirty minutes. No time to explain any more…'

They were driving by a devious route which could have taken them to Dulles Airport. Newman was at the wheel of the rented Lincoln, Tweed was beside him while Paula sat in the back next to Ives. They hadn't hit rush hour but there was traffic. Paula kept glancing back through the rear window.

'Those two black sedans which started tailing us as soon as we left the hotel are still there. With a lot of men inside I don't like the look of.'

'Can you see the three Chevrolets?' Tweed asked Newman.

'Yes, they're coming up behind us now, appeared out of side streets. Marler in the green Chevy, Butler in the white, Nield in the brown Chevy. Marler checked the map of the city with care, decided where they'd make their play. Any moment now those characters in their black sedans are in for a shock…'

The leading black sedan was driven by an ugly bald-headed thug, surprisingly nicknamed Baldy. He had three armed men as passengers and the twin sedan behind him carried four more armed men. As they arrived close to a complex intersection Baldy saw Newman suddenly turn right. He was about to follow when a green Chevrolet swung in front of him, stopped as its engine stalled. Baldy swore and braked so abruptly the sedan behind rammed him.

'Get off the friggin' road,' Baldy yelled as Marler got out of his car, strolled back to him.

'I say, old chap,' Marler drawled. 'Awfully sorry and all that. The old engine stalled, couldn't help stopping. These Yank chariots aren't much cop.'

'I said get off…'

Baldy broke off as a white Chevrolet stopped alongside and Butler got out, shaking his fist, shouting at the top of his voice.

'You want to learn to drive, buddy. Now we've missed the goddam lights…'

In his rear-view mirror Baldy saw a brown Chevrolet stopped behind the second sedan so his back-up couldn't move. What the hell was going on? Marler strolled back to his car while Butler continued shouting. After two attempts Marler let the engine start, waved his hand over his shoulder, drove on. Baldy rammed his foot down to catch the green lights, turned right, saw no sign of Newman's Lincoln.

'We'll catch the bastards at Dulles,' he informed his passengers. 'We know they booked aboard the London flight…'

Still working to the Omega Plan, Newman drove to a Hertz office near a cab rank. He was handing in the Lincoln when Marler, Butler and Nield arrived to hand in their rented cars. Two cabs took them to the railway station where they caught the Metroliner to New York.

'How did you work that one?' Ives asked Tweed as the train sped through the afternoon. 'We were dead ducks.'

'A small precaution. Paula has booked us in our own names on two flights out of Dulles Airport from Washington to London. Also in our own names she's booked us on two more flights from New York to London – in case they check. In fact, we'll be aboard a British Airways flight leaving Kennedy at 7p.m. Seats all booked in assumed names. We use our false passports made in the Engine Room – so that's why you're Chuck Kingsley.'

'What made you foresee we might be targets?'

'We know about the six serial murders. Above all, Wingfield knows we've seen the film which could destroy America's reputation. So all witnesses have to be eliminated. 'I realized that as soon as I heard Bradford March's plane had been blown up. It gave me the measure of Wingfield's ruthlessness – something I couldn't be sure of beforehand.'

'And those three different-coloured Chevies?'

'Newman sent a radio message renting them, plus the Lincoln. He specified the colours to make it easy for him to spot the cars if an emergency arose. It did.'

'What are you going to do?' Paula asked Ives.

'Stay in Europe, I guess. To stay alive. Rather like my new monicker, Chuck Kingsley. Think I'll keep it. And the way things are developing in the world I guess I'll build up a security agency. I'm sure you folks will be glad to get home, have a long rest.'

'We're going straight off the plane to a place called Padstow,' Tweed said. 'There was a mass murder down in Cornwall, Paula nearly got killed, and I know who committed that cold-blooded crime.'

A wild gale was raging as they walked slowly, leaning into the wind, along the road in Padstow leading from the Hotel Metropole to the centre of Padstow town. Paula clung to Newman's arm while ahead of them Tweed marched with a brisk step.

'Look, the Old Custom House,' Paula shouted to make herself heard. 'Where we used to have a drink. How marvellous to see it again, to be back in England.'

'I think that's where Tweed is heading for,' Newman replied. 'No, what's he up to now?'

Tweed had paused, gestured towards the inner harbour, entered the phone box he'd used on their previous visit. From inside he pointed towards the Old Custom House, mimicked a man drinking.

Huge waves were crashing against the outer wall, hitting the stone with a tremendous crash, hurling water and spray high into the air. Paula tugged at Newman's arm to make him stop at the point where Tweed had paused. Moored to a wall inside the inner harbour the Mayflower III rocked up and down, but was safe from the fury beyond the closed gate of the dam.

'Gaunt must have arrived back,' Paula shouted. 'Let's get inside out of this tumult. I wonder who Tweed is phoning…?'

Inside the box Tweed had dialled the number of police HQ in Launceston on the far side of the moor – a distance beyond it, in fact. Responding to his request, he was at once put through to Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan.

'Have you arranged what I asked you to at Tresillian Manor?' Tweed asked.

'Since you called me from London Airport I've been run off my feet organizing your mad – not to say macabre -idea.'

'You want the criminal who committed that hideous crime? It needs shock tactics to smoke this murderer out. Go to the manor at once. Keep out of sight and hide your cars. I'll be there with the suspects as soon as I've rounded them up.'

'I don't know why I've agreed to this insanity…'

'Because you've got nowhere solving the mass murder yourself…'

Hurrying with Newman into the shelter of the warm bar Paula stopped abruptly. The scene was pure deja-vu.