Colin Forbes - The Power

'What's your Swiss surname, then? Klara who?'

'I'm not telling you that either. I'm clearing out of my apartment within the hour. Do the police know about Helen yet?' Klara asked.

'No, they don't. I'd just as soon you didn't mention our visits.'

'You can count on that,' she assured him. 'First, I simply couldn't stay in a building where poor Helen was murdered. Second, what clients are going to come back to me here? Rennweg 590 will become notorious once the press get hold of the story. That girl friend I was chatting to is about to vacate her apartment to take up a job in Geneva. I'm also not giving you the address.'

'Fair enough.'

Klara looked at Paula. 'Would you do me a great favour? Come back with me to my apartment while I pack? Please.'

Paula looked at Tweed. He checked his watch. His six o'clock appointment with Jennie Blade at the Hummer Bar was coming up soon. Klara sensed his problem – time. She gazed at Paula.

'I'm the world's quickest packer. One suitcase and in five minutes we'll be in the street again.'

Tweed, reluctantly, nodded agreement to Paula. Newman warned Klara as she stood up, door key in her hand: 'When you're going to this new address I'd take a taxi. You know Zurich well? Good. Think of two fake destinations. Then get a third taxi to take you where you're going.'

'Good idea. Thanks…'

Tweed checked his watch again as the two women left the cafe. He doubted Klara's statement that she could pack in five minutes. Paula could but how many other women achieved that speed?

'Her description of Voser was pretty distinctive,' Newman commented. 'A tall fat man with tender feet.'

'I found two aspects of her description intriguing,' Tweed remarked.

'Which two aspects?'

'I want to chew them over in my mind,' Tweed told him cryptically.'I did notice Klara is very tall.'

Newman gave up trying to penetrate the subtle recesses of Tweed's mind. He sat watching the closed door opposite.

Tweed had time to call Monica after he arrived back at the Gotthard. Klara had been as good as her word – she had packed the suitcase and emerged back on Rennweg with Paula in five minutes. Newman saw her safely into a taxi before they hurried back to the Gotthard… 'Monica, Tweed here. Are you alone? I do not want to get in touch with Howard now. I'm speaking from my hotel.'

'All's quiet down here in Surrey…' Monica was wording what she said carefully. Anyone could be listening in. 'I have the details of the Gaunt concern. The top man is a millionaire. He likes to spread it round that he has no idea where the next penny is coming from. He owns the manor -no mortgage – a property in Rock with no name and has considerable assets in Switzerland. No details about them, of course. He was once a captain in the SAS. Had to resign – too independent-minded. A bit of an adventurer, like the old buccaneers. Popular with women. Has had a lot of girl friends. That's it.'

'Thank you. Now, two women have applied to me for jobs. I need to have detailed references. Ready to take down their names? Good. Jennie Blade. And Eve Amberg – maiden name Royston. I'll spell that last name. Got it? I suggest concentration on the Padstow area. I must go now.

I'll call you in the near future. Take care…'

Paula was intrigued as Tweed put down the phone. Waiting while he loosened his collar, she asked her question.

'Why especially do you want to know about those two women?'

'Both of them have connections with Cornwall/Which is where it all started.'

Walking briskly into the Oval Office Sara Maranoff knew the moment she saw the President that he was expecting a visit from his latest girl friend, Ms Hamilton. Bradford. March was freshly shaven, wore a smart grey suit, had a bottle of champagne in the ice bucket.

'Senator Wingfield has asked to come and see you.'

That friggin' wooden Indian? Stall the bastard Tell him I'm up to my neck in paperwork for a new bill. Oh, I didn't tell you, Ms Hamilton is calling on me in half an hour. See I'm not disturbed while we talk.'

'Sure, boss.' Sara's expression suggested it was news to her. And she liked the word 'talk'. He wouldn't waste time talking to her. 'Norton is on the line,' she went on. 'Sounds to be in a hurry.'

'Does he? I'm in a hurry – for him to finish the jobs he was sent out to do. Put him on the line

'Norton here. We're closing in on Tweed. Nearly got him today…'

'Nearly! You mean the pest is hospitalized?'

'Not exactly. I've thought up a new angle to fix him for all time. Thought you'd like a bulletin…'

'Oh, you're issuing bulletins now, are you?' Livid, March leaned across the desk, shouting down the phone. 'For bulletin I read bullshit. The only bulletin I want from you is that Tweed, Dyson, Ives and Dillon are all gone to join the fathers they never had. How is Mencken working out?'

'He takes orders…'

'More calls like this and you will be taking orders from him.. .'

He crashed down the phone and Sara shuddered inwardly. If Brad went on like that he was going to shatter the instrument. It would be expensive replacing that special private phone. Sara was money-conscious; She tried another tack.

'I just heard you've recalled Ambassador Anderson from Switzerland. That you're sending out Mike Gallagher in his place.'

'I congratulate you on your source of information,' March said sarcastically.

'Anderson is an experienced diplomat. Gallagher is raw, a rough diamond. He could cause trouble, the language he uses.'

'Gallagher is a man I trust. Anderson has been interfering with things that don't goddamn concern him. He is out. Out!'

'Gallagher hasn't left the States yet. You could change your mind. I would if I were you…'

'But you're not me!' March roared at her. 'When you're sitting in this chair you can decide who goes where. And Gallagher contributed plenty to my election campaign.'

She sighed. Normally she could handle Brad, but there were times when he acted like a maddened bull. This was one of them. Time to change his mood. A reference to Ms Hamilton, bringing her back into his thoughts, should do the trick.

'Another bottle of champagne – to oil the works?' she suggested.

March glared at her and Sara realized her tactic had misfired. He pointed a short stubby finger across the room.

'The door is there. Walk. Preferably through it without opening it…'

'Thank you, Sara,' said Senator Wingfield. 'Don't worry about it. I know you tried.'

He put down the phone in the room at his Chevy Chase residence where the Three Wise Men were gathered. The banker and the elder statesman, nursing their drinks at the round table, watched the Senator as he joined them. Wingfield shook his head regretfully.

'I'm sorry, gentlemen. The President refuses to see me at the Oval Office. Some nonsense about paperwork piling up. It's a ploy to avoid meeting me. He probably guessed the subject I was going to raise.'

'Gallagher,' snapped the statesman. 'From my own experience I know the Berne embassy isn't a plum job. But Berne is a good listening post. How can he contemplate appointing a man who may come under investigation by a Senate sub-committee – for corruption in obtaining government contracts?' He lapsed into unusual vulgarity. 'When the shit hits the fan, when the press gets a whiff of it – which they will – the US government is going to be a laughing-stock all over the world.'

'You may be right,' Wingfield agreed.

'He is right!' the banker burst out. 'On top of that he is spending money on programmes like there's no tomorrow. Face up to it, March has become a menace.'

'Thank God Jeb Galloway is waiting in the wings,' said the statesman.

'Don't let's get excited,' Wingfield urged. 'Timing is everything in politics. We'll wait and see how it all pans out…'