Colin Forbes - The Power

Paula's hand was inside her shoulder-bag, gripping the butt of her . 32 Browning in a flash. Newman had swung round, had taken three swift strides and pressed the muzzle of his Smith amp; Wesson into the stranger's spine.

'You wanted something?' Newman snapped.

'Hold it, fellas,' he whispered. He stretched out both hands and his square-tipped fingers touched the walls. 'Cord said it would be OK. I'm Special Agent Barton Ives, FBI.'

Tweed unlocked the door, Paula backed into his room, gun pointed at the American, and Newman nudged him inside with the Smith amp; Wesson muzzle. As Tweed followed them, locking the door again, Newman slipped his revolver into his holster, began to feel the captive all over for concealed weapons.

'I'm loaded,' Ives told him. 'Under the left armpit.'

Newman hauled out the weapon. The American also favoured a. 38 Smith amp; Wesson. Paula noted that all his clothes, a business suit under his open trench coat, were of Swiss make. With his neatly trimmed short hair he reminded her of a tough teddy bear.

'I'll need to see some identification,' Tweed told him.

'Can I reach into my breast pocket? You folks sure don't take any chances. That's good

'He's clean now,' Newman said, checking the revolver and slipping it inside his large jacket pocket.

Ives produced a folder, handed it to Tweed, looked at Paula and grinned wearily.

'I could do with a glass of water, if that's permitted.'

She poured him mineral water, handed him the glass. He swallowed the contents with one gulp, sighed with relief. Tweed examined the folder carefully, checked the photo, the details printed behind the plastic cover.

'You do appear to be Special Agent Barton Ives,' he said, handing back the folder. 'Welcome to Zurich. And sit down.'

'You make it sound like I just arrived,' the American commented as he sat in an armchair and crossed his legs. 'Fact is I've been here a while, never staying in one place for more than a night. That gets kinda tiring, I can tell you. Cord sends his regards.'

'Do you mean you've been moving round Switzerland or just inside Zurich?' Tweed enquired, still standing up.

'Zurich and some of the hick places just out of town. I was real worried about this Swiss system which means you've gotta register at a hotel, give them your details.'

'So you were compelled to register under your own name?'

'You think I fled from the States with a bundle of phoney identities?' Ives asked aggressively. He leaned forward. 'I had to run like hell to stay alive, packed one bag and boarded the first flight.'

'How did you recognize me in the hall?' Tweed pressed on. 'There are hardly any photos of me in existence.'

'That was Cord. He described you from your hair down to your toetips. Only way I agreed to take the chance, to come and see you. Cord was very pushy about me seeing you, Tweed.'

Tweed sat down. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. He took his time and Ives, sitting erect, clasped his hands in his lap, waiting patiently. Apart from his Swiss outfit, he was Paula's idea of an FBI agent. Wary, watchful and controlled. Tweed put on his glasses, studied Ives for a moment before he spoke again.

'You said you fled from the States, that you had to run like hell to stay alive. Why? And who was pursuing you?'

Ives looked pointedly at Paula. He switched his gaze to Newman behind him who still held his gun in his hand.

'I can't answer those questions unless we're alone. I know the guy is Robert Newman – seen enough of his pics at one time in papers over pieces he wrote and he hasn't changed.'

'Did Cord advise you to take that attitude?' Tweed asked.

'No, I'm taking the attitude.' Aggressive again. Paula thought she understood: Ives had been staying under cover for some time. This was his first excursion into the open. Despite his outward air of self-control he was probably a bit trigger happy. 'What I have to tell you is confidential, top secret – you name it.'

'Both Paula and Bob are trusted members of my team. You talk in front of them or you just go away somewhere…'

'Cord said you were tough.' Ives waved his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'God help you if any of this strays beyond this room.'

'Is that a threat?' Tweed enquired mildly.

'No, it's stating the situation. You'd become targets for people who never miss.'

They do sometimes,' Tweed observed. 'I'm still waiting. Would you like some coffee? There's plenty left in the pot.'

'I'd be grateful for that.' Ives looked at Paula. 'Very grateful. My mouth feels like the Sahara…'

Tweed waited again while Paula poured a cup. Ives refused sugar or milk. He took the Cup and saucer from her and gulped half the contents down.

'That's better, a whole lot better.' He seemed to relax for the first time since he'd entered the room. 'Well, here goes. I was born and raised in New York, but I was stationed in Tennessee in the South. I was investigating the disappearance of huge sums of money. We thought at first someone was laundering drug money, but now I think the money went into a political fund…'

'Are you talking about bank robberies?' Tweed asked.

'Hell, no. Creative accounting. I'd interview a key witness, get a tape recording of what was said, then the witness would disappear off the face of the earth. I never did find where the bodies were buried.'

'Bodies? Plural?'

'Ten. Including three women.'

'That's mass murder,' Tweed said slowly. He paused. 'But why would the FBI be called in if the crimes were all committed in Tennessee?'

'They weren't. They crossed state lines. That's when the FBI is called in. I'm sure you know that. The trail led me from Tennessee to Mississippi, Louisiana, Oklahoma, New Mexico and Arizona.'

'That's a lot of territory. Earlier you said you thought at first someone was laundering drug money. Who did you mean?'

Ives took a deep breath, sighed. Again he looked at Paula and Newman who were hanging on every word,

'I'm talking about Jeb Galloway, now Vice President of the United States.'

There was a hush in the room. Tweed walked across to the closed curtains, opened them a little, peered out. It had begun to drizzle and the street had a sweaty look. He went back to his chair, sat down and stared at Barton Ives.

'Are you sure about this?' he asked.

'Positive,' Ives snapped.

'I understood Galloway came from the Philadelphia area in the north-east.'

'He does.' Ives smiled bitterly. 'Which was why Bradford March, who is a Southerner, had him on the ticket for the election as running mate. Galloway was able to deliver New York, Pennsylvania and other key states.'

'So what was Galloway's connection with the Southern states where you carried out your investigation?'

'Quite a few years ago Galloway moved his electronics outfit to Phoenix, Arizona. It was the trend. The climate in Arizona was unpolluted, the unions hadn't the tight grip they exercised in the North. The money-laundering operation was controlled from that outfit in Phoenix.'

'And you say this money ended up…'

'In Bradford March's war chest to fight the election. I doubt he knew it was stolen money. What politician enquires too closely the origin of desperately needed funds for a presidential election?'

'And the ten witnesses who disappeared?'

'Were murdered,' Ives corrected. 'Any one of them could have testified to the illegality of the operation. Most of them were married, had families. I even had a witness who saw a woman I'd interviewed dragged into a car late at night. Neither was ever seen again. I was closing in on Galloway when the election took place. That was when I found myself dodging bullets.'

'You mean that literally?'

'I do,' Ives assured him. 'I'd driven back to Memphis to report my findings to my chief, Murcall. I found Murcall had been replaced by a guy I didn't know called Foley. He told me to close my investigation. Orders from Washington. That was just after the election