Colin Forbes - The Power

'Why would Galloway want you killed since you had no evidence strong enough, no witnesses left alive to confront him with in an American court of law?'

'Galloway,' Ives responded promptly, 'is a success in both business and politics. He made it by taking no chances, leaving no loose ends. I'm a loose end.'

Paula sensed Ives was tense. Whenever a new customer entered the restaurant he glanced quickly over his shoulder. Newman was unusually silent. Only Tweed seemed completely relaxed as he glanced slowly round the restaurant.

The dining-room was oblong, divided from the bar with sheets of frosted glass which had Edwardian couples etched on its surface. The main colour motif of the room was red. The ceiling was divided into large crimson panels, the walls were covered with carmine velvet. The small table lamps which provided the main illumination had crimson shades and the tablecloths were pink.

Paula thought it was a daring decor which could so easily have been chichi. But it worked: the whole atmosphere of the Hummer Bar suggested a warm and welcoming intimacy. She felt relaxed – except for an aura of tension which seemed to originate from Barton Ives. She thought she now understood it – Ives probably hadn't relaxed for a second since leaving the States. Now he was finding it difficult to adjust to the pleasant and secure surroundings. Other tables were full but the restaurant wasn't noisy. Just a gentle chatter and the occasional chuckle of pure enjoyment.

'I wonder who those guys were standing about outside in the rain,'Ives said suddenly.

'Doesn't matter now,' Tweed told him. 'They've all gone, I heard. Chased away by the police.'

The police?'

'That was what I heard at reception.'

'You think those characters knew I'd arrived here?'

'I very much doubt it,' Tweed reassured him. 'I expect they were looking for me. Oh, by the way, have you taken a room here in your own name?'

'Had to, didn't I?' Ives flared up. 'I told you – I'm not carrying any phoney papers.'

'I check details,' Tweed told him quietly. 'Our job is to protect you. How is Dillon? And how did you happen to meet him here in Zurich?'

'Jesus Christ! One question at a time.' Ives quietened down. 'Cord is restless, jumps at his own shadow. I met him by accident in Sprungli. He didn't immediately know who I was when I sat opposite him. I was wearing tinted glasses. Damned near fell off his chair when he realized it 'was me.'

'How did you two first meet?' Tweed went on. 'The Deputy Director of the CIA doesn't normally have contact with the FBI. The CIA isn't supposed to operate inside the United States.'

'But they do when it suits them. I found the head man of a sabotage ring Cord was looking for. He was always grateful for that.'

'He would be…'

Their meal arrived and no one spoke as they consumed the excellent food. Paula, who ate quickly, as usual finished first. She watched Ives handling his lavish helping of lobster. When they had all finished Ives reached into his pocket.

'Goddamnit, I've left my cigarettes in my room. Won't belong.'

Newman offered his pack of Silk Cut.

'Thanks,' Ives said, 'but I only smoke Lucky Strike…'

'Seems very edgy,' Newman commented after Ives had gone.

'You can understand it – after what he's been through,' Paula countered. 'Who wouldn't be?'

'We'll wait for coffee until he gets back,' Tweed said and checked his watch.

Ten minutes later Tweed suddenly stood up. He put his hand on Paula's shoulder to keep her in her chair.

'Bob, I want to make an urgent call. Your room is much closer than mine. Could I borrow your key?'

He was absent for longer than Paula had expected. When he came back into the restaurant he asked the waiter for the bill, scribbled his room number and signature. Hurrying to the table, he remained standing, leaning forward and keeping his voice down.

'Did Ives return?'

'No, he didn't,' Paula said, alarmed. 'Is something the matter?'

'You could say that. I've phoned police headquarters -luckily Beck had flown in from Berne to check the situation after my first phone call. He's on his way over with a team of specialists.'

'Specialists?' Newman queried. 'What kind?'

'His top man with a machine-pistol. And a chemist with his equipment. Plus a bomb squad team.'

'What on earth for…'Paula began.

'Beck is in the entrance now,' Newman told Tweed.

They walked over to where the Swiss police chief waited, fresh as paint in his business suit, calm in a crisis.

'I have this Barton Ives' room number from reception and a master key,' Beck said as he ushered them out of the restaurant.

'I could be wrong about this,'Tweed warned.

'Never known your instinct to be wrong yet. I have armed guards at either end of the corridor where his room is. And I'd like to have your room key for the chemist and the bomb squad. Thank you…'

Mystified, Paula and Newman stood with Tweed and

Beck as the lift ascended. Beck stepped out first, looked in both directions, waved for them to follow him out. He was striding ahead of them when Newman asked Tweed what the devil was going on.

'For one thing, my room lock has been tampered with since we came down to dinner. I was careful not to turn the key, let alone go inside. Also the so-called Barton Ives had the wrong answers to quite a few questions.'

'So called?' Paula repeated.

She got no reply. They had come close to the room taken by Ives. Beck's hand gestured for them to keep well back. Standing against the wall opposite the closed door was a uniformed policeman. He wore a flak jacket and was aiming a sub-machine-gun at the door. Two other men, pistols in hand, were flattened against the wall on either side of the door. A fourth man stood close by, holding a short wide-barrelled gun. Tear-gas. Beck was on red alert.

Taking out his own pistol, Beck leaned past one of the men against the wall, rapped on the door with the muzzle.

'Police. Open up. A team of armed men are outside.'

He waited. A long silence. Eventually Beck pressed an ear to the door, listened. Stepping back, he tossed the master key to the other man pressed against the wall. Paula saw the man with the machine-gun stiffen. The policeman with the key quietly inserted it in the lock, turned it, took hold of the handle, glanced at the man with the flak jacket, who nodded.

The door was hurled wide open. Flak Jacket literally dived into the room, sprawled on the carpet, swinging the muzzle of his weapon in a wide arc. He called over his shoulder to Beck, who had stepped in behind him, his gun ready.

'Empty, Chief…'

'Check the bathroom. Same approach…'

A minute later they realized the bathroom was also empty. Beck looked at Tweed.

'The bird has flown. So you were right. Now for your room. You all stay here, standing where Stefan sprawled. You don't touch anything. You don't drink anything.' He pointed to a half-empty bottle of mineral water. 'You don't use the bathroom…'

A policeman with his pistol in his hand stood outside the room while they waited. Newman asked the question in a low tone.

'Look, Tweed, what is this all about?'

'I am certain we've just dined with a man Dillon warned me against for fear of our lives. A man called Norton.'

Beck reappeared after about ten minutes. He waved for them to follow him. As they left the room two policemen wearing protective clothing, one carrying a tool-kit box, arrived, slipped inside the room.

'Bomb squad boys,' Beck remarked. 'Your room is clean – as regards explosives…'

When they entered Tweed's room a small gnome-like figure in civilian clothes was waiting for them. On a table a compact leather case was open and inside lay a collection of instruments. The only one Paula recognized was a calibrated dropper – like an eye dropper. A small container made of thick glass with a screw top stood next to the case. Inside it was half full with a crimson liquid. Beck introduced the gnome.