Colin Forbes - The Power

'So let's you and I go for walkies,' the voice continued. 'There's a short cut through an alley…'

He stopped speaking. Dyson had spotted a police car patrolling slowly along the street. He shoved both hands in the air, way above his head. Everything happened in a flash. The patrol car stopped, the gun was removed from his back, he heard the sound of feet running as a policeman, gun in hand, came up to him.

'He held me up with a gun, wanted my passport and money.'

Dyson glanced over his shoulder. No sign of the American.

'He didn't get anything. You arrived

The policeman had nodded, was now running with long strides towards where several streets radiated. He disappeared round a corner. Dyson sighed with relief, picked up the canvas bag he'd dropped, walked quickly away.

He'd already hired a silver Mercedes. Within the hour he'd be driving across the frontier, heading for Colmar.

Talking to the President, each time Norton started out by giving the phone number of his latest perch. The President had no idea what city the first numbers identified – Sara found that out after he'd closed the call.

Norton, his 'grey' hair now getting shaggy, was sitting in the Basle apartment he'd commandeered. It was normally occupied by a diplomat from the Berne Embassy. The Ambassador, Anderson, hadn't liked it when Norton had told him to throw out the present occupant.

He'd had no option but to agree to Norton's demand when the man with untidy grey hair and wearing half-moon glasses had waved his Presidential aide pass at him.

Anderson had also told him that he was clearing his desk, going home. A man called Gallagher was taking his post. Norton had smiled to himself- Anderson, an old-school diplomat, must have rubbed March up the wrong way. The phone rang.

'Mencken here. We've located Amberg. The Chateau Noir in France. Near a place called Colmar. The chateau is up in the Vosges mountains

…'

'Move the whole unit to Colmar. Where will you be staying? The Hotel Bristol. Got it. It's a short drive from here. I'll be there. What about the courier with the dough?'

'Locked in a hotel room. You know which hotel. I have the key.'

'Take him with you – with the money. Whoever has what I'm after will try a fresh exchange. Get moving…'

Norton began packing his clothes in the single case he moved around with. Small enough to take aboard a plane. Save hanging about at the friggin' carousel. The phone rang again.

'Yes, who is it?'

'The guy who's given you ten days to clean up,' March barked. 'I know now you're in Basle. What gives? You had three different places to cover in the Zurich area to exchange the money for the film and tape.'

'It was a bust. I had them covered. No one turned up. Someone is playing smart. Using kidnappers' technique. Send you to one place – three in this case – then they don't turn up. Trying to break our nerve. You'll get a fresh call, new rendezvous. I'm just moving to the Hotel Bristol in Colmar, France. Give you the phone number when I get there. We're going to score. All four targets wiped out, plus grabbing your film and tape…'

'Norton, you've no idea how encouraging I find what you just said,' March replied with vicious sarcasm. 'You read me? And how are you going to play it this time – before March 13?'

'They'll be in mountain country. I'll use the mountains to get them. By ambush…'

For the first time Norton was the one who slammed down the phone.

Norton was the first to arrive in Colmar. Clad in a black astrakhan coat and a fur hat, he looked like a Russian professor as he peered through his half-moon glasses at the receptionist of the Hotel Bristol.

What was it about the new arrival that made the girl behind the counter shiver inwardly? He stood motionless and the eyes behind the lenses which stared at her seemed dead, devoid of all human feeling.

'I want to book a double room for five days,' Norton told her. 'I have business elsewhere so I may not be here every night. I will pay in advance for the five days…'

He registered in the name of Ben Thalmann, paid in French francs, then produced the Michelin map of the Vosges area he had purchased in Basle. He had left that city within twenty minutes of speaking to President March.

'I have to visit the Chateau Noir, the residence of a Mr Amberg, a Swiss. Can you show me how to reach this chateau by driving there?'

'You'll have to hurry, sir,' she replied in her excellent English. 'It gets dark early and there is snow on the mountains. The roads will be icy…'

'Just show me

She stopped talking, studied the map, marked a route up the N83 to Kaysersberg and then high up into the Vosges mountains along the N415. It became complicated and she carefully drew her pen along a side road. She was repeating her warnings about the hazards when Norton interrupted her brusquely.

'Can I use that phone to make a private call?'

'Certainly, sir…'

Discreetly, she opened a door behind her and closed it. The truth was she was only too anxious to escape from the presence of that black figure. Norton smiled as he dialled the number of the Drei Konige. He had sensed the fear the girl had felt and it gave him a kick. He asked the hotel operator for Tweed. There was a brief pause.

'Who is speaking?' a man's voice enquired.

'Barton Ives,' Norton said through the silk handkerchief he had stuffed in the mouthpiece. 'Who is that?'

'Tweed here. Where are you, Ives…?'

Norton put down the phone. Tweed was still in Basle. At last he had arrived ahead of the enemy. Which would give him time to prepare the death-trap. And it was interesting that Tweed expected to meet Barton Ives. Clean up the whole lot out here in the wilds of Alsace.

Norton hurried outside and got behind the wheel of the blue Renault he'd hired in Basle. He had never stayed at the Drei Konige – he had simply had an early lunch and sat in the lobby area afterwards. In time to see Tweed and his friends arrive.

Using the same approach, he wouldn't be staying at the Hotel Bristol. He had picked up a brochure in the railway station opposite the hotel, a brochure which gave the names of several small hotels in the Old Town. One of those hotels would be his base.

He drove rapidly across the flatlands beyond Colmar. It was a cold sunny afternoon, the air fresh as wine. But this was wine territory – grids of vineyards stretched away on either side as he came close to the foothills.

He drove more slowly through the medieval town of Kaysersberg, little more than a large village. Norton did not notice its picturesqueness. He did notice a narrow stone bridge spanning a small river in the centre.

An excellent place to plant a bomb under the bridge, detonated by remote control. Mencken, who still had to reach Colmar, was an expert with explosives. Driving from Basle to Colmar, Norton had observed a stone quarry, a shed with the warning sign in French, Danger -Explosives. He had marked this location on his map.

He drove on beyond Kaysersberg into the foothills. Looming above them was the long chain of the snowbound Vosges mountains. Norton had taken the precaution of hiring a car with snow tyres. The road began to twist and climb, up, up, up…

There was no other traffic and dense stands of firs began to close in on both sides. The road surface was icy, treacherous, then covered with snow. The temperature nose-dived. The firs were blanketed with frozen snow, the branches pressed down under the weight. It was like Siberia,

Norton smiled to himself. This was ideal territory for what he had in mind. At numerous places the topography lent itself to lethal ambushes. He foresaw that Tweed and his minions would disappear from the face of the earth until spring came – only spring would reveal the frozen vehicles, the rotting bones of their occupants.