Colin Forbes - The Power

'A phone call for you. The same person each time, I think. Called six times. Left a message.'

Norton nodded, took the folded piece of paper. He waited until he'd taken off his fur hat and coat in his small room, then read the message.

Call urgently. Repeat, urgently. Sara.

'Hell. Go jump off a building. A high one,' Norton said out loud.

He checked his watch. It would be 2p.m. in Washington. He'd half a mind to ignore the message. Sitting on the bed, he decided he'd better make the call. Probably he'd get such a lousy connection it would be pointless.

In a grim mood, he started the laborious business of trying to get through to Washington. The connection wasn't lousy, it was perfect, goddamnit. Sara answered.

'He's pretty anxious to talk with you. I'd go easy if I were you. ..'

'You're not me,' Norton snapped.

'Please yourself.' Sara's tone was calm, indifferent. 'I am putting you on the line. Don't ever say I didn't warn you…'

Norton, who had exceptional stamina, was in an ugly mood. It had been a tough day. All attempts to exterminate Tweed had failed. And he hadn't laid his hands on the film or the tape. He wasn't going to bow and scrape.

'Norton?' President Bradford March's tone was aggressive. 'What crap are you feedin' me this time? Give.'

'I know now where what you want is. I'm leaving for some dump called Ouchy in Switzerland. That's where they are. I'll give you my new number after I've got there. Later this evening, European time. We're almost there.'

'I don't give two shits for "almost",' March shouted. 'I should have sent a bell-boy to do this job. Someone is playing you like a fish on a line

Which was true, Norton had realized. Growly Voice had adopted the technique used by kidnappers. Always sending him on to a new destination to wear him down. The aptness of the President's comment did not improve his temper.

'Just you listen to me for once,' he rapped back. 'I'm the guy on the spot. I know the angles now. Get off my back. Hear me? You listenin' in that snazzy office?'

March had not reached the Oval Office by losing self-control in a crisis. His explosions of abuse were always calculated. Leaning back in his chair, March perched his feet on his desk, crossed his ankles while he thought.

'You still there?' Norton demanded abrasively.

'Sure I am,' March replied quietly. 'Is Mencken still around?' he asked casually.

It was Norton's turn to pause. The one possibility which bothered him was that he might be replaced by that scumbag, Mencken. He decided to hold back nothing. March mimicked in a controlled voice Norton's earlier question.

'You still there?'

'Yeah. Let's hope the line holds. You'd better realize we've taken heavy casualties…'

'So this Tweed is smarter than we thought?' commented the President in the same quiet tone.

'He just got lucky.' Norton was leading March away from the subject of Marvin Mencken. 'We've taken some heavy casualties,' he repeated.

'So you can't make the omelette without breakin' a few eggs,' March responded in a bored tone.

'I was going to say we could do with more manpower.'

'Would Mencken need more manpower? You didn't tell me – is Mencken still around?'

'Yes.'

'I can't spare more manpower. I need what I have left here in Washington. Certain guys have to be clamped down on. You said earlier Tweed got lucky,' March recalled, building up to bait Norton some more. 'I'd say he got smart as he's still around.' A pause. 'I don't hear no denial of that. I gave you a time limit, Norton. Time's almost up. I want the film, the tape. I want Tweed, Joel Dyson, Cord Dillon and Barton Ives dumped. For ever. Get on it.

The connection to Washington had gone. Norton slowly put down the receiver and didn't even bother to swear. Ouchy was going to be a blood bath.

Inside his study at his Chevy Chase house Senator Wingfield looked round at his two guests seated at the round table with a cold expression. His guests, the banker and the elder statesman, watched him closely, realizing there had been a very serious development.

The Senator had summoned them to attend a meeting of the Three Wise Men urgently at short notice. It was not this factor which caused them to sense the atmosphere of tension inside the comfortable room. Wingfield normally had the appearance of a benevolent father figure, He rarely showed any emotion and it was the grimness of his aristocratic features which held their attention.

'Gentlemen,' Wingfield began, 'I have just received this highly confidential communication from the Vice President. Jeb Galloway has received the report I have inside this folder by special delivery from Europe. It makes incredible reading – I just hope its author is insane.'

'But do you think he is? Insane?' the statesman enquired.

'If he isn't – and I have a horrible idea he's as sane as any man round this table – our country faces the most serious crisis of this century.'

'You know who the report is from?' asked the banker.

'Yes. A special agent of the FBI. A man called Barton Ives.' He extracted the typed sheets from the folder, handed them to the banker. 'Judge for yourselves.'

'These documents allege this Barton Ives knows who is responsible for a number of particularly beastly serial murders in several Southern states,' the banker, who was a fast reader, commented in a shaky voice after a few minutes. 'Each involves the murder of a woman by cutting her throat – after rape had been committed, according to the medical examiner's report in the state concerned. All the murders have remained unsolved, even though they took place several years ago. It's beyond belief.'

'What is?' demanded the statesman as the banker handed him the documents.

'The man he names as the perpetrator of these vile crimes. Not only was the throat of each victim cut with a serrated knife – a kitchen knife is suggested – but similar sadistic mutilations were found on each corpse.'

'Who is this Barton Ives?' the statesman persisted before examining the documents. 'I seem to have heard the name.'

'A very senior agent of the FBI,' Wingfield said reluctantly. 'I made discreet enquiries before I called you. Ives was in charge of the investigation linking all six murders. He was about to prepare a comprehensive report when his superior at the Memphis office was posted to Seattle. The new man ordered Ives to discontinue the investigation and destroy the files. He was sent to Memphis on direct orders from Washington. Ives alleges he had to flee to Europe to save his life. My enquiries back up this strange sequence of events.'

There was a heavy silence as the statesman skimmed through the reports. He held each page at the edges between his fingertips, leaving no prints of his own. Dropping the last sheet back inside the folder, he used his elbow to push the folder back to Wingfield across the polished table.

'There is mention of a thumbprint being found on the side of a Lincoln Continental belonging to the sixth raped and murdered woman,' he pointed out. 'Barton Ives says he has that thumbprint and it still exists on the car. So where the hell is the car?'

'I enquired about that,' Wingfield told him. 'Before he left Memphis on his flight to Europe Ives hid the car somewhere. Difficult to achieve – considering the size of the car – but Ives has a wealth of experience. You see, he says he is the only one who knows its location.'

'Well,' said the statesman, 'we've had every kind of corrupt president, quite apart from Watergate. Presidents with mistresses – common enough. Some with illegitimate children. Others who've walked into the Oval Office with little more than the clothes they stood up in. By the time they stepped down from the presidency they were millionaires. So, I suppose one day – in this age of exceptional violence – we should have expected something like this.'