Colin Forbes - The Power

' If it's true, he can't stay untouched in the Oval Office,' the Senator said with great force.

'But you haven't enough evidence there to do anything,' the statesman objected.

'So I need this Barton Ives in this room so we can grill him. I think I'll have a word with the Veep.'

'Is Barton Ives Jeb Galloway's man?' enquired the banker.

'I didn't say that, did I?' Wingfield replied cautiously.

'And how would you handle it if all this grim business concerning six serial murders proved true?' demanded the statesman in his direct way. 'Impeachment?'

'We can't have the nation's name dragged through the mud. That's the only certainty I know now,' the Senator replied. 'As to how we'd handle it – I suggest we adjourn this meeting, tell no one of our suspicions, and await events…'

Bradford March was drinking beer out of an upended bottle when Sara answered his summons. She waited while he wiped the back of a hairy hand across his mouth.

'I hear strong rumours that the Holy Trinity are meeting more frequently,' he remarked. 'Don't like it.'

This was the President's irreverent way of referring to the Three Wise Men. He pouched his lips, stared at Sara. She realized he expected a reaction.

'So we do something about it? Is that what you're saying? If so, how do we hack it? We could be dealing with a load of dynamite. Those three may be old dinosaurs but they sure as hell carry plenty of clout. Back off, Brad.'

'Sometimes, Sara, your advice is good, very good.' March leaned back in his chair, nursing the beer bottle. 'And sometimes it's lousy, real lousy. This is one of those times.'

'It's your' – she had been going to say 'funeral' but hastily changed the word – 'decision. Just tell me.'

'I want three guys from Unit One – each in his own car -to follow the senator, the statesman and the banker night and day. Draw up a duty roster so they get relieved, stay fresh, on the job. I want daily reports of every person the Holy Trinity bums contact.' His head tilted up, he stared at her hard. 'Why not get started now?'

Sara moved fast on her new mission. Inside an hour the three chosen watchers from Unit One were stationed near Senator Wingfield's house in Chevy Chase. Sara had just heard rumours of a meeting taking place there.

The watchers arrived exactly thirty minutes too late. The two limousines had already called at the house, had picked up and driven away their illustrious passengers.

Seated by himself at a table in the Brasserie, Jason, the American with a head and a face like a bulldog, wore his padded windcheater despite the warmth of the restaurant. He had to – in the shoulder holster under his left armpit nestled a Luger.

As he sat drinking beer and piling omelette into his wide mouth he congratulated himself on his luck. His main target – selected by Mencken himself – was sitting facing him with a couple of good-looking chicks and a harmless young guy who couldn't be a day over thirty.

Between shovelling mouthfuls of omelette into his maw he took another look at Paula and Jennie. The target -Tweed – was a pushover, he'd decided. At that moment his eyes met Tweed's. The Englishman gazed back at him with a penetrating stare and Jason hastily glanced away. The eyes worried him – but no one shot with their eyes.

Jason glanced towards the exit leading to the street and decided he'd make the distance in seconds. After putting a couple of bullets into Tweed – which would guarantee his next destination would be the local cemetery.

Accompanied by Newman, Barton Ives walked in from the hotel. Tweed's admiration of the FBI man increased as he looked at his appearance. Ives was wearing one of those deep medical collars of foam material used to support the head and restrict its movements. With his jaw tilted up and a dark beret concealing his trim black hair his appearance was transformed. He sat next to Tweed and spoke in an urgent whisper.

The sooner we can talk with each other alone the better. What I've got to tell you concerns the present occupant of the White House…'

'Later,' Tweed whispered back. 'Arrangements are being changed. I've had second thoughts. You'll travel with me by train to Switzerland and Newman will come with us. Don't look at that rough character facing me at a table opposite…'

At that moment Butler and Nield walked into the Brasserie by the short cut from the hotel. Tweed watched the two men as they suddenly paused.

'Don't much like the look of that chap sitting by himself and facing Tweed,' Nield commented.

'Reminds me of a pit-bull terrier,' replied Butler, who didn't know much about dogs.

'He must be roasting in that heavy windcheater. Funny he hasn't taken it off.'

'Maybe that bulge under his left armpit is the reason. I could swear he's carrying a gun,' Butler remarked. 'And he's a Yank – the sort Norton would employ. Look at the way he shovels food into his mouth with a fork. No table manners. I think he's trouble.'

'I wouldn't dispute that,' agreed Nield. 'I think maybe we ought to keep a close eye on Brother Pit-Bull. Let's outflank him. Rattle him. With a bit of luck he'll push off outside and we can follow him …'

As Tweed watched, the two men separated. Jason had already noticed their arrival, the pause while they stared in his direction. He began to feel less confident.

Nield made a lot of noise as he pulled out a wooden chair from a table behind Jason, scraping it across the tiled floor. Butler chose a more distant table, at a diagonal angle to the American's thick neck. To see either of the new arrivals Jason had to twist round in his seat in two different directions – making it obvious what he was doing.

Tweed had surreptitiously watched the manoeuvre of Butler and Nield with a mixed feeling of amusement and relief. The arrival of Barton Ives, despite his effective disguise, worried him. It was a very public place. Ives spoke to him from behind the menu he was studying.

'I had spotted him. A professional gunman. A Norton recruit would be my guess. Cold as ice. Except he's now hot and bothered, as I believe you Brits say. Literally -sweat is running off his forehead. Those two guys who came in are yours? Thought so. I like their tactics …'

Jason had decided – rightly so – that it would be suicide to draw his Luger. He called for the bill, paid the waiter, left half his beer in the glass, stood up and walked casually to the exit leading to the street. Outside rush hour had vanished like water down a plug-hole and the pavement was deserted now night had fallen.

'After you, sir…'

Jason paused at the open door, a door held open by Nield who had reached it first the moment Jason began to move. The American suffered a rare moment of indecision. If he said he'd changed his mind and started back into the restaurant, where would that get him? The only alternative was to proceed on into the deserted street – a course of action Jason felt uneasy about.

'OK, buddy…'

He stared at Nield who was smiling pleasantly while holding the door open with his left hand. Jason walked out.

Nield followed him immediately, moving as silently as a cat close up behind his quarry. Jason felt something hard and cylindrical pushed hard against his spine. He froze.

'This is a Walther 7.65-mm. automatic and the magazine holds eight rounds,' Nield informed him in a conversational tone. 'I'm prepared to pull the trigger until the mag is emptied. Turn slowly to your right, walk twelve paces, again slowly, then stop. Start counting now.'

'This a friggin' hold-up?' Jason blustered.

'Don't ask questions. Just do what I told you to…'

As Jason began counting paces Butler appeared alongside him, keeping in step. The American glanced sideways and didn't like the expression on Butler's face. After twelve paces he stopped. Nield pressed the Walther harder into his spine to remind him of its presence. There was no one else about as Butler stood in front of Jason, reached inside his windcheater with his gloved hand, hauled out a Luger.