The Power (54 page)

As the express raced on north she reflected on the
strangeness of this beautiful province. Its odd mix of
French and German which appeared in the names of
towns on a map she'd studied. Bollwiller. Ste-Croix-en-Plaine. Munster. Ribeauville.

In 1871 Bismarck's Prussia had annexed Alsace-
Lorraine. At the end of the First World War France had taken Alsace-Lorraine back. She was still staring out of
the window. Many of the houses had steep-pitched rooves
like flat chutes, which suggested winter could be severe,
with heavy snow.

She glanced at Tweed and he was humming to himself, which was a rare habit. Why was he so pleased?

'What are you thinking of?' she asked him.

'That with a bit of luck soon I shall meet the two men
who, I'm convinced, hold the key to this
whole horrific business.'

'And you're keeping their names to yourself?'

'Joel Dyson - who knows Amberg is at the Château
Noir. Who is, I'm sure, so anxious to get back the
originals of his film and tape.'

'The second man?'

'Probably the most important of all. Barton Ives,
Special Agent of the FBI...'

'These are the ideal ambush points,' Norton said. 'All up
in the Vosges. You should wipe out the whole of Tweed's
team at one blow.'

Norton was meeting Marvin Mencken for the first time,
because he had to make sure Mencken didn't make a
mistake. But even at this face-to-face meeting Mencken realized Norton had been clever. Close together as they
were, he couldn't see Norton's face.

They were sitting inside a small cafe in Little Venice,
deep inside Colmar. Norton had searched the area to
discover this place before phoning Mencken. The café
was divided into two sections, separated by a heavy lace curtain. Tables on either side were close to each other.

One side was for customers who required food. Norton
had arrived early, consumed an omelette and salad and a huge quantity of French bread. He needed plenty of food to fuel his exceptional energy. He had finished the meal
before Mencken arrived, had waved away the waiter.

'Later...'

The windows facing the narrow street were also hung
with heavy lace curtains. Mencken, as instructed, went
into the bar entrance, ordered a glass of white wine and
took it to the table next to Norton's beyond the curtain.
As he sat down, facing the curtain, the only other custo
mer had twisted round in his chair as though greeting a
friend.

Yes, Mencken thought, Norton had been clever. The face he looked at was distorted by the lace curtain. Nor
ton wore a French beret he'd purchased and his grey hair
was tucked under it. He also wore a windcheater and a
scarf which covered his chin. Perched on his nose was a
pair of pebble glasses. The eyes which stared at Mencken
were huge, intimidating. The map was held so Mencken could see it clearly, pressed against the curtain.

'Each cross marked on this map locates the ambush
points,' Norton continued. 'See this one in Kaysersberg.'

'I've studied my own map. That place is a short drive
from Colmar.. .'

'Just listen. The cross marks a bridge. If they go that
way into the Vosges you could mine that bridge with
explosives, detonate them by remote control.'

'OK,' Mencken said impatiently. 'I visited hardware and electrical shops before I drove here from Basle. I
have the equipment I can use to make a timer system;
crude, but it will work.'

There's a stone quarry I've marked here - on the way
to Colmar from Basle. It has a shed with explosives
inside

'OK, I don't miss much. I spotted it on my way here.
It'll be like breaking into a piggy bank . . .'

'Kindly
listen!
Tweed and his team may arrive in this area at any moment - he moves very fast. So your first priority is to grab those explosives . . .'

'Which was my priority one anyway

'This cross, if you're listening, marks a cliff by the roadside. It looked pretty unstable and faces an abyss. Maybe you could create an avalanche when they ...'

'OK. I like that.
. .'

'This position - again high up above the snowline - is where you could catch them in a crossfire. You're not making notes.'

'Yes, I am.' Mencken tapped his forehead. 'Up here.
I've a mind like a computer - one that works.
Next?'

Norton gazed at Mencken from his side of the curtain. His view was also distorted - and the pebble glasses increased the effect. Mencken's face looked very skeletal with its hard pointed jaw line and prominent cheekbones. A man who would not hesitate to carry out any
cold-blooded execution. Which suited Norton. But he still
didn't trust him. In the slate-grey eyes which stared back he detected overweening ambition. You wouldn't miss a single chance to take over from me, he thought. So the answer was to be very tough with Marvin Mencken, a natural killer.

For several minutes he listed other areas in the Vosges
marked by crosses. With his hands covered with silk-lined
gloves, he eventually passed the map through to Mencken
under the curtain. Mencken found the use of gloves interesting. It suggested Norton's fingerprints were on
record in the States - maybe under a different name.
Ex-CIA, FBI? Or a criminal history?

He snatched the map from under the curtain, put it in
his pocket. He'd had a bellyful of Norton - explaining
everything as though he was new to this type of work.
Plus the fact that there was something patronizing in the other man's attitude. But Norton wasn't finished yet.

'Stay where you are. It's not just Tweed and his team
we need to eliminate. I'm confident Joel Dyson will
appear in this area

'Because
my
man spotted him outside the Zurcher
Kredit in Basle, made him squawk . . .'

'And then let him escape alive,' rasped Norton. 'Not a great success, Mencken. Don't interrupt me again. Just
concentrate on what I say. Joel Dyson must be elimin
ated. Equally important, that Special Agent FBI, Barton
Ives, must be too. We need all of them wiped off the face
of the earth.'

Mencken leaned forward. His nose was touching the curtain.

'I'll terminate the lot. It will be a blood bath.'

'Don't forget they could drive to the Château Noir by
either route,' Norton reminded him,

'It will be a blood bath,'Mencken repeated.

33

Marler, typically, had told Tweed before leaving Basle
that he'd hire his own car, make his own way to Colmar.

'I may not reach the Hotel Bristol until late in the
evening,' he had warned.

Tweed, knowing Marler liked to operate on his own,
had agreed immediately.

'See you at the Bristol then,' Marler ended jauntily.

Hiring an Audi, he had driven to Mulhouse. There, instead of continuing north along the autoroute to Col
mar, he had turned west, heading for the Ballon d'Alsace in the southern region of the Vosges. He had reached the
French glider airfield and had a long chat in his fluent
French with the controller.

Marler, after training in Britain, was an expert in flying
gliders. He had examined a machine, climbing into the
confined cockpit. The controller had leaned against the
side as Marler haggled over the price. He would want the glider for several days.

'Incidentally, you've seen my licence, but accidents
happen. How much if I smash it up?'

'Sir, that would cost you a lot of money.'

'How much?'

The controller had told him and Marler had nodded.
He knew Tweed had the funds to fork out if necessary.
The deposit paid, Marler drove off, returning by the route
he'd come until he joined the autoroute north near
Mulhouse.

Keeping just inside the speed limit, he raced along the
autoroute, bypassing Colmar, continuing north to the great river port of Strasbourg on the Rhine. Arriving
there, he was driving much more
sedately. Marler knew
Europe as well as Newman, and he thought the ancient
city unique.

The old city is perched on an island and spanned by
many bridges. Marler parked his Audi outside and
walked the rest of the way, crossing one of the bridges,
glancing up to admire the medieval architecture. This was
history, the Free City where once Protestant refugees had fled from French Catholic oppression. Which probably
explained why it housed so many craftsmen in different
fields. It was one of these craftsmen Marler was visiting.
A gunsmith - who provided on the quiet the greatest
range of weapons of any secret armaments supplier on the
Continent.

Near the immense mass of the looming cathedral, Mar
ler turned down a narrow stone-flagged alley. Suddenly
he entered a world of silence, all sounds of traffic and
human bustle gone.

He mounted a flight of worn stone steps to a landing on
the first floor. Facing him was a massive studded wooden
door with a Judas window. The only modern item in sight
was a metal-grilled speakphone with a button alongside it.
No indication as to who lived there.

'Who is it?' a quiet voice asked in French.

'Marler. You know me, Grandjouan. We've done busi
ness before.'

The Judas window opened, eyes peered out at him
through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on a
hooked nose. Marler waited while chains were removed,
bolts pulled back, locks unfastened. The place was a
fortress. The door swung open.

'Marler, indeed. So long since we last met. Come and
join me for a glass of wine.'

Grandjouan was a hunchback with tiny feet. Marler
was careful not to stare at his deformity. When his host had
closed the door, chained and relocked it, they shook
hands.

'I hadn't time to press the button, you old rascal,' Marler
remarked. 'So how did you know someone had arrived?'

'One of my state secrets.' Grandjouan chuckled
throatily. 'Now the wine . ..'

'Not for me, thank you so much. I have a long way to
drive when we 've completed our business.'

'Such a pity. I have the most excellent Riesling.'

'Well, just a small glass.'

Grandjouan had a clean-shaven weathered face. Impos
sible even to guess his age. He had a nice smile and his eyes
twinkled behind the spectacles as he handed Marler the
glass.