The Power (2 page)

His mood of relaxation didn't last long. As the machine
flew on through the night, still climbing, he furtively
glanced round, checking the other passengers. His chance
encounter with Nick Rossi could prove fatal. Had
they
had time to rush a man aboard at the last moment? He doubted it. A second glass of whiskey relaxed him again.

Dyson dared not go to sleep even though most of the
passengers of the half-filled jumbo were now comatose.
The film camera nestled on his lap, concealed under a
newspaper. Frequently he put his hand inside the pocket of
his coat folded on the empty seat beside him. He felt
relieved when he found the tape was still there...

Bob Newman.
The name kept repeating itself in Dyson's mind as he disembarked at Heathrow. He changed his plan
of action on impulse. Instead of immediately buying a

Swissair ticket to Zurich he hurried outside the concourse,
climbed into a taxi and gave the driver the address of
Newman's flat in Beresforde Road, South Kensington. In
his haste, he failed to notice the small stocky man in a dark
belted raincoat who watched him, followed him, signalled
with his hand, stroking the
left side of his face as a grey
Volvo appeared. Then the man ran to a phone box.

'Ed, here. London Airport. The subject came in off the LA
flight, walked out, took a taxi somewhere.'

'Did he now?' The gravelly voice of Norton was abras
ive. 'With a tail, I trust?'

The grey Volvo was passing. We had three cars cruising round...'

'I know that. Nick Rossi came across good. Wait there.
Don't go to sleep. The subject may come back. Report to
me any developments.'

'I'll stay tuned...'

The stocky man realized the phone had cut out, the connection broken. Typical. He had never seen Norton,
had only heard his gravelly American voice on phones. He
had commented on this to another member of the unit.

'That's your good luck,' his colleague had warned. 'No
one knows what he looks like. You ever meet
Norton,
know who he is, you're dead ...'

Arriving at Newman's flat, which faced the church of St Mark's, Dyson told the cab driver to wait. An elegant slim
blonde girl answered the door, but made no attempt to
invite him inside. Dyson produced an old press card carry
ing his photo.

'Sorry to disturb you. I'm Joel Dyson, an old friend of
Bob Newman's, I need to see him urgently. He's expecting
me,' he lied.

'He didn't say anything,..'

'He wouldn't. Our business is confidential. And
urgent,' he repeated. 'Matter of life and death.'

My death, he thought. The blonde examined the press
card, looked at him, seemed uncertain how to respond
as she handed back the card. Dyson forced himself to
smile, to relax. She didn't smile back at him, but
nodded.

'Have you something to write down an address? He's
with the General & Cumbria Assurance Company in
Park Crescent. Twenty minutes from here by cab .. .'

Thanking her after he'd scribbled in his notebook,
Dyson, camera looped over his shoulder, hurried back to
the cab, gave the driver an address in Soho. Earlier, on his way from the airport, he had glanced back a couple
of times through the rear window. He didn't notice the
grey Volvo driving one vehicle behind the cab. He really
had little anxiety that he could have been followed.

Joel Dyson had badly underestimated the energy and
power of the force reaching out towards him. During the eleven-hour flight from LA his San Francisco apartment had been turned over, examined for clues under a microscope. All main Californian airports had been checked -
hence the swift contact with Nick Rossi. Wires had hum
med between the States and Europe. Arrangements for
the target's 'reception' had been made. Identity had
been established by the tape recorder.

En route
to the Soho address, Dyson was contem
plating the value of the film and the tape.
Five
million
dollars?
No.
Ten million dollars
at least. The man would find ways of raising the money when faced with total
destruction. Joel was on a big high when he left the cab
in a street in Soho. He never even noticed the grey
Volvo which slowed, then parked.

* * *

'Need to use your copying room for a film and a tape,
Sammy. And I'm in a pissing great hurry,' Dyson told the
cockney owner of the shop.

Outside it appeared to be an outlet for soft-porn films.
But Dyson knew London well and had used the cockney's
facilities in the past.

'Cost you, mate,' Sammy told him quickly. 'I don't let
just anyone muck about with my equipment. Extra charge in case it's illegal, which it probably is.'

'Just watch the door. I don't want interruptions,' Dyson
snapped. 'And here's your outrageous fee.'

Before disappearing into the back room he dropped two
one-hundred dollar bills on the counter.
Sammy, a ginger-
haired hunchback, suppressed a whistle of surprise. He
held the bills up to the light. They looked OK.

When Dyson came out of the room he had four canisters
inside his bag. Two originals - film and tape - and one copy of
each. Nodding to Sammy, he walked into the street,
hailed a
passing cab, told the driver to take him to Park Crescent.

Dyson had taken another impulsive decision the
moment the cab had moved off from Beresforde Road -
changing his next destination to Sammy's in Soho. Much
safer to have twin sets of the film and the tape - one hidden
in London, the other in Zurich. He prayed Newman would
be at Park Crescent.

Inside a first-floor office at the Park Crescent HQ of the
SIS, Bob Newman sat drinking coffee with Monica,
Deputy Director Tweed's faithful and long-time assistant.
Of uncertain age, Monica wore her grey hair tied back in a bun. Seated behind her desk, she was enjoying a chat with
the foreign correspondent. In his early forties, of medium build, and clean-shaven, his hair brown, with a capable manner, Newman had been fully vetted and had often
worked with her chief.

'I said Tweed was away,' she remarked. 'Actually he's in
Paris. Expected back any time now.'

'He's like a dragonfly,' Newman commented. 'Zig
zagging all over the place. I think he likes travel.'

'You're one to talk,' she chaffed him. 'As a foreign
correspondent you've been everywhere—-'

She broke off as the phone rang. It was George, the
ex-Army man who acted as door-keeper and guard down
stairs. Monica frowned, looked at Newman, said 'Who?'
for the second time. 'Tell him to wait - and keep a close eye
on him.'

'Someone for you,' she said as she put down the phone.
'A man called Joel Dyson. Says it's desperately urgent he sees you at once.'

'Joel Dyson? How the devil did he know I was here? He
used to be one of my journalist informants. Nowadays he
has sunk to the level of one of the paparazzi. Takes pics of so-called celebrities - married - enjoying a tumble with the
wrong woman. Sells them to the press for huge sums. I suppose I'd better see him, but not up here.'

'The waiting-room,' Monica decided. She phoned
George to give him instructions. Newman said he'd like
her to come with him as a witness. 'I'll bring my notebook,
then,' she replied.

Facing George's desk, the waiting-room was a bleak
bare room with scrubbed floorboards, a wooden table and
several hard-backed chairs. It was not designed to encourage visitors to linger.

Monica was surprised at how smartly Joel Dyson was dressed. While driving down through California he had stopped at a motel, hired a room, stripped off his duffle
coat, denims and open-necked shirt. Substituting from his
bag an American business suit, a Brooks Brothers shirt and tie, a
vicuna coat, he had then slipped away from the motel
unseen by the proprietor, his room already paid for the
night.

A small slim man, in his thirties, he had a plump face
with pouched lips, a receding chin and an ingratiating
smile. Monica instantly mistrusted him. Her second sur
prise was his voice. He spoke with an upper-crust English
accent. Joel could switch from convincing American to
equally acceptable English with ease. He had, in fact,
British nationality.

'How the devil did you find me here?' Newman
demanded.

'No need to get stroppy. Called at your apartment. You
do have a nice taste in blonde companions. She said you'd
be here.'

Molly! Newman groaned inwardly. He was on the verge
of gently ending the friendship - she was quickly showing
signs that she expected him to take her seriously. Now he'd
have to speed up the process of disengagement.

'Didn't know you were mixed up with insurance,' Joel went on cheerfully. 'Come to think of it, what an ideal set-up to learn people's dark secrets.'

He had been fooled by the brass plate outside which was
engraved with
General & Cumbria Assurance -
the cover
name for the SIS. Not asked to sit down, he was still standing.

'What is it you want?' Newman snapped. 'I happen to be
very busy.'

'Insurance companies have top-security safes.' Dyson
smirked at Monica who had sat down at the table and was
making notes. She stared at him blankly, then dropped her
eyes to the notebook. Which fazed Dyson not at all.

'I have a tape and a film,' he went on, addressing
Newman, 'and they're a bombshell. I'll keep the originals
and you store the copies. In case anything happens to me.'

'And what might happen to you?'

Dyson waited until he'd slapped his case on the table,
unlocked it, produced two canisters, which he slid across to
Monica.

'I may end up dead,' he said quietly.

The seriousness of his tone, the abrupt change from his
previous breezy manner intrigued Newman. He was half-
inclined to believe Dyson, but still not fully convinced.

'And who would want to kill the world's most popular paparazzo?' he enquired ironically.

'Don't like that word. I'm a highly professional photo
grapher, one of the best-if not
the
best. And I can't answer
your question.'