The Power (21 page)

'Shit, Sara, I'm goin' to have to kick ass to get those jerks
in Europe movin' -Norton hasn't reported for two days.'

'He does have a difficult assignment, Brad,' she
reminded him.

'Which is why I appointed him head of Unit One. Time
he wrapped up the whole job in my book.'

Unlike most presidents - who were often six feet tall or
over - Bradford March was a stocky man of medium height
with a lot of black hair and thick black brows. Fifty-five
years old, his aggressive chin was running to jowls, black as
his hair. He shaved twice a day, when he felt like it. Above his short thick nose his ice-cold eyes moved restlessly.

He wore crumpled blue denims and a creased check
shirt, open two buttons below the neck, exposing the dense
hair on his barrel chest. He belched loudly, slapped his hard rounded stomach.

'That's good beer. Fix me another. Then call Norton.
I'm going to kick ass.'

'Is that wise, Brad?'

Sara, March's personal assistant, the only person privy
to his secrets, was a hard-faced woman of forty with long dark hair, a prominent nose and a wide thin-lipped mouth.
She had been with him since the early days of his career -
all the way from when he had sneaked in to become senator
of a Southern state by a handful of votes. A' handful
delivered by a power broker after Sara had handed over to
him one hundred thousand dollars in used currency.

Tall and slim, always dressed in black, she was the only
person - apart from his wife - permitted to call him Brad.
March's wife, Betty, had drifted away from him although
she still lived in the White House. Sara was the one who
kept a watchful eye on her.

'Time for Betty to have a lollipop, Brad,' she would say.

'Jesus Christ! Do I have to? Again.'

'We don't want her walking, do we? A sable stole will
settle her for a while.'

'OK. If you can find the cash.'

'Brad, I can always find the cash. I just twist someone's
arm, somebody who owes us a favour. Plenty of them
around . . .'

March sat facing the north wall occupied by an elaborate
marble fireplace. Sara came back with a bottle of beer from
the fridge, uncapped. Knowing what he wanted she wiped
the top and neck of the bottle with a crisp white napkin.
March took the bottle from her, upended it and drank.

That's better,' he said, placing the bottle on the desk
and wiping his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. 'You know what? Some faggot on the staff here - I posted him to
the Aleutians - wanted me to see a speech therapist.' He
opened his mouth and bellowed with laughter. 'A speech
therapist! You know how I barnstormed my way into the White House? Because I talk like the folks down in the
street. It's called empathy - whatever the hell that is. Get
Norton on the private phone.'

Sara was used to these sudden switches in subject. She
stood with her arms folded, frowning at him. He looked
up, spat out the question.

'You got something on your mind?'

'Brad, what is it Norton's looking for? Besides certain
people?'

'Certain people being Cord Dillon and Barton Ives. Is my ass covered with Dillon runnin' out? Deputy Director
of the CIA. Questions will be asked when the press wakes
up, finds he's gone missing.'

'Your ass is covered. I've spread the rumour he's been
ill, has gone abroad for a long vacation.'

'Long vacation?' March grinned to himself. When Nor
ton found Dillon his vacation would be permanent. No
point in letting Sara know how rough he could play.
'What's getting to you?' he snapped.

This Unit One. I think Senator Wingfield has caught a
whiff of its existence.'

'That aristocratic old creep? Just because he happens to be Chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Maybe his ancestors were one of the Pilgrim Fathers. He
looks like one.'

'He carries a lot of clout, Brad. And Unit One is strictly an illegal organization. Trouble is, some members of Unit
One are still here, not in Europe.'

'You're smart.'March grinned again. 'Real smart. So we may send the rest to Europe to Norton as reinforcements.
Nothing left here then for old Wingfield to get a whiff of.
I'll think about that.'

'That would be best. As you say, nothing left for him to
get a hold on.'

'It's like tapes and documents,' March went on, folding
his hands behind his thick neck. 'Never record anything on
tape - reading about Nixon taught me that. Nothing goes
down on paper. That way, no evidence. We go on keeping
everything verbal.' He winked.

'Best way,' Sara agreed. 'It's worked like a dream so far.

Is the British Prime Minister co-operating?'

'The Brits do what I tell them to do. Norton is operating
in London like he was in Louisiana. No interference. Their
Prime Minister has no balls. He has two volcanoes smoking
on his stoop - Russia and the Mid-East. He daren't move
without my backing, which I'm withholding.'

'Sitting in his shoes I wouldn't either,' Sara commented.
'How do you handle the guy?'

'Oh, I borrow a tactic our wily Secretary of State uses if
he wants to stall...' March was referring to the American equivalent of the British Foreign Secretary. 'I tell him I have the problem under consideration.'

This FBI agent, Barton Ives, who has also disappeared
- how does he fit into the picture? Operated in the South, didn't he - when you were a senator?'

'He could get in my way.' A crafty expression appeared
on March's face, his eyes half-closed like a hyena poised to
strike. 'You can leave him to Norton.'

'Pardon me for treading in the wrong territory.' Sara
smiled. She knew she'd made a mistake. 'Brad, I don't
tread on sensitive ground - could be a minefield.'

'Sara Maranoff,' the President said slowly, 'you could get blown to small pieces doin' just that -
walking into a
minefield.' His expression changed, became amiable as a
family man. 'That was a clever idea of yours - suggesting I
tell the Prime Minister we have people over there tracking
a gang of terrorists planning to assassinate me. He shut his
trap fast when I fed him that one. You're a real smart lady.'

Sara, arms still folded, bobbed her head in acknow
ledgement of the compliment, but she wasn't fooled.
March had used that trick on her before - first hammering
her for an indiscretion, then following that up with a
tribute to her loyalty. Bradford March might have come
from the sticks but he had a native cunning when it came to
manipulating people. Wisely, she changed the subject.

'Can I ask you something else? Has Norton found the
two pieces of equipment he's endeavouring to locate? I
don't know what they are but I do know they worry you.'

March's expression became brooding. 'No, he hasn't. But he will. His job's on the line and he knows it. Sara, maybe we should put a tail on Senator Wingfield? Don't
trust him as far as I can spit.'

'Don't do it,' Sara warned. 'He'll know. Then he'll guess
there's something to conceal. He could start digging up dirt
about Unit One. Let him rest in peace.'

'Which is where I wish he was. In the cemetery. Now, try
and get me Norton on the private line. Then go take a
shower or something
...'

Which was another precaution March had learned from reading up the history of previous occupants of the White
House. Never completely trust the one closest to you -
man or woman. In a crisis it was the loyal friend who stabbed you in the back. Today's friends - tomorrow's
enemies.

Bradford March was not psychic, but on that cold drizzly
February morning a meeting of three men was being held
not a world away from the Oval Office. The meeting took
place in one of the luxurious mansions in Chevy Chase, the
most sought after - and exclusive - residential district near Washington.

The small group was seated round a Chippendale table
in the study of Senator Charles Wingfield. Even though it
was daytime the curtains were drawn closed in the large
room at the rear of the house. Illumination came from the glass chandelier suspended above the table.

The Senator, a white-haired vigorous man of sixty and
Chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee, looked at his guests as they began sipping the excellent coffee he
served.

The short plum-faced guest, in his fifties, was the most
powerful banker in the States. Alongside him sat a man known as an elder statesman. The latter was of medium
height, bulky build, clad in an immaculate suit and he
wore horn-rimmed glasses. Behind the lenses strange penetrating and shrewd eyes watched the other two men.
The Senator opened the meeting, going straight to the
point.

'I'm getting more and more worried about the Presi
dent's behaviour. There are two crises brewing up in
Europe and both could damage our vital interests.'

'And March is doing nothing to support Europe,' the
statesman snapped. 'All he can think of is his "America
First, Last and All the Time".'

'Which was the slogan which won him the election,' the banker pointed out.

'You can interpret "America First" as the best reason for our intervening in Europe, for supporting the British
in this situation,' the statesman replied waspishly. 'God knows enough history has proved our front line is on the
European continent. The Veep has more grasp of
foreign affairs in his little finger than March has in his
ugly ape-like head.'

By Veep he was referring to the Vice-President, Jeb Galloway. March had chosen Galloway as his running
mate because he was from Philadelphia and was popular
in the north-east and the so-called 'rust' states of
Michigan, etc.

'Galloway is a very different man,' Wingfield agreed. 'He's a cultured man with a global view. But he's
still the
Veep.'

'Nothing more than a decoration with no say in
policy,' the banker reminded them. 'So what can be
done?'

'Politics is the art of the possible,' the Senator said in a
soothing tone. 'March has done nothing yet we can
openly criticize him for. He's quick on his feet and a
master of the Washington ball-game. Gentlemen, all we
can do is wait.'

'You did say you'd heard rumours that March has
secretly organized his own private paramilitary force,' recalled the statesman.