The Power (49 page)

'Supposing the control points are manned this time? No
way to guard against that,' Paula insisted.

'Yes, there is,' Tweed explained. 'I'm carrying nothing.
I go through first, you lag behind. If you see me stopped,
turn back. We'll think of something else.'

'I wonder where Joel Dyson is now,' Paula mused.

'What I'd like to know is who murdered Helen Frey, Klara and that detective, Theo Strebel,' Newman commented.

'I think I've worked that out - from information one of
you provided me,'Tweed replied.

Bankverein
, the tram-stop midway between the Rhine and
the railway station, is where most of the Basle banks are
situated. The Zurcher Kredit was one of them. The hippie
sitting on the pavement near the bank's entrance had his
legs sprawled out in front of him. He wore a shabby old
Swiss hat, the brim pulled down over his forehead. His worn dark overcoat was buttoned up to the neck against the cold. His stained corduroy trousers were too long and
draped over his ancient Swiss climbing boots. By his side
Joel Dyson had a large canvas bag.

Dyson had rubbed dirt into his plump face and a torn
scarf concealed his receding chin. Several Swiss who
passed by glanced at him curiously, but Dyson knew the
American watcher on the other side of the street would
find nothing strange in his presence.

Dyson was waiting his opportunity to slip into the bank
without the American seeing him enter. He had worked out the moment - providing a customer went inside the
bank at that moment. The guard inside the bank would
then escort the customer out of sight of the lobby and take him or her to whoever they were visiting.

Dyson knew it would take split-second timing, but he'd learned to move fast taking compromising photographs of
celebrities. He gripped the canvas bag tightly by its
wooden handle as a woman dressed in black approached.
Three small green trams - toys compared with the modern
blue giants of Zurich - trundled up from the direction of
the Rhine close together. This could be the right moment.

The woman in black entered the bank, the guard spoke
to her, escorted her out of sight. The trams masked him
from the American. Dyson leapt up, pushed open the door
into the empty
lobby, then moved even faster.

Unbuttoning his disreputable overcoat, he tore it off,
revealing a smart blue business jacket. Slipping out of his trousers, he exposed the blue suit trousers. Hauling off the
boots, he opened the canvas bag, took out a pair of smart
slip-ons, tucked his feet inside them. Pulling off the hat he
bundled the boots and old clothes inside the canvas bag,
closed it. Smoothing his hair with a
comb and wiping his
face with a cloth he had dampened earlier, he held a
visiting card in his hand when the guard returned. He
presented the card without saying a word. The guard examined it, turned it over to look at the writing on the
back. He read the message in German carefully.

Please give every assistance to this gentleman. He is a most
valued client.

On the front side was printed
Walter Amberg, Zurcher Kredit.
The printing was embossed. Dyson had asked
Julius's brother for his card when he had deposited the film
and the tape with Julius. On his recent visit to Zurich he
had entered several bars before he struck up a conversa
tion with a Swiss by buying him several drinks. He had then
asked him to write this message in German on the card,
saying he was playing a joke on a Swiss friend.

Dyson was an expert at bluffing his way into offices and
houses where he wasn't known. The guard said something
to him in German,

'Sorry,' Dyson said, 'I only speak English.'

'I think you should see Mrs Kahn,' the guard suggested
in English.

'I think that was the name of the lady I was given
...'

Mrs Kahn was a dark-haired lady of uncertain age
wearing gold-rimmed glasses. She studied the card after
asking him to sit down. Then she said she would be back in
a minute. She closed the door to another room carefully
after leaving.

Dyson grinned to himself. He knew exactly what she was
doing. She was phoning Zurich to check on him. Dyson
had deposited a small sum of money when he had handed
over the film and the tape for safekeeping. He had realized that if you were a client - no matter how small or large the
account - you had joined the club.

While he was alone he took out his handkerchief, wet it
with his tongue, rubbed vigorously at his cheek. He had
already cleaned off most of the dirt in the lobby but he was
anxious to make a good impression. A man of substance was the phrase. A pukka member of the club. Mrs Kahn returned, sat behind her desk.

'What can I do for you, Mr Dyson?'

'I have to get in touch with Mr Amberg. He is keeping something valuable for me. He said I should ask for him
when I needed to collect the valuables. The matter is rather
urgent.'

'Mr Amberg is in France.'

'I know.' He smiled briefly. 'I've left the address he gave
me at my London apartment. I'm a bachelor so there's no
one there I can call to look it up for me '

'He's in Alsace ...'

'I can remember that. Foreign addresses go out of my
head.'

'It is not too far. The Château Noir in the Vosges. You can take the train to Colmar.'

'I travel by car. I've driven there before. To Colmar.'

'It's difficult to find, Mr Dyson. Up in the mountains. I
suggest you purchase a road map. When you get to Colmar
there is a hotel outside the railway station. The Hotel
Bristol. Show them the map and they will guide you.'

'I am much obliged, Mrs Kahn.'

'It is my pleasure. The guard will show you out...'

That was inconvenient. He had hoped to change back
into his hippie clothes in the lobby before emerging from
the bank. The guard appeared, escorted him to the main front door, opened it, nodded to him.

Dyson stepped out into a freezing cold afternoon. The
interior of the bank had been cosily warm.
He walked a few
paces down the street, watching the American who still stood on the opposite side of the street. A gun barrel was
rammed into his back from inside a trench coat.

'Where is Amberg, Mr Dyson? A correct answer means
I may not pull the trigger.'

'At the Château Noir. France. Up in the Vosges moun
tains .Near Colmar.'

Dyson was scared stiff, but he was a survivor. So close ,now to a huge fortune. He wasn't going to risk a bullet in
the back at this stage. The man with the American voice
behind him might be testing him.

'So let's you and I go for walkies,' the voice continued. 'There's a short cut through an alley
...'

He stopped speaking. Dyson had spotted a police car
patrolling slowly along the street. He shoved both hands in
the air, way above his head. Everything happened in a
flash. The patrol car stopped, the gun was removed from his back, he heard the sound of feet running as a police
man, gun in hand, came up to him.

'He held me up with a gun, wanted my passport and
money.'

Dyson glanced over his shoulder. No sign of the
American.

'He didn't get anything. You arrived

The policeman had nodded, was now running with long
strides towards where several streets radiated. He dis
appeared round a corner. Dyson sighed with relief, picked up the canvas bag he'd dropped, walked quickly away.

He'd already hired a silver Mercedes. Within the hour
he'd be driving across the frontier, heading for Colmar.

Talking to the President, each time Norton started out by
giving the phone number of his latest perch. The President
had no idea what city the first numbers identified - Sara
found that out after he'd closed the call.

Norton, his 'grey' hair now getting shaggy, was sitting in
the Basle apartment he'd commandeered. It was normally
occupied by a diplomat from the Berne Embassy. The
Ambassador, Anderson, hadn't liked it when Norton had told him to throw out the present occupant.

He'd had no option but to agree to Norton's demand
when the man with untidy grey hair and wearing half-moon
glasses had waved his Presidential aide pass at him.

Anderson had also told him that he was clearing his
desk, going home. A man called Gallagher was taking his
post. Norton had smiled to himself- Anderson, an old-
school diplomat, must have rubbed March up the wrong way. The phone rang.

'Mencken here. We've located Amberg. The Château
Noir in France. Near a place called Colmar. The château is
up in the Vosges mountains . ..'

'Move the whole unit to Colmar. Where will you be
staying? The Hotel Bristol. Got it. It's a short drive from
here. I'll be there. What about the courier with the dough?'

'Locked in a hotel room. You know which hotel. I have
the key.'

'Take him with you - with the money. Whoever has what
I'm after will try a fresh exchange. Get moving.. .'

Norton began packing his clothes in the single case he moved around with. Small enough to take aboard a plane.
Save hanging about at the friggin' carousel. The phone
rang again.

'Yes, who is it?'

'The guy who's given you ten days to clean up,' March
barked. 'I know now you're in Basle. What gives? You had
three different places to cover in the Zurich area to
exchange the money for the film and tape.'

'It was a bust. I had them covered. No one turned up. Someone is playing smart. Using kidnappers' technique.
Send you to one place - three in this case - then they don't turn up. Trying to break our nerve. You'll get a fresh call,
new rendezvous. I'm just moving to the Hotel Bristol in Colmar, France. Give you
the phone number when I get
there. We're going to score. All four targets wiped out,
plus grabbing your film and tape . ..'

'Norton, you've no idea how encouraging I find what
you just said,' March replied with vicious sarcasm. 'You
read me? And how are you going to play it this time -
before March 13?'

'They'll be in mountain country. I'll use the mountains
to get them. By ambush
...'

For the first time Norton was the one who slammed
down the phone.