The Power (50 page)

PART TWO

The Terror

30

Norton was the first to arrive in Colmar. Clad in a black
astrakhan coat and a fur hat, he looked like a Russian
professor as he peered through his half-moon glasses at the
receptionist of the Hotel Bristol.

What was it about the new arrival that made the girl
behind the counter shiver inwardly? He stood motionless
and the eyes behind the lenses which stared at her seemed dead, devoid of all human feeling.

'I want to book a double room for five days,' Norton
told her. 'I have business elsewhere so I may not be here every night. I will pay in advance for the five days ...'

He registered in the name of Ben Thalmann, paid in
French francs, then produced the Michelin map of the Vosges area he had purchased in Basle. He had left that
city within twenty minutes of speaking to President March.

'I have to visit the Château Noir, the residence of a Mr
Amberg, a Swiss. Can you show me how to reach this château
by driving there?'

'You'll have to hurry, sir,' she replied in her excellent
English. 'It gets dark early and there is snow on the
mountains. The roads will be icy . . .'

'Just show me

She stopped talking, studied the map, marked a route up
the N83 to
Kaysersberg
and then high up into
the Vosges
mountains along the N415. It became complicated and she
carefully drew her pen along a side
road. She was repeating
her warnings about the hazards when Norton interrupted
her brusquely.

'Can I use that phone to make a private call?'

'Certainly, sir . . .'

Discreetly, she opened a door behind her and closed it.
The truth was she was only too anxious to escape from the
presence of that black figure. Norton smiled as he dialled
the number of the Drei
Könige. He had sensed the fear
the girl had felt and it gave him a kick. He asked the hotel
operator for Tweed. There was a brief pause.

'Who is speaking?' a man's voice enquired.

'Barton Ives,' Norton said through the silk handker
chief he had stuffed in the mouthpiece. 'Who is that?'

'Tweed here. Where are you, Ives ...?'

Norton put down the phone. Tweed was still in Basle. At last he had arrived ahead of the enemy. Which would
give him time to prepare the death-trap. And it was interesting that Tweed expected to meet Barton Ives.
Clean up the whole lot out here in the wilds of Alsace.

Norton hurried outside and got behind the wheel of the blue Renault he'd hired in Basle. He had never stayed at
the Drei Könige - he had simply had an early lunch and
sat in the lobby area afterwards. In time to see Tweed and
his friends arrive.

Using the same approach, he wouldn't be staying at the
Hotel Bristol. He had picked up a brochure in the railway
station opposite the hotel, a brochure which gave the
names of several small hotels in the Old Town. One of
those hotels would be his base.

He drove rapidly across the flatlands beyond Colmar. It was a cold sunny afternoon, the air fresh as wine. But this was wine territory - grids of vineyards stretched away on either side as he came close to the foothills.

He drove more slowly through the medieval town of
Kaysersberg, little more than a large village. Norton did
not notice its picturesqueness. He did notice a narrow
stone bridge spanning a small river in the centre.

An excellent place to plant a bomb under the bridge,
detonated by remote control. Mencken, who still had to
reach Colmar, was an expert with explosives. Driving
from Basle to Colmar, Norton had observed a stone
quarry, a shed with the warning sign in French,
Danger -Explosives.
He had marked this location on his map.

He drove on beyond Kaysersberg into the foothills.
Looming above them was the long chain of the snow
bound Vosges mountains. Norton had taken the precau
tion of hiring a car with snow tyres. The road began to
twist and climb, up, up, up
...

There was no other traffic and dense stands of firs
began to close in on both sides. The road surface was icy,
treacherous, then covered with snow. The temperature
nose-dived. The firs were blanketed with frozen snow, the
branches pressed down under the weight. It was like
Siberia,

Norton smiled to himself. This was ideal territory for
what he had in mind. At numerous places the topography lent itself to lethal ambushes. He foresaw that Tweed and
his minions would disappear from the face of the earth
until spring came - only spring would reveal the frozen
vehicles, the rotting bones of their occupants.

On the other side of the road the mountain slope fell
away into a sheer abyss. Norton had a view of a deep
ravine plunging into the depths. The territory was getting
better and better. He had no doubt Tweed would be
driving up to see Amberg at the Château Noir.

He drove on up the steep winding ascent, alert for
hidden ice under the snow. By his side the map the girl at
the Bristol had marked lay open. He glanced at it fre
quently. Soon he'd be coming to the turn-off on to the
side road leading to Lac Noir.

The intense cold was penetrating his coat. He turned up
the heaters full on. His breath steamed up his
glasses. He
took them off - they were merely a disguise. Still only
rare .signs of human habitation - the
odd whitewashed old
house with its ancient pantile roof crusted with snow.
Norton could stand the cold, but this was something else
again.

He passed through a small village called Orbey, which
was on his route. No sign of a soul. Everyone huddled inside, he imagined. By now he had turned off the N415 and studied the map more frequently. Driving along a narrow road he suddenly arrived at Lac Noir and gasped.

Once, still with the FBI, Norton had operated in Europe for the State Department on secret missions - which under American law were forbidden and were extremely illegal.
Norton was familiar with the Continent, but he had never
seen anything like this.

On the far side of the lonely silent lake rose a sheer
granite wall, towering above him. At its summit was
perched a castle with turrets and lights in some of the windows. He was staring up at the Château Noir. On an
impulse, he decided to visit the elusive Mr Amberg.

Norton drove up a steep spiralling road which, again, the girl at the Bristol had marked for him on the map. Arriving at the
summit, he saw the castle's high point was a massive keep.

Most people would have been overawed by the grandeur
of the edifice. To Norton it was just the type of a monster of
a building they'd erected in medieval times. A high wall
surrounded the château and Norton scanned it swiftly before leaving his car and approaching on foot the tall
wrought-iron gates which closed a gap in the wall.

He pressed the button below a speakphone with a metal grille embedded in the left-hand pillar. He'd have to hurry
this up: he wanted to be out of the mountains before dusk
descended on those hideous roads. A voice said something
in German,

'I don't speak German,' Norton replied, muffling his American accent.

'Then kindly identify yourself,' the precise voice said
in English.

'Tweed. Tweed
...'

'Please be so good as to enter.'

There was the sound of a buzzer. Norton pushed at
both gates. The left-hand one opened. He took out a
matchbook, inserted it in the lock. He suspected the
gates opened and closed automatically from controls
inside the château. It was a trick he'd used before. And
sure enough, as he walked across the paved courtyard
and glanced back, the gate was closing.

As he hurried up the wide flight of stone steps leading
to a massive porch he took out the Luger from his
shoulder holster, held it by his side. The great wooden
door swung inwards, a small portly man with black hair
brushed back from his high forehead stood inside the
entrance. He wore a black business suit and surprise,
then alarm, appeared in his shrewd blue eyes:

'You're not Tweed.'

He was starting to swing the door shut when Norton showed him the Luger. He lapsed into his normal voice.

'Mr Amberg? Don't lie. I've a nervous trigger finger.'

'Yes, but
. . .'

'Let's talk inside. You could catch a cold. You have
two items I'm in the market for. You can make a lot of
money, Mr Amberg. Let's negotiate.'

While he spoke Amberg backed inside and Norton
followed still holding the Luger. He had the impression
of a vast hall which was dimly lit by wall sconces.

'I have no idea of what you are talking about,
Mr
Tweed.'

Norton was puzzled by the emphasis the banker put
on the name. His words echoed round the enormous
hall. Norton, watching Amberg closely, was vaguely
aware that a wide staircase climbed out of the hall to his
left, climbed a considerable height. He also thought
there was the silhouette of someone on the staircase.

The next moment Amberg took a handkerchief out of
his pocket as though about to blow his nose. There was a
click, an object landed at Norton's feet. Amberg was
backing away. Grey vapour enveloped Norton and his vision swam. Swiftly holstering the Luger - Norton was
no longer able to see clearly - he held his breath and
grabbed for a handkerchief with his left hand. The tear-
gas had reached his eyes just before he clamped the
handkerchief over them. Amberg had covered his own
face with his handkerchief.

Norton, able to see - but with blurred vision - turned round and headed back to the door. Removing the hand
kerchief, he turned the lock on the door and hauled the
heavy slab open. Staggering out on to the porch, he
grasped the round black iron handle, pulled the door
shut, took in a deep breath.