The Power (77 page)

'So this Tweed is smarter than we thought?' com
mented the President in the same quiet tone.

'He just got lucky.' Norton was leading March away
from the subject of Marvin Mencken. 'We've taken some heavy casualties,' he repeated.

'So you can't make the omelette without breakin' a few eggs,' March responded in a bored tone.

'I was going to say we could do with more manpower.'

'Would Mencken need more manpower? You didn't
tell me - is Mencken still around?'

'Yes.'

'I can't spare more manpower. I need what I have left
here in Washington. Certain guys have to be clamped down on. You said earlier Tweed got lucky,' March recalled, building up to bait Norton some more. 'I'd say
he got smart as he's still around.' A pause. 'I don't hear
no denial of that. I gave you a time limit, Norton. Time's almost up. I want the film, the tape. I want Tweed, Joel
Dyson, Cord Dillon and Barton Ives dumped. For ever.
Get on it.

The connection to Washington had gone. Norton
slowly put down the receiver and didn't even bother to
swear. Ouchy was going to be a blood bath.

* * *

Inside his study at his Chevy Chase house Senator
Wingfield looked round at his two guests
seated at the
round table with a cold expression. His guests, the
banker and the elder statesman, watched him closely,
realizing there had been a very serious development.

The Senator had summoned them to attend a meeting
of the Three Wise Men urgently at short notice. It was not this factor which caused them to sense the atmos
phere of tension inside the comfortable room. Wingfield
normally had the appearance of a benevolent father
figure, He rarely showed any emotion and it was the
grimness of his aristocratic features which held their
attention.

'Gentlemen,' Wingfield began, 'I have just received
this highly confidential communication from the Vice
President. Jeb Galloway has received the report I have
inside this folder by special delivery from Europe. It
makes incredible reading - I just hope its author is
insane.'

'But do you think he is? Insane?' the statesman
enquired.

'If he isn't - and I have a horrible idea he's as sane as any man round this table - our country faces the most
serious crisis of this century.'

'You know who the report is from?' asked the banker.

'Yes. A special agent of the FBI. A man called Barton
Ives.' He extracted the typed sheets from the folder,
handed them to the banker. 'Judge for yourselves.'

'These documents allege this Barton Ives knows who
is responsible for a number of particularly beastly serial murders in several Southern states,' the banker, who was a fast reader, commented in a shaky voice after a few minutes. 'Each involves the murder of a woman by cut
ting her throat - after rape had been committed, accord
ing to the medical examiner's report in the state
concerned. All the murders have remained unsolved, even though they took place several years ago. It's
beyond belief.'

'What is?' demanded the statesman as the banker
handed him the documents.

'The man he names as the perpetrator of these vile
crimes. Not only was the throat of each victim cut with a serrated knife - a kitchen knife is suggested - but similar sadistic mutilations were found on each corpse.'

'Who is this Barton Ives?' the statesman persisted
before examining the documents. 'I seem to have heard
the name.'

'A very senior agent of the FBI,' Wingfield said reluctantly. 'I made discreet enquiries before I called you. Ives was in charge of the investigation linking all six murders.
He was about to prepare a comprehensive report when
his superior at the Memphis office was posted to Seattle.
The new man ordered Ives to discontinue the investigation and destroy the files. He was sent to Memphis on
direct orders from Washington. Ives alleges he had to flee
to Europe to save his life. My enquiries back up this
strange sequence of events.'

There was a heavy silence as the statesman skimmed
through the reports. He held each page at the edges
between his fingertips, leaving no prints of his own. Drop
ping the last sheet back inside the folder, he used his
elbow to push the folder back to Wingfield across the polished table.

'There is mention of a thumbprint being found on the
side of a Lincoln Continental belonging to the sixth raped and murdered woman,' he pointed out. 'Barton Ives says
he has that thumbprint and it still exists on the car. So
where the hell is the car?'

'I enquired about that,' Wingfield told him. 'Before he left Memphis on his flight to Europe Ives hid the car somewhere. Difficult to achieve - considering the size of the car - but Ives has a wealth of experience. You see, he
says he is the only one who knows its location.'

'Well,' said the statesman, 'we've had every kind of
corrupt president, quite apart from Watergate. Presidents
with mistresses - common enough. Some with illegitimate
children. Others who've walked into the Oval Office with
little more than the clothes they stood up in. By the time
they stepped down from the presidency they were million
aires. So, I suppose one day - in this age of exceptional
violence - we should have expected something like this.'

'
If
it's true, he can't stay untouched in the Oval Office,'
the Senator said with great force.

'But you haven't enough evidence there to do anything,'
the statesman objected.

'So I need this Barton Ives in this room so we can grill him. I think I'll have a word with the Veep.'

'Is Barton Ives Jeb Galloway's man?' enquired the
banker.

'I didn't say that, did I?' Wingfield replied cautiously.

'And how would you handle it if all this grim business concerning six serial murders proved true?' demanded the
statesman in his direct way. 'Impeachment?'

'We can't have the nation's name dragged through the mud. That's the only certainty I know now,' the Senator replied. 'As to how we'd handle it - I suggest we adjourn
this meeting, tell no one of our suspicions, and await
events...'

Bradford March was drinking beer out of an upended
bottle when Sara answered his summons. She waited while
he wiped the back of a hairy hand across his mouth.

'I hear strong rumours that the Holy Trinity are meeting
more frequently,' he remarked. 'Don't like it.'

This was the President's irreverent way of referring to the Three Wise Men. He pouched his lips, stared at Sara.
She realized he expected a reaction.

'So we do something about it? Is that what you're
saying? If so, how do we hack it? We could be dealing with
a load of dynamite. Those three may be old dinosaurs but they sure as hell carry plenty of clout. Back off, Brad.'

'Sometimes, Sara, your advice is good, very good.'
March leaned back in his chair, nursing the beer bottle. 'And sometimes it's lousy, real lousy. This is one of those
times.'

'It's your' - she had been going to say 'funeral' but
hastily changed the word - 'decision. Just tell me.'

'I want three guys from Unit One - each in his own car -
to follow the senator, the statesman and the banker night and day. Draw up a duty roster so they get relieved, stay fresh, on the job. I want daily reports of every person the
Holy Trinity bums contact.' His head tilted up, he stared at
her hard. 'Why not get started now?'

Sara moved fast on her new mission. Inside an hour the
three chosen watchers from Unit One were stationed near
Senator Wingfield's house in Chevy Chase. Sara had just
heard rumours of a meeting taking place there.

The watchers arrived exactly thirty minutes too late. The
two limousines had already called at the house, had picked
up and driven away their illustrious passengers.

48

Seated by himself at a table in the Brasserie, Jason, the American with a head and a face like a bulldog, wore his padded windcheater despite the warmth of the restaurant. He had to - in the shoulder holster under his left armpit
nestled a Luger.

As he sat drinking beer and piling omelette into his wide mouth he congratulated himself on his luck. His
main target - selected by Mencken himself - was sitting
facing him with a couple of good-looking chicks and a
harmless young guy who couldn't be a day over thirty.

Between shovelling mouthfuls of omelette into his maw
he took another look at Paula and Jennie. The target -Tweed - was a pushover, he'd decided. At that moment
his eyes met Tweed's. The Englishman gazed back at him
with a penetrating stare and Jason hastily glanced away.
The eyes worried him - but no one shot with their eyes.

Jason glanced towards the exit leading to the street and
decided he'd make the distance in seconds. After putting
a couple of bullets into Tweed - which would guarantee
his next destination
would be the local cemetery.

Accompanied by Newman, Barton Ives walked in from
the hotel. Tweed's admiration of the FBI man increased
as he looked at his appearance. Ives was wearing one of those deep medical collars of foam material used to sup
port the head and restrict its movements. With his jaw tilted up and a dark beret concealing his trim black hair
his appearance was transformed. He sat next to Tweed
and spoke in an urgent whisper.

The sooner we can talk with each other alone the
better. What I've got to tell you concerns the present
occupant of the White House
...'

'Later,' Tweed whispered back. 'Arrangements are
being changed. I've had second thoughts. You'll travel
with me by train to Switzerland and Newman will come
with us. Don't look at that rough character facing me at a
table opposite
...'

At that moment Butler and Nield walked into the
Brasserie by the short cut from the hotel. Tweed watched
the two men as they suddenly paused.

'Don't much like the look of that chap sitting by himself and facing Tweed,' Nield commented.

'Reminds me of a pit-bull terrier,' replied Butler, who didn't know much about dogs.

'He must be roasting in that heavy windcheater. Funny
he hasn't taken it off.'

'Maybe that bulge under his left armpit is the reason. I could swear he's carrying a gun,' Butler remarked. 'And he's a Yank - the sort Norton would employ. Look at the way he shovels food into his mouth with a fork. No table
manners. I think he's trouble.'