distinctive orange suits. Approaching him from behind, Norton had put him out of action by using a tyre iron on the back of his skull.
'Sleep well, baby,' he had whispered after taking off the boiler suit and stuffing the man inside a large waste bin.
In this way, and by again flourishing his Unit One card, he had boarded the plane, choosing a moment when most of the maintenance crew had left. Now, out of sight of the crowds, which were already roaring with delight, he stripped off the boiler suit, stuffed it into the waste bin on top of its unconscious owner, smoothed out the creases of his grey suit and hurried out of the main entrance, again showing his card.
He had no hesitation in hurrying, wearing only a suit and no coat in the bitter raw cold which gripped Washington despite the sun. Again he heard the crowd roar, this time more prolonged. As he walked towards where he had parked his car Norton could picture the scene.
Bradford March climbing the steps of the mobile staircase slowly, pausing at the top. Then swinging round suddenly and hoisting both arms with clenched fists high in the air. Another louder roar from the crowd. Norton smiled to himself grimly as he climbed behind the wheel of his car and drove off. He parked his car a good half-mile away from the air base, positioning it so he could look towards Andrews.
Air Force One suddenly appeared, climbing steeply as it flew away from the parked car. Norton was peering out of the open window as he heard the scream of its jets, saw the diminishing silver dart ascend to five thousand feet.
He was wearing wrapround tinted glasses so he wasn't blinded by the sudden brilliant flash. There was a rolling boom as the plane disintegrated and tiny fragments of the fuselage spun out of a cloud of black smoke which had disfigured the duck-egg blue of the sky. Norton, who had kept his engine running, eased the car out of the side road and drove on to his house in Georgetown. While serving with the FBI he had been attached to the Explosives Division.
'Well, you haven't lost your touch,' he said aloud.
He used his remote-control device to open the door of the garage located under his house. Having parked the car, he came out, closed the door, mounted the steps to his front door. In the house opposite a woman looked out of her first-floor window, saw him climbing the steps. She was not surprised – her neighbour, security officer for some large international bank, often spent long periods away from home. She left the window to go downstairs.
Norton held his front door key in his hand when he got to the stoop. He inserted the key in the lock, frowned when it seemed difficult to turn. For once Norton's nose for danger deserted him – his mind was on what he had achieved out at Andrews. He turned the key and shards of the fragmenting front door pierced his body. The force of the explosion was so great it hurled his mangled body straight across the road. Peering down out of her shattered window, the woman opposite saw Norton's crumpled form lying on her own stoop.
54
Tweed never did keep his appointment to meet Senator Wingfield. He heard the news of the President's plane blowing up soon after take-off from a bell-boy in his hotel, saw it on television with Newman, Paula and Barton Ives in his hotel room.
Time to leave America while we're still alive,' he said, using remote control to switch off the TV. 'You'd best come with us, Ives.'
'Reckon I had,' Ives agreed. 'They play rough over here – and I told you Wingfield was a patriot, a ruthless patriot. But can we make it? They could be coming for us now…'
'So we put into operation Plan Omega,' Tweed told him. 'Worked out in advance for just this situation by Bob Newman and Paula – although we never anticipated a resort to assassination. Ives, you just stick with us and remember from now on your name is Chuck Kingsley when you check in at the airport.'
'Dulles?'
'No, not Dulles. That's a key part of Omega. I have to call Marler's room, let him know we're leaving within thirty minutes. No time to explain any more…'
They were driving by a devious route which could have taken them to Dulles Airport. Newman was at the wheel of the rented Lincoln, Tweed was beside him while Paula sat in the back next to Ives. They hadn't hit rush hour but there was traffic. Paula kept glancing back through the rear window.
'Those two black sedans which started tailing us as soon as we left the hotel are still there. With a lot of men inside I don't like the look of.'
'Can you see the three Chevrolets?' Tweed asked Newman.
'Yes, they're coming up behind us now, appeared out of side streets. Marler in the green Chevy, Butler in the white, Nield in the brown Chevy. Marler checked the map of the city with care, decided where they'd make their play. Any moment now those characters in their black sedans are in for a shock…'
The leading black sedan was driven by an ugly bald-headed thug, surprisingly nicknamed Baldy. He had three armed men as passengers and the twin sedan behind him carried four more armed men. As they arrived close to a complex intersection Baldy saw Newman suddenly turn right. He was about to follow when a green Chevrolet swung in front of him, stopped as its engine stalled. Baldy swore and braked so abruptly the sedan behind rammed him.
'Get off the friggin' road,' Baldy yelled as Marler got out of his car, strolled back to him.
'I say, old chap,' Marler drawled. 'Awfully sorry and all that. The old engine stalled, couldn't help stopping. These Yank chariots aren't much cop.'
'I said get off…'
Baldy broke off as a white Chevrolet stopped alongside and Butler got out, shaking his fist, shouting at the top of his voice.
'You want to learn to drive, buddy. Now we've missed the goddam lights…'
In his rear-view mirror Baldy saw a brown Chevrolet stopped behind the second sedan so his back-up couldn't move. What the hell was going on? Marler strolled back to his car while Butler continued shouting. After two attempts Marler let the engine start, waved his hand over his shoulder, drove on. Baldy rammed his foot down to catch the green lights, turned right, saw no sign of Newman's Lincoln.
'We'll catch the bastards at Dulles,' he informed his passengers. 'We know they booked aboard the London flight…'
Still working to the Omega Plan, Newman drove to a Hertz office near a cab rank. He was handing in the Lincoln when Marler, Butler and Nield arrived to hand in their rented cars. Two cabs took them to the railway station where they caught the Metroliner to New York.
'How did you work that one?' Ives asked Tweed as the train sped through the afternoon. 'We were dead ducks.'
'A small precaution. Paula has booked us in our own names on two flights out of Dulles Airport from Washington to London. Also in our own names she's booked us on two more flights from New York to London – in case they check. In fact, we'll be aboard a British Airways flight leaving Kennedy at 7p.m. Seats all booked in assumed names. We use our false passports made in the Engine Room – so that's why you're Chuck Kingsley.'
'What made you foresee we might be targets?'
'We know about the six serial murders. Above all, Wingfield knows we've seen the film which could destroy America's reputation. So all witnesses have to be eliminated. 'I realized that as soon as I heard Bradford March's plane had been blown up. It gave me the measure of Wingfield's ruthlessness – something I couldn't be sure of beforehand.'
'And those three different-coloured Chevies?'
'Newman sent a radio message renting them, plus the Lincoln. He specified the colours to make it easy for him to spot the cars if an emergency arose. It did.'
'What are you going to do?' Paula asked Ives.
'Stay in Europe, I guess. To stay alive. Rather like my new monicker, Chuck Kingsley. Think I'll keep it. And the way things are developing in the world I guess I'll build up a security agency. I'm sure you folks will be glad to
