'You've missed something,' Tweed snapped. 'Newman gave us a detailed description of that visit by Joel Dyson. What was inside his case?'
'Oh, I remember. Several lots of American clothes…
'Which strongly suggests he had just flown in from the States. Dyson spent most of his time operating over there although he's British. Found there were much more profitable pickings on the other side of the Atlantic. Go on. Next event.'
'That massive bomb parked outside Park Crescent which destroyed the whole building.'
'Just another bomb?' Tweed enquired.
'No. You told us Commander Crombie had said they'd found relics of the trigger device – that it wasn't the IRA. A more sophisticated device than he'd ever seen.'
'And,' Tweed reminded her, 'how many people know where SIS headquarters were located? What sort of profession? What sort of organization could arrange for the massacre at the manor which almost coincided with the bomb outrage in London?'
'A pretty big one.'
'An international one,' Tweed added.
'I still don't think the massacre and the London bomb are linked,' Paula said obstinately. 'There wasn't time.'
'What happened next?' Tweed continued.
'Celia Yeo, the servant girl I feel sure had signalled the arrival of Amberg's guests, was thrown off High Tor.'
'And then?'
'We arrived here. Gaunt turns up with Jennie Blade. While we're crossing to Rock – at Gaunt's suggestion – that powerboat tries to run us down. We check the house with no name and find the signalling lamp used to send coded messages you spotted from the cove. Then we find out the house with no name belongs to Gaunt. Finally, that helicopter appears to search for us.'
'Not finally yet,' Tweed observed. 'What happens when we get back to the hotel this evening?'
'Oh, those two Americans who've been asking for you try to incite Bob into a free-for-all.'
'Now go back a year or two. To Zurich.'
'I'm not with you…'
Tweed,' Newman intervened, 'is referring to when I persuaded Joel Dyson to hand to Julius Amberg the compromising photos he'd taken of the banker – instead of selling them to the press.'
'I'd forgotten that for the moment,' Paula admitted. 'I do remember that Jim Corcoran at London Airport found out that Dyson flew to Zurich after he'd left the film and tape copies at Park Crescent. And he'd just been in America.'
'It begins to link up, doesn't it? Tweed summarized.
'Does it?' Paula frowned. 'I must be thick.'
'Not at all,' Tweed reassured her. 'It's simply that if I'm right the truth is so awesome, of such magnitude, it is difficult to grasp. We are in real peril here – so we are leaving tonight. Before dinner. We tell reception we've been called away on urgent business. Philip, Pete, Harry -pay your bills separately, including your rooms for tonight.'
'I'd better go pack. Won't take me long,' Paula said. 'But where are we going?'
'There's a small pub hotel at a place called St Mawgan out in the country near Newquay, further west. Newman and I stayed there overnight once when we were down here. I'll phone them from that infernal phone box. I'm beginning to feel I live inside that box.'
Newman jumped up, a newspaper tucked under his arm. 'I am off to pack my things and check out of the Old Custom House. I'll wait for you by the phone box.' He waved the paper. 'Still nothing in the press about the massacre on Bodmin Moor, which I find sinister. News is all about the States and President March not yet agreeing to back the PM over the crises in Europe and the Middle East. Without American co-operation we can't take strong measures, can't take any measures
…'
'Hurry, everyone,' Tweed urged. 'We want to get out of Padstow alive.'
13
President Bradford March sat sprawled in his swivel chair behind the antique desk in the Oval Office. His stance was, to say the least, inelegant. The chair was pushed well back from the desk and his stockinged feet rested on the surface, crossed at the ankles. He was looking out of the tall Georgian windows at Washington's Pennsylvania Avenue. The view was fuzzy due to the grey drizzle still falling. He turned back to face the only other occupant of the room, a woman.
'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?'
