the night at St Mawgan?'
'Yes. The Falcon Inn only has four rooms but we will cope somehow.'
'One for you,' Newman said, 'one for Paula. I'll share with Cardon and Butler and Nield won't mind sharing the other. It's a nice place, the Falcon, Paula, and just about the most difficult place on earth to find.'
'The latter being the main reason why you chose it?' Paula asked Tweed over her shoulder.
'Partly,' he said and relapsed into silence.
Paula guided them to the right on to the A39, another good wide road, and they drove on through the night, meeting no other traffic, the wind still hammering the car. Later she guided them off the A39 with a fresh right turn on to the Newquay road, the A3059. She soon warned Newman they had to keep a lookout for a side road. It was Tweed who spotted the turning.
'Right here,' he called out. 'We're getting close now to where we turn off yet again…'
Paula was conscious they were getting into very remote country. They drove down a steep narrow winding hill and Tweed warned Newman to crawl. He then completed answering Paula's question.
'St Mawgan is close to what is called Newquay Airport. We are booked to catch the 11.05 flight to Heathrow. It arrives at 12.15 p.m. During one of my visits to that phone box I called this airport, booked our seats in our own names.'
'Was that wise?' Paula ventured.
'It was deliberate. I am leaving a trail for the enemy to follow. I want him out in the open, where I can see him, identify him – and deal with him,' Tweed concluded grimly.
At St Mawgan it was nine o'clock at night. In Washington it was four in the afternoon as Jeb Galloway, Vice President, paced slowly round his office while his aide waited for him to speak.
'I'm secretly in touch with someone in Europe to find out what the hell is going on, Sam,' Galloway said eventually. 'The difficulty was to find someone I could totally trust, but I think I found the man.'
Galloway, forty-five years old, was six feet tall and heavily built. Clean-shaven, with fair hair, he was dressed immaculately in a blue Brooks Brothers business suit. Strong-featured, he had a long nose, grey eyes and a determined mouth and well-shaped jaw.
'That could be dangerous, sir,' Sam suggested. 'You've sent this emissary to Europe on a secret mission without the President's knowledge?'
'He was there already. He contacted me. I've also had a talk with a top gun in the establishment. He also approached me. He's as worried as I am about the mounting world crisis. And March doesn't give a damn.'
'Isn't this possibly a catastrophic move?' Sam persisted.
'If Brad March ever finds out he'll close all doors to you.'
Galloway smiled wryly, a smile which had made him very popular. It was the smile of a man of integrity and conviction. He waved a large hand as he went on.
'All doors are closed to me now. March doesn't tell me a thing that matters. And I've heard a whisper that he's assembled a secret paramilitary force, his own Praetorian Guard – like a Julius Caesar.'
'Whispers! Sounds like a load of crap. March wouldn't do thatit's against the Constitution.'
'Brad isn't too hot on obeying the Constitution – if some overt move helps him to increase his power.'
'Who are you in contact with in Europe?' Sam asked.
Sam was a short plump man of fifty-eight. He'd had experience of serving under more than one president, knew the pitfalls of the Washington power game. Galloway mentioned a name. Sam looked dubious.
'Wouldn't play poker with that guy. I heard he had to flee to Europe overnight. Some mysterious investigation his new boss in Memphis chopped. That guy is trouble.'
'I'm still keeping in touch. Rare type, Sam – an honest man.'
The Falcon Inn at St Mawgan was a compact building of old grey stone. It stood on the edge of the lane at the very bottom of the steep winding hill. Newman drove the Merc. slowly past it, turned right down a narrow lane alongside the inn.
The car park is a little way from the Falcon,' he explained to Paula. 'Hidden well away behind it.'
His headlights swept over a small village shop, swung to the right. They shone down an even narrower track with ramps.
'This is a pretty lonely spot,' Paula commented.
They had reached a dead end, a forest-shrouded bowl which was the car park. No other vehicles were parked. Behind them Cardon followed in the Escort while Butler and Nield brought up the rear end of their small cavalcade in the Sierra. Newman had switched off his engine but he left on the headlights so Tweed and Paula, climbing out of the car, could see. Paula adjusted her shoulder-bag as she stood in the bitter cold, staring round at the bowl overhung with dense trees rising up slopes.
'Don't like this,' she said. 'It's creepy. And anyone could tamper with the cars while we're asleep in the Falcon.'
'You have a point there,' Tweed agreed. He looked at Butler, Nield and Cardon who had joined them. 'I think we ought to organize a roster among us so someone is always here to guard the cars.'
'You and Paula can get your beauty sleep,' Newman decided. The four of us will take it in turn through the night to sit in the Merc.'
'I've got a better idea,' suggested Butler. The four of us split into twos. I take the Sierra back, park it out front of the inn. That way we have the back and the front under surveillance.'
'Agreed,' said Tweed. 'Now let's go and see what we can get for dinner…'
It was the middle of the night when Butler, slumped behind the wheel of the Sierra parked outside the Falcon, heard a car approaching down the steep hill. He sat up, took a bottle of beer he'd kept for the purpose, swilled some round in his mouth, spat it out of the window he'd opened. Newman was taking his duty stretch in the Merc, in the park behind the inn where he could also keep an eye on the Escort. In the wing mirror Butler saw the headlights of the oncoming car dip. When it stopped close to him he saw it was a cream Chevrolet. He recognized the driver as soon as he stepped out and came over.
It was the big American with dark brows which almost met across his boxer's nose. The American who'd tried to pick a quarrel with Newman in the bar at the Metropole in Padstow.. Butler had seen the Yank as he slipped past the bar entrance on his way with the others to the elevator. But the Yank had not seen him.
'You been here long, buddy?' the American asked.
'Hours. What's it to you? I had a skinful back in the inn and I'm not risking getting caught by a patrol car. So you have a problem, mister?'
'Maybe my approach was wrong.'
'So, we've got that settled. You lost?'
'You know the area?'
The American was eyeing Butler carefully. He leaned inside the window. Butler chose that moment to manufacture a large belch. Beer fumes assailed the American's nostrils. His brutal face showed distaste.
'I asked you a question.'
'I know the area. And I asked you a question, mate.'
'You been here long?' the American persisted.
'I told you. Something wrong with your memory?' Butler snapped.
'Sorry. Wrong approach again. It's a friggin' cold night. I'm looking for a Mercedes 280E. Blue colour. Seen a car like that around here?'
'No.'
'Sure?' the American persisted further.
There you go again. Asking the question I've answered. And you still haven't answered mine. You lost or something?'
'My pal and I – the one in the Merc. – were going to meet with each other. I've lost the note he gave me of the name of the hick place he said he'd wait.'
'I was right, mate,' Butler jeered. 'You are lost.'
'How do I get out of this dump?'
'This is a very small and attractive village. You piss off out of it by driving straight on. Get it?'
The American gave him a savage look, walked back to his Chevrolet, clashed the gears and gunned the motor as he drove off, not giving a damn how many people he woke in the middle of the night.
