'And you just missed getting a bullet in your gullet,' Butler said aloud.
He holstered the Walther he'd been holding in his lap under his windcheater. Checking his watch, he saw it was 3 a.m. Nield would be coming to take his turn while Cardon relieved Newman at any moment. He grabbed for his Walther again as a slim figure appeared next to his window. It was Nield.
'Time for your beauty sleep, Harry. Had a restful doze?'
Newquay Airport – several miles outside Newquay itself-was one of the bleakest departure points Paula had ever seen. Perched on a lonely plateau in the middle of nowhere, it was little more than a grassy field crossed by concrete runways. An eight-foot wire fence surrounded it and 'reception' was little more than a single-storey shed. They had found a place they could leave the cars and Tweed had reassured the attendant.
'It's a business trip and we might not be back for some time. All right to leave our cars?'
'At your own risk, guv'nor…'
Newman asked the girl behind the counter the question after they had checked in with their luggage when Tweed had collected and paid for the tickets.
'Yesterday a helicopter buzzed us as Padstow, nearly sank the boat we were in,' he lied smoothly. 'Does anyone ever hire choppers from here?'
'It happens occasionally, sir. Yesterday? I heard two Americans hired a machine for a few hours. It caused a bit of gossip – one of them had a British pilot's licence, which is unusual. And your flight is ready for departure…'
Newman exploded after they had all trudged across to the waiting machine with their luggage. It was a sizeable plane but he pointed at the nose.
' Look at those things!'
'They're propellers,' Tweed said quietly, knowing Newman disliked prop aircraft. 'It will fly, you know.'
'Yes, but will it get there? And we seem to be the only passengers for the 11.05 flight
The Brymon Airways aircraft was in mid-air before Paula looked down on the grey landscape. She was seated next to Tweed who stared ahead grimly.
'A penny for your thoughts. You've been very quiet since Harry Butler told us at breakfast about the reappearance of the American brute.'
'I'm worried and relieved at the same time,' Tweed admitted. 'Staggered that one of them should turn up at an out of the way place like St Mawgan. You realize what that means?'
'No, but you might tell me. I expect you will anyway.'
'For one to arrive in St Mawgan they must have an army of them combing Cornwall for us. '
That's the worry. What's the relief?'
'That I guessed right early on in this sequence of macabre and mass-murder campaigns against us. To operate on such a scale calls for an organization of enormous magnitude. With all this firepower against us the ultimate enemy can only be one source.'
'You're not going to tell me what it is, are you? Before you say it, I'm sure you need more data to be absolutely sure. But where are we going now? London could be a death-trap.'
'It would be exactly that,' Tweed agreed. 'Which is why we're flying on to the one safe haven.'
'I suppose I shouldn't ask where?' Paula remarked.
'Switzerland. Where we have a powerful friend.'
15
'Norton is on the private line, Brad,' said Sara Maranoff.
'OK. Put him through. Time that street bum got results.'
'Brad, Norton is the best we've got. Hold yourself in. I also have Ms Hamilton waiting to see you.'
Sara knew what Ms Hamilton was about. She glanced round the Oval Office, checked that there were plenty of cushions on the large couch stood against one wall. She waved her index finger at him, warning him to cool it with Norton.
The President often omitted to shave until the end of the morning. His jaw and upper lip would be covered with a black stubble. But this morning he was freshly shaved, wore a smart blue suit with a crisp clean shirt and a tie. Ms Hamilton, Sara thought. Had to be at his best for her.
'I'll leave you to take your call,' she said.
Alone, March pushed back his chair, planted his feet on the desk top, crossed his ankles. He picked up the phone kept in a drawer.
'That you?' he barked.
'Norton here. I need those reinforcements…'
'They're aboard United flight 918 flying non-stop to London. Over the Atlantic as I speak with you. That's all the rest of Unit One we had in reserve here. Marvin Mencken is in charge.'
'That barracuda
'He's the best…' March remembered Sara's warning.
'I mean the best next to you. Now where are we with this goddamn problem? Where is Joel Dyson? Where is Special Agent' – his tone was savagely sarcastic – 'Barton Ives? Give.'
In Zurich
'You've traced those bastards? Well, well. Miracles still happen. They're six feet under the ground now?'
'Not exactly. Not yet…'
'Don't give me no smoke, Norton. You sittin' on your thumbs out there? What the hell is the position?'
'We know both men are in Zurich. They've been seen but they disappeared again. Temporarily…
Temporarily is too long. What about the CIA shyster – Cord Dillon?'
'No sign of him yet, but we'll track him. An operation like this doesn't happen overnight.'
'I want all three of them put away for good. Norton, your head is on the block. There's always Mencken…'
March slammed down the phone, inserted a thick finger inside his neckband, loosened it. The phone rang again as he stood up to go to the door. He snatched it up.
'Yes?'
'Norton here. We got disconnected. I'm handling this my way. I'll be meeting Mencken's flight at London Airport. I'm flying to Zurich to take personal charge. How many reinforcements are aboard that flight? I need specific information.' A brief pause. 'Mr President.'
'Forty men. With what you've got you should be able to check everyone in Switzerland.'
'I said I'd handle this my way…
The line went dead. March stared at the phone. Norton had had the balls to hang up on him. He remembered what Sara had said. Norton is the best. So maybe he was.
He checked his appearance in a mirror, went to the door, opened it, beaming his famous smile. The elegant blonde woman waiting on a seat outside returned the smile, walked in, he closed and locked the door. Taking her by the arm he led her to the couch, turned her round, lowered her gently.
'You've got too many clothes on, Glen. I'll start by undoing this top button…'
Swissair flight SR 803 had departed from London on schedule, taking off for Zurich at 13.50 hours. Tweed and his team were aboard in first class and had that section to themselves. One of the advantages of flying in February.
The Brymon Airways flight from Newquay Airport had arrived on time at London at 12.15 p.m. Tweed had collected and paid for the tickets by calling on Jim Corcoran. He had then had a tough conversation with Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan when he phoned him at the Yard.
'Where are you?' Buchanan had snapped.
'My whereabouts are not important. I see there has been not a single report of the massacre at Tresillian Manor in the press. Nine corpses and the press isn't interested? I suspect a 'D' notice has been issued to the press. What excuse was used this time? A matter of national security?'
'This is a major anti-terrorist operation, Tweed. Which is all you're getting out of me. And there were ten
