word,
'I'm talking about Jeb Galloway, now Vice President of the United States.'
There was a hush in the room. Tweed walked across to the closed curtains, opened them a little, peered out. It had begun to drizzle and the street had a sweaty look. He went back to his chair, sat down and stared at Barton Ives.
'Are you sure about this?' he asked.
'Positive,' Ives snapped.
'I understood Galloway came from the Philadelphia area in the north-east.'
'He does.' Ives smiled bitterly. 'Which was why Bradford March, who is a Southerner, had him on the ticket for the election as running mate. Galloway was able to deliver New York, Pennsylvania and other key states.'
'So what was Galloway's connection with the Southern states where you carried out your investigation?'
'Quite a few years ago Galloway moved his electronics outfit to Phoenix, Arizona. It was the trend. The climate in Arizona was unpolluted, the unions hadn't the tight grip they exercised in the North. The money- laundering operation was controlled from that outfit in Phoenix.'
'And you say this money ended up…'
'In Bradford March's war chest to fight the election. I doubt he knew it was stolen money. What politician enquires too closely the origin of desperately needed funds for a presidential election?'
'And the ten witnesses who disappeared?'
'Were murdered,' Ives corrected. 'Any one of them could have testified to the illegality of the operation. Most of them were married, had families. I even had a witness who saw a woman I'd interviewed dragged into a car late at night. Neither was ever seen again. I was closing in on Galloway when the election took place. That was when I found myself dodging bullets.'
'You mean that literally?'
'I do,' Ives assured him. 'I'd driven back to Memphis to report my findings to my chief, Murcall. I found Murcall had been replaced by a guy I didn't know called Foley. He told me to close my investigation. Orders from Washington. That was just after the election
'You mentioned bullets,' Tweed reminded him.
'Goddamnit! Let me finish my story. It was night. On my way home to my apartment from FBI HQ a red Caddy was following me. In a quiet street it drew alongside. I ducked just in time – they machine-gunned my car. When I got to my apartment a guy slipped into the elevator with me. I shoved my gun into his side, searched him, found he had an automatic. He tried to grab it and I hit him on the head. That was when I packed and took off for the airport.'
'And flew here?' Tweed enquired. 'Why?'
'Switzerland seemed a safe place, but they followed me. Don't ask me how. I'm pretty good at spotting tails. But Galloway has plenty of money. He's used it to hire a lot of people to come after me-'
Ives broke off as the phone rang. Tweed jumped up, answered it.
'Sorry to bother you,' Butler's voice said quickly. 'But I think you'd better come to my room pretty damn fast.'
'I'll come down and collect it.' Tweed turned to face the others. 'There's someone arrived downstairs I must see. But they'd better not see you, Ives. I may be a little while.'
'I'd like to visit the bathroom,' Ives said.
'Certainly,' Newman agreed. 'But I'm coming with you -for protection after what you've told us…'
Tweed waited until the door had closed and he was alone with Paula.
'That was Butler,' he whispered.' Could be bad news. I want you to have your Browning in your hand the whole time I'm away. Anyone knocks on the door after I've gone – don't answer it. When I get back I'll rap on the door like this…' He beat a short tattoo on the top of a desk.
'Is it closing in on us?' Paula asked calmly. 'Maybe since we have Barton Ives.'
'It could be, Hear…'
Afterwards, Tweed was never sure what instinct had made him grab hold of his raincoat before he hurried to Butler's room. He knocked on the door, which was opened a few inches. Butler peered out, swung the door wide open and closed and locked it the moment Tweed was inside. In his right hand he held his Walther.
The room was in darkness. Tweed remained quite still as Butler touched his arm.
'I'll guide you over to the window. Then I'll open the curtains a fraction. You won't like what you see…'
Arriving at the window, Butler pulled open the curtains a few inches. Tweed peered down into Bahnhofstrasse. It was still drizzling, a fine veil which blurred the street lamps. Tweed counted four men standing in the rain and all wore American-style trench coats.
'I see them,'he said grimly.
'There are more,' Butler warned him. 'Pete spotted them first from his window. We count ten men leaning against tree trunks, walls, just inside shop doorways. We are surrounded.'
'So we are.' Tweed mused in the dark. 'We do have in our room a fugitive from the States they've attempted to kill at least twice.'
'I'd like to do something about this,' Butler said. 'We are surrounded,' he repeated.
'Perhaps not. Get your coat on, Harry. I have a phone call to make. From Shopville.'
They'll see you come out. They could be waiting for you.'
'We may not be as surrounded as you think. Ready? Good. There's an exit they may well not know about. A single door leading direct into the Hummer Bar – well away from the main entrance…'
Tweed was proved right. No one waited in the deserted side-street beyond the door leading from the Hummer Bar. They descended into Shopville, Tweed walked into the first empty phone cubicle, dialled Beck's private number at his Berne HQ. The Swiss answered the phone at once.
'Beck…'
'Arthur, Tweed here…'
'There has been a lot of violence in Zurich since I left-'
'I know,' Tweed interrupted him. Talk about that later – an emergency has arisen…'
'Details?'Beck demanded.
'The Gotthard, where we are staying, is practically besieged by ten Americans standing in the drizzle. Wearing belted trench coats, leaning against trees, walls. It may be because someone new has arrived, but I'm not sure about that.'
'They saw you leave?'
'No, they've missed the side-door exit from the Hummer Bar. I'm talking from a Shopville phone.'
'Bloody nerve!' Beck prided himself on his command of the English language. 'I've had enough of them. Fortunately Zurich police HQ is close to the Gotthard. They'll find themselves moved pretty damned quick, and their so-called diplomatic passports won't help them. That's it? Right. I'm calling Zurich now…'
Tweed and Butler returned the way they had come, entering the hotel via the Hummer Bar. They heard the sound of police car sirens before they'd closed the side door. Tweed thanked Butler, went up to his room. When Newman opened the door Ives was standing at the window, peering through a crack in the curtain. Paula sat a distance away, gun in her hand.
'That's sorted out,' Tweed announced. 'So we'll all have a decent meal in the Hummer Bar restaurant…'
A patrol car full of uniformed police stopped in a side street just off Bahnhofstrasse. A lieutenant, followed by his men, ran into Bahnhofstrasse, paused, glanced round. The lieutenant unbuttoned the flap of his holster before he approached a tall, heavily built man wearing a coat and a slouch hat, brim pulled well down against the persistent drizzle. Uniformed police from other patrol cars were flooding into the street.
'You can't stand loitering here,' the police officer told the man. 'We've had a complaint from a Swiss woman – she's frightened to walk along here.'
'Don't ruffle the feathers, buddy,' the man replied with a pronounced American accent. 'I'm a diplomat. You can't touch me.'
He reached inside his pocket, the officer whipped out his gun.
'No call to get nervy,' the American continued. 'I'm showing you my passport.'
The officer flipped open the folder, closed it, handed it back.
'We're not convinced those are genuine. Where are you staying?'
