Norton would make a list of everyone his unit had reported as having been seen with Tweed. One of those names on that list had to be Growly Voice.
When Bradford March had put down the phone he clasped his hands behind his bull neck and stared at the marble fireplace on the opposite wall without seeing it. He was in a vicious rage.
The blackmailer was playing games with him – with Norton, too. This constant switching of locations from one Swiss city to another – and now he'd moved the whole operation to France. Norton, persuaded to 'resign' from the FBI because the Director hadn't liked his tough, ruthless ways, was being led around by the nose. Growly Voice was running circles round him.
March looked up as Sara entered the Oval Office. He didn't like her expression.
'Very bad news, boss. Just heard about it.'
'Heard about what?'
'Harmer. Who gave you that large sum of money, then said he needed it back to pay off a bank loan. I guess he sure did.'
'What the hell are you talking about? Give, Sara.'
'Harmer committed suicide a few hours ago. Took a load of sleeping pills, then drank a lot of bourbon.'
'So.' March spread his hands, exposing their hairy backs. 'Problem solved.'
'If you say so.'
'Are you hinting he left a note?'
'For his wife, yes, he did.'
March leaned forward. 'C'mon. We'd better find out what he said in that note.'
'I know. I rang his wife to offer my sympathies. I also said you were shocked and sent your deepest sympathies.'
'Great. Don't have to write my own dialogue with you to do it for me. Just a moment. What did the note say?'
'The usual thing. He was so sorry, he loved her dearly, but the pressure of his responsibilities had proved too big a burden. She read it out to me over the phone before she broke down in a flood of tears.'
'Bye-bye Mr Harmer. It happens. All is well.'
'I hope so. I do hope so, Brad. For your sake.'
The Three Wise Men were assembled in Senator Wingfield's study. Again the curtains were closed, concealing the grounds of the estate. The lights were on. The banker and the elder statesman had been called urgently to the Chevy Chase mansion by Wingfield, who looked grim. He stared round the table at his guests.
'I am sorry to summon you here at such short notice, but the situation inside the Oval Office is not improving.'
'I heard about Harmer's suicide,' the banker commented. 'That's a big loss to the party. He not only contributed generously himself – more important still, he was a genius at fund-raising.'
'Let's face it,' said the elder statesman, gazing at the Senator through his horn-rimmed glasses, 'politics is a mobile situation. Harmer must have managed his affairs badly. He's replaceable.'
'I have a personal letter from Harmer,' Wingfield informed them. There was an edge to his cultured accent. 'I know the real reason why Harmer took his life. Read that…'
He tossed a folded sheet of high-quality notepaper on the table. The statesman read it first before handing it on to the banker.
Dear Charles: By the time you read this I'll have gone to a better place. I hope. Bradford March asked me to loan him fifteen million dollars. Don't know what this large sum was for. I did so. When I wanted it back to repay a bank loan on demand he refused to speak to me. Sara Maranoff phoned his message. The money was no longer available. Go to hell was the real message. Maybe I'm going there. Someone has to stop the President. Only The Three Wise Men have the clout.
'What could March have wanted that money for?' queried the banker.
'We'll probably never know,' the statesman told him. 'I hold the same view. It's not enough – for impeachment.'
'That letter could be passed to the Washington Post,' the banker suggested.
'Definitely not,' Wingfield said quietly. 'Ned, can't you imagine how March would play it? He'd get handwriting experts to prove it was a forgery. Then he'd rave on about a conspiracy – about how the three of us were trying to be the power behind the throne. Give him his due, he's a powerful orator. He'd destroy us. It's not enough for us to make a move.'
'Then what the hell is?' burst out the banker.
'Cool it,' the elder statesman advised. 'Politics is the art of the possible. I worked on that basis when I held the position I did under a previous president.'
'There's the business about him dismissing the Secret Service,' the banker continued, his anger unquenched. 'I understand he has a bunch of his own thugs guarding him now. Unit One, or some such outfit.'
'Which is the paramilitary force I told you about at an earlier meeting,' Senator Wingfield said quietly.
'It's against all tradition,' protested the banker.
'Bradford March is breaking a lot of traditions, Ned,' Wingfield reminded him. 'Which is another popular move in the present mood of the American electorate. We can only wait.'
'For what?' demanded the banker.
'For something far worse, Ned. Pray to God it doesn't surface…'
The tall figure of Jeb Galloway created distorted shadows on the walls of his office as he paced restlessly. Sam, his closest aide and friend, watched him, undid the jacket button constraining his ample stomach.
'Heard from your mystery man in Europe yet, Jeb?' he asked.
'Not a word. I think he's on the run.'
'Which means someone is running after him. Which means someone over there knows he exists. You're playing with fire. This gets back to March and he'll smear you for good. He's an expert. Part of how he got where he is. Trampling over other people's bodies. That's politics. March is the original cobra at the game.'
'There's no way anyone can connect my informant with me. And there's a safe way he can contact me – if he's still alive.'
'I think you should forget him, Jeb,' Sam warned.
'No. I have a duty. To the American people.'
Tweed was proved right when he passed through the Swiss, then the French, frontier controls at Basle station. The counters were deserted, the shutters closed; no one was on duty.
He boarded the Strasbourg express with Paula and found an empty first-class compartment. The whole train was nearly empty close to eleven in the morning. Behind them
Newman followed, the two Walthers belonging to Nield and Butler tucked inside his belt at the back. Cardon brought up the rear. At eleven precisely the express moved off.
'That conversation you had with Jennie Blade which you told me about,' began Paula, facing Tweed in a corner window seat. 'I've given it a lot of thought.'
'And your conclusion?'
'Jennie worries me. Has anyone except her seen this mysterious Shadow Man with the wide-brimmed hat? Has Gaunt?'
'It was the one question I forgot to ask him,' Tweed admitted. 'Although he didn't seem to take it seriously. Why?'
'Because if no one else has seen this Shadow Man how can we be sure he exists?'
'You've forgotten something,' Tweed reminded her. 'Old Nosy in Zurich gave us exactly the same description of a man who'd left the building shortly after Klara was garrotted.'
'Maybe Jennie was close by in the Altstadt when we were there. Saw a man like that leaving that building.'
'You're stretching supposition to breaking point.'
'Jennie was in Zurich at the time. We know that.'
'True.' Tweed sounded unconvinced.
'You know something?' Paula leaned forward. 'When a woman persists with trying to persuade a man of something he can eventually come to believe her.'
