'So you can't make the omelette without breakin' a few eggs,' March responded in a bored tone.
'I was going to say we could do with more manpower.'
'Would Mencken need more manpower? You didn't tell me – is Mencken still around?'
'Yes.'
'I can't spare more manpower. I need what I have left here in Washington. Certain guys have to be clamped down on. You said earlier Tweed got lucky,' March recalled, building up to bait Norton some more. 'I'd say he got smart as he's still around.' A pause. 'I don't hear no denial of that. I gave you a time limit, Norton. Time's almost up. I want the film, the tape. I want Tweed, Joel Dyson, Cord Dillon and Barton Ives dumped. For ever. Get on it.
The connection to Washington had gone. Norton slowly put down the receiver and didn't even bother to swear. Ouchy was going to be a blood bath.
Inside his study at his Chevy Chase house Senator Wingfield looked round at his two guests seated at the round table with a cold expression. His guests, the banker and the elder statesman, watched him closely, realizing there had been a very serious development.
The Senator had summoned them to attend a meeting of the Three Wise Men urgently at short notice. It was not this factor which caused them to sense the atmosphere of tension inside the comfortable room. Wingfield normally had the appearance of a benevolent father figure, He rarely showed any emotion and it was the grimness of his aristocratic features which held their attention.
'Gentlemen,' Wingfield began, 'I have just received this highly confidential communication from the Vice President. Jeb Galloway has received the report I have inside this folder by special delivery from Europe. It makes incredible reading – I just hope its author is insane.'
'But do you think he is? Insane?' the statesman enquired.
'If he isn't – and I have a horrible idea he's as sane as any man round this table – our country faces the most serious crisis of this century.'
'You know who the report is from?' asked the banker.
'Yes. A special agent of the FBI. A man called Barton Ives.' He extracted the typed sheets from the folder, handed them to the banker. 'Judge for yourselves.'
'These documents allege this Barton Ives knows who is responsible for a number of particularly beastly serial murders in several Southern states,' the banker, who was a fast reader, commented in a shaky voice after a few minutes. 'Each involves the murder of a woman by cutting her throat – after rape had been committed, according to the medical examiner's report in the state concerned. All the murders have remained unsolved, even though they took place several years ago. It's beyond belief.'
'What is?' demanded the statesman as the banker handed him the documents.
'The man he names as the perpetrator of these vile crimes. Not only was the throat of each victim cut with a serrated knife – a kitchen knife is suggested – but similar sadistic mutilations were found on each corpse.'
'Who is this Barton Ives?' the statesman persisted before examining the documents. 'I seem to have heard the name.'
'A very senior agent of the FBI,' Wingfield said reluctantly. 'I made discreet enquiries before I called you. Ives was in charge of the investigation linking all six murders. He was about to prepare a comprehensive report when his superior at the Memphis office was posted to Seattle. The new man ordered Ives to discontinue the investigation and destroy the files. He was sent to Memphis on direct orders from Washington. Ives alleges he had to flee to Europe to save his life. My enquiries back up this strange sequence of events.'
There was a heavy silence as the statesman skimmed through the reports. He held each page at the edges between his fingertips, leaving no prints of his own. Dropping the last sheet back inside the folder, he used his elbow to push the folder back to Wingfield across the polished table.
'There is mention of a thumbprint being found on the side of a Lincoln Continental belonging to the sixth raped and murdered woman,' he pointed out. 'Barton Ives says he has that thumbprint and it still exists on the car. So where the hell is the car?'
'I enquired about that,' Wingfield told him. 'Before he left Memphis on his flight to Europe Ives hid the car somewhere. Difficult to achieve – considering the size of the car – but Ives has a wealth of experience. You see, he says he is the only one who knows its location.'
'Well,' said the statesman, 'we've had every kind of corrupt president, quite apart from Watergate. Presidents with mistresses – common enough. Some with illegitimate children. Others who've walked into the Oval Office with little more than the clothes they stood up in. By the time they stepped down from the presidency they were millionaires. So, I suppose one day – in this age of exceptional violence – we should have expected something like this.'
' If it's true, he can't stay untouched in the Oval Office,' the Senator said with great force.
'But you haven't enough evidence there to do anything,' the statesman objected.
'So I need this Barton Ives in this room so we can grill him. I think I'll have a word with the Veep.'
'Is Barton Ives Jeb Galloway's man?' enquired the banker.
'I didn't say that, did I?' Wingfield replied cautiously.
'And how would you handle it if all this grim business concerning six serial murders proved true?' demanded the statesman in his direct way. 'Impeachment?'
'We can't have the nation's name dragged through the mud. That's the only certainty I know now,' the Senator replied. 'As to how we'd handle it – I suggest we adjourn this meeting, tell no one of our suspicions, and await events…'
Bradford March was drinking beer out of an upended bottle when Sara answered his summons. She waited while he wiped the back of a hairy hand across his mouth.
'I hear strong rumours that the Holy Trinity are meeting more frequently,' he remarked. 'Don't like it.'
This was the President's irreverent way of referring to the Three Wise Men. He pouched his lips, stared at Sara. She realized he expected a reaction.
'So we do something about it? Is that what you're saying? If so, how do we hack it? We could be dealing with a load of dynamite. Those three may be old dinosaurs but they sure as hell carry plenty of clout. Back off, Brad.'
'Sometimes, Sara, your advice is good, very good.' March leaned back in his chair, nursing the beer bottle. 'And sometimes it's lousy, real lousy. This is one of those times.'
'It's your' – she had been going to say 'funeral' but hastily changed the word – 'decision. Just tell me.'
'I want three guys from Unit One – each in his own car -to follow the senator, the statesman and the banker night and day. Draw up a duty roster so they get relieved, stay fresh, on the job. I want daily reports of every person the Holy Trinity bums contact.' His head tilted up, he stared at her hard. 'Why not get started now?'
Sara moved fast on her new mission. Inside an hour the three chosen watchers from Unit One were stationed near Senator Wingfield's house in Chevy Chase. Sara had just heard rumours of a meeting taking place there.
The watchers arrived exactly thirty minutes too late. The two limousines had already called at the house, had picked up and driven away their illustrious passengers.
48
Seated by himself at a table in the Brasserie, Jason, the American with a head and a face like a bulldog, wore his padded windcheater despite the warmth of the restaurant. He had to – in the shoulder holster under his left armpit nestled a Luger.
As he sat drinking beer and piling omelette into his wide mouth he congratulated himself on his luck. His main target – selected by Mencken himself – was sitting facing him with a couple of good-looking chicks and a harmless young guy who couldn't be a day over thirty.
Between shovelling mouthfuls of omelette into his maw he took another look at Paula and Jennie. The target
