The Power Read Free

'Actually he's in Paris. Expected back any time now.'
    'He's like a dragonfly,' Newman commented. 'Zig zagging all over the place. I think he likes travel.'
    'You're one to talk,' she chaffed him. 'As a foreign correspondent you've been everywhere—-'
    She broke off as the phone rang. It was George, the ex-Army man who acted as door-keeper and guard down stairs. Monica frowned, looked at Newman, said 'Who?' for the second time. 'Tell him to wait - and keep a close eye on him.'
    'Someone for you,' she said as she put down the phone. 'A man called Joel Dyson. Says it's desperately urgent he sees you at once.'
    'Joel Dyson? How the devil did he know I was here? He used to be one of my journalist informants. Nowadays he has sunk to the level of one of the paparazzi. Takes pics of so-called celebrities - married - enjoying a tumble with the wrong woman. Sells them to the press for huge sums. I suppose I'd better see him, but not up here.'
    'The waiting-room,' Monica decided. She phoned George to give him instructions. Newman said he'd like her to come with him as a witness. 'I'll bring my notebook, then,' she replied.
    Facing George's desk, the waiting-room was a bleak bare room with scrubbed floorboards, a wooden table and several hard-backed chairs. It was not designed to encourage visitors to linger.
    Monica was surprised at how smartly Joel Dyson was dressed. While driving down through California he had stopped at a motel, hired a room, stripped off his duffle coat, denims and open-necked shirt. Substituting from his bag an American business suit, a Brooks Brothers shirt and tie, a vicuna coat, he had then slipped away from the motel unseen by the proprietor, his room already paid for the night.
    A small slim man, in his thirties, he had a plump face with pouched lips, a receding chin and an ingratiating smile. Monica instantly mistrusted him. Her second sur prise was his voice. He spoke with an upper-crust English accent. Joel could switch from convincing American to equally acceptable English with ease. He had, in fact, British nationality.
    'How the devil did you find me here?' Newman demanded.
    'No need to get stroppy. Called at your apartment. You do have a nice taste in blonde companions. She said you'd be here.'
    Molly! Newman groaned inwardly. He was on the verge of gently ending the friendship - she was quickly showing signs that she expected him to take her seriously. Now he'd have to speed up the process of disengagement.
    'Didn't know you were mixed up with insurance,' Joel went on cheerfully. 'Come to think of it, what an ideal set-up to learn people's dark secrets.'
    He had been fooled by the brass plate outside which was engraved with General & Cumbria Assurance - the cover name for the SIS. Not asked to sit down, he was still standing.
    'What is it you want?' Newman snapped. 'I happen to be very busy.'
    'Insurance companies have top-security safes.' Dyson smirked at Monica who had sat down at the table and was making notes. She stared at him blankly, then dropped her eyes to the notebook. Which fazed Dyson not at all.
    'I have a tape and a film,' he went on, addressing Newman, 'and they're a bombshell. I'll keep the originals and you store the copies. In case anything happens to me.'
    'And what might happen to you?'
    Dyson waited until he'd slapped his case on the table, unlocked it, produced two canisters, which he slid across to Monica.
    'I may end up dead,' he said quietly.
    The seriousness of his tone, the abrupt change from his previous breezy manner intrigued Newman. He was half- inclined to believe Dyson, but still not fully convinced.
    'And who would want to kill the world's most popular paparazzo?' he enquired ironically.
    'Don't like that word. I'm a highly professional photo grapher, one of the best-if not the best. And I can't answer your question.'
    'Can't - or won't?' Newman snapped again.
    'Pass.'
    'Then get to hell out of here and take your junk with you.'
    The contents of those two canisters