Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  Pushing one boot against the wall he started to hoist himself up. The cord was too thin to grip properly. He wound it around his hand until his arm was outstretched upwards. Placing his feet against the rock, he tried to haul himself up again. The cord bit into his hand through the protective glove. Sweat poured down his face. His arms felt as though they were being pulled from their sockets by the dead weight of his body. If only he could get another foot higher he could grab a piece of scrub and haul himself onto the ledge.

  With almost superhuman effort he managed to pull himself to the top. He scanned the area for any sign of the guards. It was eerily quiet; too quiet. Dropping to the ground on the other side he stopped dead, expecting a volley of shots. He scanned the rock face searching for concealed cameras. A faint beam of an infrared light either side caught his attention. That’s how they keep out intruders, he thought.

  It was then he realised that there was something peculiar about the wall. He gave it a gentle tap. It sounded vaguely hollow. So that’s it. It’s not real stone. It was artificial like the boulders they used on fairground attractions and in films. An outer layer to conceal the steel door behind it.

  Keeping low, he moved to the left away from the beam. It was much steeper, strewn with loose shale, sparse shrubs and craggy rocks. When he was certain he was far enough away, he scrambled down the mountain, slipping and sliding on his backside.

  Suddenly, a gunshot cracked the air. The bullet pinged off a rock a few feet away, quickly followed by a volley of shots. Ducking down, he kept on running headlong down the steep slope until he knew he was out of range. He slumped to the ground, under cover of an overhanging rock, panting like an overheated dog.

  It was another two hours before he reached the aerial cable car at Berg. Passengers watched its slow descent from the Piz Gloria. Most of them were waiting to go back down to Mürren where they could catch a train back to Grütschalp or a cable car to Stechelberg. Excited American students, backpacks crammed full of equipment, middle-aged, immaculately dressed Japanese tourists and serious walkers crowded round the station to board the last car of the day.

  When the cable car arrived they surged forward, anxious to secure a place by the windows where they could use their expensive cameras. Conrad pushed his way towards the corner to the right of the doors. From there he could see if he had been followed. Taking out his binoculars, he scanned the mountain for any sign of activity near the installation. From that distance it just looked like a ramshackle structure. The remains of the failed hotel. Nobody would guess what was really up there.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he slumped against the window trying to gather his thoughts. The Alps were stunningly beautiful. Late afternoon shadows moved across the mountain turning the snow-covered peaks bluish purple. Overhead, a white sun dazzled, glancing off rocks and trees glistening with snow. Conrad adjusted his snow glasses against the powerful glare, watching the peaks recede as they dropped lower.

  Suddenly, a movement caught his eye. Rising from the mountain, high above them, a black spot grew in his vision. Instead of receding it was getting bigger and bigger. An excited buzz filled the car.

  “Hey look, guys, there’s a whirlybird!” shouted one of the students. “He’s coming right at us!”

  A black Mosquito helicopter zoomed in and hovered about a hundred metres away from the wire. The figure in the passenger seat leaned out and pointed.

  “Who’s he pointing at?” he yelled. “He’s coming closer! Is he nuts?”

  Passengers looked around the car trying to work out the object of the man’s attentions.

  “His face is covered up. I wonder who they are?” piped a short woman. She looked like a miniature barrage balloon in her padded jacket. Wobbling slightly, she moved closer to the window and peered across at the man. “My God, I think he’s got a gun!”

  Conrad leaned nonchalantly against the window pretending to study a safety notice, but he was observing the helicopter. There was no doubt they were looking for him. Why hadn’t they polished him off when they had a chance? It didn’t make any sense. Suddenly, the helicopter swung away from the wire and headed back towards the mountain, casting a dark shadow on the snow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Interlaken, Bernese Oberland

  Conrad luxuriated in the warmth of the hot shower. He felt as though he had been kicked by a horse. His arms were covered with bruises, but the thick padding in his jacket had protected most of his upper body. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, he twisted and turned. No wonder his backside felt so tender. Both cheeks had bruises the size of saucers where he had been sliding over the rubble.

  Feeling refreshed, he headed for the bar where he had arranged to meet Ernst Dreher. He chose a corner seat against the back wall where he could watch the entrance. Five minutes later Dreher marched into the bar, a grim look on his face. Spotting Conrad, he manoeuvred his way through the tables and sat down.

  “You haven’t been answering your mobile all day. I thought you were in trouble,” he said accusingly.

  “I was,” Conrad replied. He signalled to the waiter. “Whisky, bitte. What about you, Ernst?”

  Dreher nodded. “Just a small one. I’m officially off duty, but the way things are going I could be called in. Now, tell me all about your trip.”

  “You’re not going to believe a word of it, but I swear it’s the truth.”

  He related all that had happened: the hidden installation, the masked Generalissimo, the Black Militia, their incredible plans.

  “They’re obviously using the internal skeleton of the old hotel for their activities.”

  Dreher looked sceptical. “It’s hard to believe. Perhaps the computer operator was pulling your leg: trying to impress who he thought was a lowly security guard. Some of these computer nerds are like that.”

  Conrad knew what he had seen. A covert operation hidden away in the Swiss Alps. All the major cities in the world were online preparing for what – an invasion? It was ludicrous! There was no way they could accumulate an army of that size. Besides they would need more than an army. They would need planes, ships, nuclear weapons. Perhaps that’s it. They could be working with a foreign power; one that had secretly stockpiled weapons of mass destruction. His imagination was running wild with possibilities. Think rationally, he told himself. Any suspicion of stockpiling and NATO would have inspectors in there straight away. Besides, it would be tit for tat – Armageddon.

  Chemical weapons would be far more feasible; poison in the water system or the air. It has to be something that would give them control without destroying the infrastructure of the cities. He had to find out more before it was too late.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Shrewsbury, Shropshire

  Wallace weaved his way in and out of the lanes of traffic. He gritted his teeth with exasperation. The one-way system was a damned nuisance at times. Pedestrians took their lives in their hands, darting in front of vehicles with inches to spare. When he reached Pride Hill it was already crowded with early shoppers and tourists. Slowly, he trailed the traffic down Wyle Cop towards the abbey and English Bridge.

  His trip to the cottage in Oswestry the day before hadn’t turned up anything new. Nor had they discovered anything more about the armbands. Extensive enquiries, web searches and local shops had failed to produce anyone who manufactured or sold them. The only other clue was the tiny fabric sample found under Joanne Howard’s nails. The shop in Shrewsbury bought in the material from Europe for a few select clients. Dreher had traced the same fabric to a high-class tailor in Paris whose clientele were the rich and famous. Other than that it didn’t give them much to go on.

  He was about to go into his makeshift office next to the incident room when Butler waylaid him.

  “Sir, we’ve got another lead from traffic. PC Davies was on duty not far from Oswestry when the roads were flooded. Diverting traffic away from the area onto country lanes. He pulled in a Jaguar. There was a young woman in the pas
senger seat, pretty worse for wear by all accounts. She stank of drink. The driver said he was taking her home after a hen night.”

  “Where is this leading, Butler?” Wallace asked wearily.

  “Davies thought she resembled Joanne Howard. She looked like the photograph we circulated; the one found in her cottage.”

  “What about the man? Do we have any information about him?”

  “He was smartly dressed, polite and very well spoken; well under the drink drive limits.”

  Wallace sat on the edge of his desk, folded his arms, and blew out his cheeks. The case was becoming more and more complex. Who was the man? What was his relationship to Joanne Howard? A tap on the half-glass door broke into his thoughts. He beckoned to DS Wilkins to come in.

  “Sir, a guy just rang in to say he recognised the victim. Apparently, he was in a conference at the Hilton in Cardiff. Joanne Howard was with a man. They were sitting near him in the bar, drinking champagne. The bartender confirmed it.”

  Could it be the same man she was seen with outside Oswestry? His description matched with that of the barman in the hotel. Reddish-brown hair; impeccable manners; well-cut, expensive suit. The women in the bar had been giving him the glad eye. The police artist should be able to come up with a good likeness to circulate in the morning papers.

  “I checked with reception,” the DS continued. “He booked in under the name of Alex Campbell. The barman overheard them talking about their flight from Geneva.” Wallace’s pulse quickened with excitement. At last they were getting somewhere. So they had both come from Switzerland. It was too much of a coincidence.

  “And they were definitely together?”

  “Apparently, they met on the plane to Heathrow then flew down to Cardiff. The guy was giving her the full chat-up line. Complimenting her about her figure and looks; saying how fortunate he was to have been sitting next to her on the plane. She drank a lot of champagne. By the time they left together she was quite tipsy.”

  “Get in touch with Cardiff International Airport security and contact Heathrow. He might have booked a return ticket. If he is the murderer, he may also try to get out of the country from another airport so check out Birmingham and Manchester. They are closer to Oswestry than Heathrow.”

  If he was Joanne’s killer he would either lie low or try to leave the country at the earliest opportunity. Now there were five murder victims. Foley and Howard on his patch, Macaleer, Lynes and now Bateman. Four of them definitely connected. Three of the victims had been found naked. Other than that there was no evidence to suggest that Joanne Howard was in the frame. Could it be that the armbands were just a coincidence?

  Wilkins poked his head round the door interrupting his train of thought. “It turns out Campbell booked a return ticket from Geneva to Heathrow.”

  “So, I was right,” Wallace murmured. He probably flew back the day after the murder, but he hadn’t taken a domestic flight from Cardiff, Birmingham or Manchester. Damn it! He could have travelled up by car or train. Either way, it was all academic if he had already left the country. He dialled the number on his secure line.

  “Good morning, Ben,” Dreher answered. “How’s the weather over there?”

  “Cold and wet, as usual.” Dispensing with the pleasantries he continued. “We know there’s a link between Foley, Lynes, Macaleer and Bateman. My gut instinct tells me there’s also a link between Lynes and Howard.” Wallace told him about the armband he found in Joanne Howard’s cottage and the one Conrad had described. There was silence on the other end of the line then Dreher said,

  “Jack is on his way back. He has some very interesting information regarding Joanne Howard. We’ve reached the same conclusion. She must be connected to Lynes and that they were both involved with the same organisation.”

  “What kind of organisation?”

  “He’ll fill you in when he gets back to London this afternoon. Have you made any progress on her killer?”

  “That’s what I’m ringing about. Apparently, she met up with a guy called Alex Campbell. They flew into Heathrow from Geneva and on to Cardiff International Airport. A policeman reported stopping them on their way to Oswestry when he was diverting traffic through floods after heavy rain. He remembered the incident because the girl, who turned out to be Joanne Howard, was plastered. Drunk after a hen party, or so it seemed. We believe that Campbell flew back to Geneva the morning after Howard was murdered. I’ll fax you an artist’s impression.”

  “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have some information for you,” Dreher said.

  Campbell may have been travelling under an assumed name, but if he was in Switzerland Dreher would find him. He wouldn’t waste any time getting Interpol on to it.

  *

  Wallace had only just replaced the receiver when it rang again. It was Conrad. “The boss wants to meet you in London tomorrow morning. Expect a phone call from the Chief Constable. This investigation is way over his head now, Ben. It’s way over all our heads.”

  Conrad gave Wallace the address in Whitehall warning him that complete secrecy was essential. Not even the Chief Constable could be told where he was going. Only that he was ordered to give him carte blanche to pursue the investigation.

  Stunned, he slumped into his chair, his brain seething with possibilities. What was so secretive that not even his CC knew about it?

  “Butler!” he shouted into the incident room. “If you find out anything else on Campbell give me a buzz. I’m going to work from home over the weekend, possibly up to Monday. I’m due a weekend off.”

  Butler grinned to himself. It wasn’t like his DCI to take time off unless he was up to something. It must be getting serious with Dr Barnett. Lucky sod. He quite fancied her himself, but she was definitely out of his league.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  London, England

  Wallace walked briskly towards the taxi rank in Paddington. He waited in the queue until he was motioned forward by a man in charge of getting passengers into cabs. He instructed the driver to take him to North Pembury Avenue. The driver shot off up the ramp into the traffic and expertly negotiated the busy streets. Wallace looked out through the window not wanting to engage in conversation with the garrulous cabby. He was too tense for small talk. They slowed down as they negotiated Admiralty Arch then nudged towards Trafalgar Square. It was crowded with people chanting and waving placards.

  “Bloody demonstrators!” the cabby fumed.

  Impatiently, he nudged the taxi forward towards the traffic lights and onto Northumberland Avenue. Wallace had the door open before the cab stopped outside Trentor Enterprises. He shoved some notes at the driver and ran up the steps.

  “Ben Wallace,” he told the middle-aged receptionist. “I have an appointment with the managing director.”

  She smiled, motioned him towards a leather sofa and spoke quietly into the telephone. A few minutes later a woman appeared from a corridor at the side of the reception desk.

  “Good morning. I hope you had a pleasant journey? This way, please.”

  Wallace followed her through a security door to the lift. Conrad had warned him not to use his police rank to avoid arousing suspicions. Trentor Enterprises actually dealt with the public, giving advice to companies on installing computer systems.

  The secretary knocked a door and gently pushed it open. Conrad rose from his chair when he entered the outer office and ushered him to a chair.

  “You’ll be meeting Breakdancer in a few minutes. You won’t be able to see him until he’s satisfied you can be trusted one hundred per cent. He knows we’re old friends, but that won’t stop him forming his own assessment of your character and reliability.”

  “Good morning, Mr Wallace.” The deep voice echoed around the room. “Please make yourself comfortable while I ask you a few questions.”

  Wallace waited for Breakdancer to begin, but there was only silence and the faint humming of the air conditioning. The boss was testing his patience to see how he would react. Final
ly, the voice came back and asked him a series of questions in rapid succession. Wallace’s mouth was as dry as cardboard. Suddenly, the tone changed, became soothing and cajoling, but Wallace didn’t let down his guard. This approach wasn’t new to him. He could handle it. After an hour of intensive interaction the door opened. A tall, rangy man emerged from the inner office.

  “General Clive Pearce,” Conrad said.

  “Breakdancer?” Wallace shook his hand.

  “That’s my code name. Major Conrad has told me a lot about your experience. You’ve worked together before on Interpol teams and in military intelligence. In fact, we know everything about you from your shoe size to your relationship with Dr Jo Barnett.”

  Wallace didn’t show a flicker of emotion. It was what he expected from an offshoot of MI6.

  “We’ve already codenamed you ‘Rookie’. You’re a policeman and you’re new to our organisation. It fits,” he said with a chuckle. “Jack will fill you in.”

  Conrad outlined his discovery of the installation in the Alps and the enormous cavern behind the debris of the derelict hotel.

  “There are dozens of state-of-the-art computers. It’s obviously some kind of paramilitary organisation controlled by a man known as the Generalissimo.”

  Wallace let out a low whistle when Conrad mentioned the army of men and women sporting armbands like the one he had found in Joanne Howard’s cottage. His instinct had proved reliable. There was a connection between all five murders.

  “All the computer people were wearing red armbands, security yellow. A handful close to the Generalissimo wore gold. A lot of them had snow crystals embossed on them. They seemed to indicate seniority.”

  “What about the silver ones?”

  “I didn’t see any, but l think they must be for those who work covertly in the field. Probably ‘sleepers’ like Lynes and Howard.”