Precipice

by Colin Forbes

  'That's horrible, and thank you for the warning . . .'

  Paula hurried back to the Hotel des Bergues and had dinner at the Pavilion restaurant leading off the lobby. Tonight, she felt, was a very unknown quantity and she was more alert after a light meal.

  Leaving the restaurant, she hailed a cab and asked the driver to take her to Les Armures. The driver nodded that he knew where it was and crossed the Pont du Rhone, the bridge over the river.

  From that moment they left behind the bright lights of the international city of Geneva and climbed into the dark of the Old City, perched high up. Although he was driving on snow tyres the cabbie proceeded cautiously. He was climbing ever more steeply, veering round dangerous bends, and on both sides of the narrow cobbled street Paula looked out at ancient stone buildings which gave her the impression of an abandoned district. He skidded three times but managed to regain control. Higher and higher they mounted until, to Paula's relief, the cathedral, built on the summit, came into view, a menacing edifice in the moonlight.

  He pulled up beside a weird stone platform and looked over his shoulder.

  'The restaurant is over there. I can't get any closer,' he said in French.

  She paid him off, standing on treacherous cobbles covered with ice. Then he was gone. An uncomfortable silence she could almost hear descended. No one else was about. She checked her watch. The illuminated hands registered 8 p.m. She had deliberately arrived one hour before the earliest time Archie had said he would be at Les Armures. She wanted to check out the area.

  Philip's flight landed at Geneva and he went immediately to a phone and called Monica.

  'Philip here. Calling from Cointrin Airport. I've just arrived. Any news of Paula?'

  'Yes. Staying at the Hotel des Bergues, room number...'

  'Thanks. Must go.'

  'Put that phone down and you're fired.'

  Tweed's voice, grim.

  'To hell with that,' Philip snapped. 'I've arrived late. Plane held up at Heathrow. Something about engine maintenance. It's eight o'clock here, for God's sake . . .'

  'Information you need.' Tweed's voice was calm now. 'I had Beck on the line over an hour ago. Carson Craig has flown to Geneva. Beck reported a motorcycle gang which is careering round the city. Killed a woman and took her away. The police can't locate the gang.'

  'Got it. I'm going now . . .'

  'Good luck.' said Tweed but Philip didn't hear the words. He had slammed down the phone.

  He was in a desperate rush to reach Les Armures by nine. But he had vital jobs to do first. He ran out of the concourse, grabbed a cab, asked to be taken to the Hotel des Bergues.

  At the hotel he registered for a room quickly, left his bag for a porter to take up to his room. He paused to enquire whether his friend Paula Grey was in the hotel.

  'No, sir. She went out . . .'

  'Thanks.'

  Philip dashed out, nearly lost his balance on the ice even though he was wearing special boots with soles to grip ice. He dived back into the cab he'd kept waiting, gave the driver the address of Marler's dealer in arms. Reaching his destination, he gave the driver an amount far exceeding the fare.

  'Wait for me and there's a large tip. For God's sake don't go away. I'm late for an appointment with a girl friend.'

  'I'll be here.' This driver had a sense of humour. 'Never keep a woman waiting is my motto . . .'

  Philip had spoken in French, which he found came back to him easily. He nearly went mad as Rico Sava put him through the same procedure he'd adopted with Paula, taking centuries to open the Judas window, then the door. Asking for a description of Marler.

  'I need a 7.65mm Walther automatic, the one with eight rounds capacity.'

  'You may need more than that.'

  'What do you mean?' Philip asked, controlling his growing impatience.

  'I had a very nice lady here. She purchased a Browning automatic . . .'

  'She did?'

  'I warned her not to go into the Old City. I think she was going to ignore my warning. If you're here to protect her you'll need more than that.' Sava repeated.

  'Supposing I was here to do that?'

  'There's a villainous motorcycle gang . . .'

  'I've heard about them . . .'

  'After the lady had gone a murderous-looking man with a mean face called here and spent a fortune. I heard his motorcycle stop further down the street.'

  'What about it?'

  'I'm breaking my golden rule' - Sava looked regretful - 'never to inform on one customer to another, but you come from Marler. And I didn't like this man.'

  'He spent a fortune, you said. What did he buy?'

  'A large supply of stun grenades. Also a number of Army grenades. Lethal. Twelve handguns, plenty of ammo. And this, which puzzled me.'

  He took Philip across the shop into another room, showed him a huge searchlight-like lamp. It wasn't cumbersome. Sava handed it to Philip, who was surprised at how little it weighed. Sava showed him how easily it was switched on.

  'Motorcycles,' Sava reminded him. 'What do you want? I can put the searchlight into a canvas bag with a strap to hang from your shoulder.'

  'What about both types of grenade?'

  'They would go into separate pockets inside the bag.'

  'How much? Don't forget the Walther with spare mags.'

  'Expensive, especially the searchlight. Fifteen thousand francs.'

  'Pack them quickly. Everything in the bag except the Walther. Very quickly, please . . .'

  Thanking God that Tweed always insisted key members of his staff carried a lot of money in high-denomination Swiss francs and Deutschmarks, Philip peeled off fifteen notes.

  'Excuse me.' Sava said as Philip was leaving, 'but you are a brave man . . .'

  Canvas bag over his shoulder, Philip dived back into the waiting cab, told him to drive to Les Armures.

  'I'm sorry, sir.' the driver said as he drove off, 'but I can only drive you as far as the cathedral. There is big trouble in the Old City. The police have got it wrong -they are watching the outskirts of Geneva to check everyone entering. The people they are after are already here.'

  'All right, then. The cathedral.'

  Philip checked his watch. Ten minutes to nine. Everything had taken too long. He had an awful feeling he was going to be too late.

  18

  As her cab vanished into the dark Paula climbed the few steps onto the elevated platform of old stone, roofed in and open on three sides. She walked past two ancient cannons, descended the steps on the other side, and a waiter opened the door of Les Armures.

  'Good evening, madame. Are you by yourself?' 'I won't be. My friend is meeting me here later.' 'A drink at the bar while you wait?' 'No, thank you. I want a quiet table in a corner.' Which is what Archie would want, she thought. Leading the way, the waiter showed her a small table for two in the angle where two stone walls met. Paula looked back at the entrance and saw it was hidden from view.

  'This would be perfect. He may not arrive for awhile.'

  'That does not matter, madame. The table is yours . . .'

  She looked round the restaurant as the waiter left her. The place was as she remembered it when she had once dined there with Tweed, very old with an arch leading to another cavern. The atmosphere was lively. Most tables were occupied, there was a babble of voices, laughter, the tinkling of glasses. The cloths on the tables looked brand new and waiters were dashing back and forth. No sign of Archie in the cavern beyond the first room. But she was very early. She turned, went back to the door. Her waiter ran up.

  'Madame is not going out again?'

  'Madame likes the fresh air . . .'

  'Fresh air! It is like the North Pole out there! I must warn you there is solid ice on the cobbles.'

  'I know.' She smiled. 'I'll be careful . . .'

  After the glorious warmth of the restaurant the air hit her like a blow. I should have taken off my coat while I was in Les Armures, she thought. She mounted the steps on to th
e strange platform which was very wide and deep. Behind the two cannons there was solid stone wall, well back from the narrow roads surrounding it.

  She walked down the steps into the main street where the cab had left her, nearly lost her balance. 'You watch it, my girl,' she told herself.

  This was the main street, which led away from the cathedral and dropped steeply, she recalled. The only lighting came from lanterns attached to brackets protruding from the street's walls. She listened. The absolute quiet was disturbing.

  She walked down the street, which was cobbled, stepping carefully. On either side there were ancient buildings with shops on the ground floor. Mostly antiques dealers and picture shops. She paused in front of one, looked at the single framed picture in the window of a waterfall. No price.

  She began to explore the side-streets and alleyways to her right, all of which dropped steeply. Still no one about. It had been like this the time she had walked back down into the main part of Geneva with Tweed. As though no one lived there.

  The atmosphere was eerie, her favourite word for such surroundings. She went back later, explored a narrow side street opposite to the platform. When she checked her watch she saw it was nearly nine o'clock. She had walked further than she realized. Archie might have arrived.

  She was mounting the steps to the platform where the floor was not covered with ice, on her way back to Les Armures, when the first motorcyclist arrived, roaring up the hill, headlight glaring. She pressed herself against the rear wall, took off her glove, tucked it under her left arm and hauled out the Browning automatic. The headlight on the machine shone on her briefly, the motorcyclist, clad in black leather, slowed down, threw something towards her.

  The pineapple-shaped object, seen briefly in the headlight, curved in an arc, landed on the far side of the platform, rolled down the steps, exploded with a deafening crack. Stun grenade, she said to herself. He was a rotten shot.

  The machine drove on past her and then she saw a small army of headlights speeding up the road towards her. No time to run for Les Armures. No guarantee the men screaming towards her would be equally rotten shots.

  The second motorcyclist saw her in his headlight, lifted his arm. By now Paula had grabbed a pair of sunglasses out of her shoulder bag, had put them on to neutralize the headlights. She raised the Browning and pressed the trigger. The motorcyclist froze in his saddle, still holding what he'd been about to hurl at her. His machine went out of control and as he fell the grenade exploded with a different sort of crack. Shrapnel peppered the buildings on either side but she guessed most of its deadly contents had blown into the still body now lying motionless in the road.

  Another motorcyclist appeared, followed by others. At the same moment a powerful arc light came on from the last side-street she had explored to her left. She was spotlit like a star on stage in a musical. It had become a bloody nightmare.

  She stood with her shoulders pressed hard against the wall behind her. There was nowhere to run. She'd glanced at Les Armures, seen a waiter dropping a grille over the inside of the door. Gritting her teeth, she had one idea - to bring down as many of them as she could. Her nerve was colder than the ice on the roads. She took aim at the next oncoming motorcyclist, who again had one hand lifted, holding something. She was aiming at his headlight. It suddenly went out. His machine skidded on ice, threw him like a bomb against a stone wall as the machine slithered, fell, its wheels still spinning. It was the searchlight from the side-street, illuminating her, which bothered Paula most.

  A shadowy figure appeared to her right on the platform. She swung round her Browning.

  'It's Philip.' a voice yelled.

  His arrival had distracted her for vital seconds. A new motorcyclist appeared, hurled something which landed at her feet. A grenade. Philip dived forward, grabbed it, lobbed it at the searchlight. She heard it explode, the sound of shrapnel flying against the nearby buildings. That would have killed her. But it was the searchlight which died. The lamp's glare vanished, its light faded into nothing. She thought she heard a shriek from the same direction. The man who had switched on the searchlight. Another motorcyclist was approaching.

  'I'll take him.' Philip said. 'Give them some of their own medicine . . .'

  He took the pin out of the grenade he'd grabbed from his canvas bag, counted, hurled the missile. It dropped into the lap of the approaching motorcyclist, detonated with a roar. The explosion lifted the rider off his machine, then he dropped into the street, a crumpled corpse riddled with shrapnel. The machine toppled over sideways in the middle of the narrow street.

  'That's blocked it for the rest of them coming.' said Philip.

  He quickly hauled the searchlight out of his bag, set it up between the cannons, switched it on. Its powerful beam shone a long way down the street. Paula saw the front rider throw up a hand over his goggles, stop his machine so suddenly that the one coming up behind him smashed straight into it. The street was a chaos of ruined metal. In the distance, at the extremity of the beam, they saw more motorcyclists stopping, then turning, heading away.

  Time to go.' said Philip.

  'Time to check whether Archie is inside Les Armures . . .'

  The waiter who had reserved Paula a table recognized her, lifted the grille, opened the door. Paula had slipped a full magazine into the Browning as they walked across the platform. Inside the restaurant there was now dead silence. Customers sat like waxwork figures. No one was eating as they entered. Philip spoke quickly.

  'A gang was trying to kill someone. Don't know who.' he continued in French.

  He was gambling on the assumption that no one would have had the nerve to look out of the window.

  'Has my guest arrived?' Paula asked briskly.

  'He's over there.' the waiter replied. He swallowed. 'Are you all right?'

  'Fine.' She handed him a banknote. 'But after that we won't feel like eating. We'll just collect our friend . . .'

  Archie was sitting at the corner table with a kir royale and a glass of water in front of him. He had a dead, half-smoked cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Paula bent down to whisper.

  'Time to go. We'll have dinner sent up to my hotel room.'

  'OK.'

  That was all Archie said. Most people would have wasted time asking 'What has happened? It sounded terrible out there . . .'or some such enquiry. Not Archie.

  He stood up, took the cigarette out of his mouth, put it in his pocket, his hands swathed in surgical gloves. The waiter brought his coat and he slipped it on and wrapped a scarf round his face so his small moustache wasn't visible. All in seconds. Paula realized he was disguising his normal appearance.

  'Down this alley.' Paula said as they went outside. 'It leads to the footbridge over the Rhone. The police will be arriving any moment . . .'

  With Paula leading, Archie following, and Philip bringing up the rear they slithered, slipped, slid their way down over icy cobbles. Since Paula had first arrived the ice had become a diabolical sheen.

  She kept moving, shivering as the cold penetrated her clothing. Crossing the footbridge over the Rhone they all clung on to the rail to keep themselves upright. As they reached the hotel entrance they heard an endless screaming of police sirens. With lights flashing, car after car crossed the Pont du Rhone to their right, heading for the Old City.

  They entered the hotel and went up to her room, which was really a suite, with living room, bedroom, and bathroom. Paula, hands frozen, took off her coat and flung it on a chair.

  'I'll be with you in a few minutes,' she said and fled into the bedroom, leaving the door half closed. Then she broke down.

  Philip heard her, told Archie to sit down and make himself at home. He pushed the bedroom door open, shut it behind him. Paula was sitting crouched in an armchair, shaking, shuddering, crying uncontrollably.

  He went into the bathroom, found a glass, filled it with water, took a flannel, held it under the warm-water tap, put it on a towel, and went back to her as she looked up a
t him through fingers over her face.

  'Use this warm flannel.' he said firmly. 'Then dry yourself with the towel. Then have a drink.'

  'What is it? I could do with a brandy.'

  'No, you couldn't. Spirits are the last thing you need when you're in a state of delayed shock. Come on.'

  'Thank you, Philip. You are kind.'

  She applied the flannel, used the towel to dry herself, then started to gulp down the water.

  'Not so fast,' he told her. 'Sip it first.'

  'I will . . .'

  She drank all the water, took a deep breath, stood up, walked over to a wall mirror.

  'I look a mess.'

  'You look great. I'm not kidding.'

  'What's Archie doing?' she asked.

  'Smoking a cigarette.'

  'He's doing what! I thought he didn't smoke.'

  'He doesn't. He lit one, took a couple of puffs to get it going, then left it in the ashtray. I think he'll stub it out when it's half-smoked, then stick it in the corner of his mouth.'

  'Philip, that's ridiculous . . .'

  She began to laugh, a high-pitched laugh, couldn't stop. He walked over, slapped her on the face hard. She blinked, stared at him, but she had stopped laughing.

  'You were hysterical,' he said quietly.