Precipice

by Colin Forbes

  'That's the first time a man has done that to me and I haven't fought back. Philip, I haven't said thank you -you saved my life.'

  'We're a team.'

  She came forward and buried her face in his chest. He put his arms round her, held her tightly as she cried again, quiet tears. Eventually she pulled gently away from him, used a handkerchief to dab her eyes. When she spoke her voice was normal.

  'How are you getting on with Eve? Or perhaps I shouldn't ask.'

  'Don't see why not. I'm all at sea with her.' He waved his hands helplessly. 'I can't get her out of my mind but I'm still stricken with grief for Jean. It could be affecting my judgement.'

  'I've never met anyone like her.'

  'Neither have I. She can be intimidating and that worries me.' He felt the atmosphere was becoming emotionally overcharged, changed the subject. 'I suppose we ought to call Tweed about this evening.'

  'Not until I've had a shower and a good dinner. My tummy is rumbling. Incidentally, they made copies of Marchat's photograph before I left and I've got one with me. Do you think we ought to show it to Archie?'

  'I doubt if he's ever even heard of him. We might try it - after dinner. Go and have a good relaxing shower.'

  'I'll only be ten minutes. Order dinner from room service for us, would you? You know what I like.'

  'Make it twenty minutes, then you can have your shower and change into something else. That will help your morale.'

  'Philip, you know one hell of a lot about women . . .'

  19

  'Beck is on the phone for you from Berne,' Monica informed Tweed as he sat back in his swivel chair. 'And he sounds in a bad mood.'

  'Just what I need.' Tweed glanced at Newman and Marler, who had returned from having dinner together. 'Still, I'd better take the call . . .'

  'Tweed?' Beck's voice verged on the harsh. 'Have you any of your people on my patch - in Geneva, to be exact?'

  'Why?' asked Tweed, concealing his anxiety. 'I don't make a habit of reporting to all and sundry where my staff are.'

  'Because there's been slaughter in the Old City outside a restaurant called Les Armures. The target was a woman.'

  'Tell me what's happened, then. Don't beat about the bush.'

  Tweed was gripping the phone tightly. His expression was grave.

  'A gang of motorcyclists attacked her. They've been terrorizing that area for a couple of days. I've only got first reports but they say six bodies have been recovered.'

  'And what happened to the target? Give me a complete story, please.'

  'You sound concerned. The woman apparently escaped unscathed, disappeared. She was aided by a man. There was gunfire, grenades exploding, you name it.'

  'How do you know all this?' asked Tweed, to divert his caller.

  'The usual source. An old busybody woman who lives nearby watched the massacre from behind her curtain. Tweed, I'm flying to Geneva as soon as we've ended this call. I'm going to find out what's going on. I'm going to question the staff of Les Armures, who have been told to stay there until I arrive.'

  'Good idea. Arthur, you say this gang has terrorized the Old City for two days. How on earth did you allow that to go on for so long?'

  As he'd hoped, his provocative question enraged Beck.

  'Because the fool of an inspector in charge at Geneva took it into his wooden head to station his men outside the city to watch all entrances into Geneva. He should have had them patrolling the Old City itself - it never occurred to him they might be holed up there. That's why.'

  'A bad mistake.'

  'And don't think I haven't noticed you never answered my question as to whether you have any of your people in the city!'

  The phone at the other end was banged down, the connection broken. Tweed had never known Beck treat him like that. He sat back, sighed with relief, told the others what had happened.

  'At least it looks as though Paula got away,' he said. 'And I'm sure the man he mentioned was Philip. The meeting place with Archie was Les Armures.'

  'Do you want me to call Paula at the Hotel des Bergues?' asked Monica.

  'I think it might be more tactful to see if she calls me tonight. It sounds as though she and Philip had to cope with one devil of a firefight. Let's give her a couple of hours. Incidentally, while you were all out Fred, from the basement, came up. He has cracked what was on those ashes from General Sterndale's safe.'

  'So what was on them?' Monica prodded him.

  'Telephone numbers. And remnants of a thicker material of a pale green colour. Maggie Mayfield - I told you I met her at Brown's earlier today. Was it today? Of course it was. The past few hours have seemed like a week. She told me he showed her the real bonds he once kept in faded green folders, the old concertina type. Fred said he was sure the remnants show traces of pale green concertina-type folders.'

  'And the telephone numbers?' Marler enquired.

  'Obviously relics of old telephone directories - they would pack out the folders, make them look as though they still had the bonds inside. Clearly the bearer bonds were not any longer in the safe.'

  'Three hundred milllion smackers.' Newman whistled. 'That ain't hay, as they say in educated circles.'

  'But it might go a long way to financing whatever project Brazil is working on.' Tweed pointed out. 'If he is the man Sterndale loaned the bonds to.' He sat up. 'I've just remembered, in an earlier call Beck said Carson Craig was flying to Geneva earlier this evening.'

  'Just the gentleman to direct a massacre,' Newman commented.

  The phone rang. As Monica picked it up Tweed raised his eyebrows.

  'Something tells me this is going to be a long night. And that I'll be glad Butler and Nield are waiting and raring to go downstairs.'

  'It's Keith Kent on the line,' Monica called out.

  'Getting anywhere, Keith?' Tweed asked quickly.

  'I'm speaking from a phone at the airport, Geneva, so it's safe to talk.' Kent's cultured voice paused. 'I think I've hit pay dirt. I called a man in Zurich who knows what's going on there. A bank, private, called the Zurcher Kredit, nearly went bust. A large number of bearer bonds had gone missing. Guess who was a consultant, a non-executive director on its board? Leopold Brazil. What happened to the chairman will intrigue you.'

  'Go ahead. Intrigue me.'

  'The chairman of Zurcher Kredit was murdered. Someone got into his villa while his wife was away and broke his neck.'

  'Broke his neck?' Tweed noticed both Newman and Marler were staring at him. 'Any suspects?'

  'Beck,' Kent continued in his rapid-fire speech, 'thinks it had to be someone good at talking their way in. The chairman had fearsome security on his villa and it was intact.'

  'How do you know that?'

  'From a friend of a friend who knows Beck. Same story as with Sterndales - although no one bothered to talk their way in there. I'm starting to check on another private bank. Will report any findings.'

  'Keith, there's a motorcycle gang operating in Geneva andRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET'

  'I know. Bunch of rowdies. Macho kids who get their kicks frightening old ladies.'

  'More than that. There was a shoot-out in the Old City tonight. Six dead bodies. All motorcyclists. They are more than macho kids.'

  'Really. . .' For once Kent paused. 'Geneva doesn't sound very healthy. Thanks for the warning. I'm off to Berne in the morning. Early in the morning after what you've told me. Be in touch . . .'

  Tweed put the phone down, told Monica and the two men what he'd heard.

  'Now we have a direct link between Brazil and missing bearer bonds.' Newman commented.

  'It would seem so.' Tweed replied.

  'You didn't mention The Motorman to Kent.' drawled Marler.

  'It slipped my mind.' Tweed took an envelope off his desk, extracted two photos, handed one to Newman and one to Marler. 'Those are copies of the photograph of Marchat we brought back from Dorset. Just in case we ever find him. Monica has told me Paula took her own copy with her before she fl
ew to Geneva.'

  His office door opened and Howard, the pompous Director, strolled in. A tall man, well padded, in his late fifties, he was immaculately dressed, as always.

  He was clad in a blue business suit with a chalk stripe which was a Chester Barrie bought from Harrods. He had a pink face, clean-shaven, and a lordly manner.

  'Good evening, everyone,' he opened in his public-school voice, 'all quiet on the Western Front?'

  It was a joke. No one smiled. Tweed stood up, walked over to the window, pulled aside a curtain, and stared out into the night.

  'You could say that,' he replied.

  'Not chasing after Mr Leopold Brazil any more, I trust. The PM was very annoyed we'd started to investigate him. He's expecting Brazil to join him for drinks soon at Downing Street.'

  'How nice for the PM.' Tweed responded.

  Howard sat down, draped one leg over the arm of the chair, adjusted the razor-edged crease in his trousers.

  'The computer equipment I've had installed on the floor above is working like a dream. Reginald is very good.'

  'Reginald?' Marler queried.

  'He's the communications wizard in charge of bringing us into the twenty-first century. You'll be able to throw away your old card-index system, Tweed.'

  'I shall keep it going.' retorted Tweed, his back still to the room - and to Howard.

  'What on earth for?'

  'Because I know any storage system of vital data operated by computers can be penetrated.' Tweed swung round to face his chief. 'Hacked into, is the jargon phrase.'

  'I was going to suggest . . .' Howard paused, glanced at Newman and Marler who were staring at him with blank expressions, as though he wasn't there. 'I was going to suggest.' Howard started again with less confidence, 'we should use the computer to store the names of all our informants . . .'

  'No.' said Newman.

  'No.' said Marler.

  'It's hardly up to you gentlemen to . . .'

  'It is up to these gentlemen . . .' Tweed went round his desk, sat in his chair and gazed grimly at Howard as he went on. 'It is up to these gentlemen never to reveal to anyone - not even to me - the names of their secret informants. Haven't you realized yet that lives are at stake - the lives of our informants?'

  'Well . . .' Howard stood up, tucked a finger inside his shirt collar as though it felt uncomfortable. 'Well, if you feel so strongly about it I suppose we can postpone including them . . .'

  'For ever!' snapped Tweed.

  'Yes, I see. It is after all your responsibility.'

  'All the time.' replied Tweed, refusing to give an inch or to bother about saving Howard's face.

  'Appreciate it if you could keep me informed. When you can, of course . . .'

  On this defensive note Howard retreated out of the office. He closed the door behind himself very quietly.

  'That's seen him off.' piped up Monica with unconcealed glee.

  'He hasn't a clue.' growled Tweed. 'In that big office on the next floor up near the head of the staircase there's enough equipment to run the Pentagon. Reginald, a wet, has a number of personal computers, laptops, a staff of three, cables linking the stuff to the telephone, those horrible green video screens. It must have cost a fortune. Howard was counting on our records being the showpiece of his new toy department. Now I've killed that idea Heaven knows what they'll play about with to justify their existence.'

  'I have a friend, Abe Wilson, who works from home,' Newman said. 'He had a lot of this junk. His wife told me that when he comes down at night he heads for the living room and gazes at television. Then he promptly falls fast asleep. She asked me on the quiet would I take her out to dinner.'

  'Attractive?' enquired Marler.

  'Very. I turned down her invitation as tactfully as I could. Abe is going round the bend.'

  'Bob.' Tweed interjected, 'what is your impression of how Philip is getting on with Eve?'

  'The poor devil doesn't know whether he's coming or going. She's playing him on a long string. But he becomes the old Philip we know when he's involved in his work.'

  'I wonder where Eve Warner is at this moment?' Tweed mused.

  Alighting from her flight at Geneva, Eve moved quickly after going through Passport Control and Customs. She went straight to the car-hire counter, identified herself, signed the papers for the Renault she had hired over the phone from Heathrow, paid the girl behind the counter. Then she lingered nearby, smoking a fresh cigarette, glancing casually round at the few passengers hurrying out. Near the end of February the airport was quieter than in the season.

  She was looking for anyone who might have followed her. Eve had a photographic memory for faces, even those seen for a fraction of a minute. She saw no one who aroused her suspicions. She walked briskly back to the counter, told the girl she had dealt with she was ready to leave.

  Escorted to the waiting Renault, she took the keys from the girl and glared at her.

  'It's red,' she snapped, slapping her gloved hand on the bonnet. 'I distinctly asked for a neutral colour.'

  'I'm sorry, Madame, but you were insistent over the phone that you wanted a Renault. This is the only one we had left.'

  'I suppose it will have to do. Thank you for nothing.'

  Taking off her camel-hair coat, she flung it in the back. She wore a scarf over her hair which hid her jet-black hair and was wearing tinted glasses. Only her walk identified her.

  She drove off out of the city and hit the highway which headed north-east. Keeping just inside the speed limit, she overtook one vehicle after another. A truck driver blared his horn at her as she swept past him on a long bend. She waved a hand at him over her shoulder.

  An hour later she pulled in at a small hotel on the edge of a town. She had a quick meal and rationed herself to one vodka, then, nervous, spilt perfume down her front to mask any faint alcoholic fumes. The Swiss police were bastards about drinking and driving.

  Before leaving the hotel she found a phone, dialled a number from memory. When a man answered the phone she pulled a face. That creep.

  'Eve Warner speaking from Geneva. I'll be driving and will reach you this evening. Pass the message on . . .'

  She slammed down the phone, went outside and again she was driving north-east on a main highway.

  Earlier she had passed the Jura Mountains, their snow gleaming in the moonlight, passed attractive villages with church spires like needles, illuminated. She had seen none of this. Magnificent scenery didn't interest her. As she drove she kept lighting another cigarette and overtaking, overtaking, overtaking. She couldn't bear to have another vehicle in front of her. She felt very good, leaving them behind her, showing them what a marvellous driver she was. She would arrive at her destination early. She liked surprising people.

  Inside his office in Berne Leopold Brazil was in a towering rage. He strode round the room, hands clasped behind his back as he thundered. Igor, the wolfhound, watched him, then watched the target of Brazil's anger.

  Tall and lean, the dog had a small head and its ears were lifted, sensing the mood of its master. Craig, who had flown back from Geneva to Belp, then had been driven by a waiting car to the villa in Kochergasse, kept glancing at the dog, which had its mouth open, its teeth bared.

  Craig had reported to Brazil the ghastly fiasco in the Old City of Geneva - although he had been careful not to use the word 'fiasco'. Only by grilling him had Brazil got the truth out of his deputy.

  'You are the world's greatest idiot!' Brazil shouted. 'Corpses lying in the street - your men - just when we need no adverse publicity, to say nothing of the dead you are responsible for. Did I or did I not warn you after the Sterndale Manor massacre that we must maintain a low profile?'

  'They had a lot of men waiting for us.' Craig lied.

  'I have independent sources to check that statement. Are you under the impression you are running Murder Inc.? I experienced this sort of thing in the States, which is why I left that violent country. You are supposed to frighten people,
to intimidate them, not kill them.' Brazil roared.

  'They started shooting first.' Craig lied again.

  'Who is "they"?' Brazil demanded.

  'Tweed's men, I presume . . .'

  'You presume! Now you're lying. I know something of Tweed, met him once briefly. He's not the sort of man to operate in that way . . .'

  'You can't be sure of thatRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET'

  'Don't you dare interrupt me! I am sure of that. And soon I have to meet Tweed, if he will ever agree to do that after this horror . . .'

  Brazil tightened his hold on the leash. The hound had started to move towards Craig, who backed away.

  'And another thing.' Brazil raved on. 'Up to now, with the aid of certain powerful Swiss banker friends, I have neutralized Arthur Beck.' He stood quite still, hands on his hips. 'In case your memory has gone Beck is the Chief of Federal Police, his headquarters a mere stone's throw from where I'm standing. If he can find the smallest link between what happened in Geneva and myself he'll be on my back - just when the project I am directing is about to be launched.'

  'If I knew what the project wasRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET' Craig began unwisely.

  'You don't - and you won't. Not until zero hour. I would greatly appreciate it if you would get out of my sight, get out of this room. I'll instruct you in the morning. Go! For God's sake . . .'

  Arriving at the villa, Eve had been admitted by Jose, and had run up the curving staircase to Brazil's office with Jose rushing up behind her. Even through the heavy door to his office she heard Brazil's voice and guessed he was roaring at Craig.