Precipice

by Colin Forbes

  Tweed returned to Park Crescent two hours after leaving for Downing Street. He walked into his office, took off his coat, put it on a hanger after putting his gloves on his desk. Monica watched him with growing impatience, sure that he was being tantalizing. Then she saw his pensive expression, realized he was thinking. He sat down behind his desk, still with the abstracted look on his face.

  'Would you like some coffee?' she ventured.

  'Yes, please.' He paused. 'After I've told you what happened.'

  'The PM is still at sixes and sevens,' she guessed.

  'No, not any more. I talked to him pretty frankly and he listened. By the time I'd finished he'd calmed down. He can even take a decision now.'

  'And did he?'

  'Yes. He agreed to several suggestions I made. First he's alerted the Rapid Reaction Force to be ready to fly to Europe. Then he phoned the German Chancellor and told him to have the airfields ready to receive it when it lands.'

  'Told him? Told the German Chancellor?'

  'That's what I said. Actually the Chancellor was glad to have someone taking a decision. I also suggested the PM refused any calls from the President at the White House, telling him to inform the President the PM was not available, that his Private Secretary should take the calls.'

  'What was the idea of that?'

  'To stop Washington spreading their frenzied mood.

  The White House is in the greatest panic ever known. All in all I've poured oil on the troubled waters.'

  'Not petrol, as you told Howard?'

  'That was just to shut him up. How is Reginald coming on with his computer toys?'

  'He's still upstairs with his team. They're frantic.'

  'They would be. I'll pop upstairs and sort them out. If a pot of coffee was ready when I get back I'd be most grateful . . .'

  Tweed strolled up to the next floor. The door to the computer room was open, lights were flashing. He went in to find Reginald, long hair trailing down over his neck, staring fixedly at the master computer. His two assistants seemed equally hypnotized by their equipment.

  'Getting anywhere?' Tweed asked.

  'I'll say we are.' Reginald's bulging eyes gleamed as he turned to look at Tweed. 'The trouble is we can't cope with the amount of data coming in.'

  'Data? The rubbish you're being fed? Nothing major has actually happened so far.'

  'You're wrong, sir. Look at the screen. It's reporting extensive troop movements converging on Moscow from all sides.'

  'Do the satellites confirm that? They'd see those movements.'

  'Well, not yet.'

  'Don't you find that puzzling?' Tweed asked gently.

  'Modern communications are a complicated business,' said Reginald, sounding pretentious.

  'You haven't answered my question.'

  'We are getting reports from all over the world . . .'

  'I did query whether the satellites confirm these reports.'

  'Well, Washington may be sitting on what they're getting from that source.'

  'Why should they?' demanded Tweed.

  'I've no idea.'

  'Then I'll tell you. It's because the satellites have not picked up what those alarming reports are saying. They haven't picked them up because they're not happening. Yet.'

  'What does that mean, sir?'

  'Keep up the good work. Soon you may really be overwhelmed with shattering news.'

  Before Reginald could ask what he meant Tweed left, went back to his office. Monica poured coffee from a large pot, added milk. Tweed sat down, drank a whole cupful at one steady gulp. Monica refilled the cup.

  'I'm going to have a nap in this chair,' Tweed said when he had drunk the second cup.

  He had just closed his eyes when the phone rang. He kept them closed until Monica called out.

  'Sorry, I have Beck on the line . . .'

  'Hello, Arthur. I arrived here in record time. Your aircrew are superb. They're standing by at Heathrow for when I want to take off again.'

  'Good. More news. Brazil has again delayed his flight departure aboard the jet at Kloten. He's playing cat and mouse.'

  'What he doesn't know is I'm the cat, he's the mouse. If you call again and I'm not here, speak to Monica. She will know how to contact me. What's the weather like in Zurich?'

  'A typical British question. It's snowing, not heavily. Brazil's pilot gave that as the reason why he's changed the flight plan.'

  'But he could have taken off?'

  'The security chief at Kloten told me he most certainly could have done.'

  'Which means Brazil is working to a timetable. Thanks for keeping me in touch. Appreciate it if you'd keep doing so . . .'

  'So what are you waiting for?' Monica asked as she put down her phone after listening in.

  'Brazil's big bang. The trouble is I'm not sure what form it will take. But we'll know when it happens.'

  Tweed closed his eyes again and fell fast asleep after pulling his tie loose and unfastening his collar.

  In Zurich Brazil had summoned Craig to his living room. Igor, seated by Brazil's side, stood up and bared its teeth as the visitor entered the room. . . .'

  'Sit down, Craig. Is everyone travelling aboard the jet ready to leave?'

  'They have been ready for several hours.'

  'It's time to go.' Brazil looked at his watch. 'It is a short flight so I should reach the villa in time. I want you to contact the flight controller at Sion airfield to have the runway ready for us to land.'

  'The cars are standing by to take us straight to Kloten.' Craig reported smugly.

  'I should hope they are.'

  'Who will look after Igor aboard the plane?' Craig enquired, eyeing the hound without enthusiasm. 'Jose?'

  'No. You will. He likes resting his forepaws in a lap when he's airborne. Your lap should serve nicely.'

  'You said you would reach the villa in time. In time to do what?'

  'To send the first signal to the laboratory across the valley.'

  'The signal to do what?' Craig rumbled on.

  'You'll find out when it happens, won't you?' Brazil smiled broadly. 'Now, off you go, get the others on their way to the airport. And send Eve in to me for a word.'

  'She's probably asleep.'

  'Wake her up, then.'

  * * *

  Eve was still up, drinking and smoking, when Craig hammered on her door.

  'Can't you knock more quietly?' she demanded when she opened the door and saw who was there.

  'No. The boss wants to see you. This very second. So make with the feet.'

  'You know, Craig, you have the most charming way of expressing yourself.'

  Her retort was wasted. Craig was already clumping off down the corridor to tell everyone they were leaving. Eve checked her appearance in the mirror, used a brush to smooth down her jet-black hair behind her neck.

  She then walked slowly along the corridor, entered Brazil's room without knocking, closed the door, drifted across to the chair in front of the desk, sat down and crossed her shapely legs. No one was going to hurry her.

  'You can certainly move,' Brazil said sarcastically.

  'Where is the doggie?'

  'Craig will shortly be taking him to the airport. You get on with Robert Newman rather well. Is that right?'

  'Yes, I do,' she lied. 'Why? Do you want me to make up to him?'

  'Why, I wonder, do men fall for you so easily?'

  'Men are propelled by desire for attractive women. It must be my irresistible personality,' she said cynically.

  'If you say so.' Brazil checked the time by his watch. 'I must go in a minute.'

  'What was the point of asking me about Newman?'

  'I was coming to that. I will, in due course, return to Zurich. Some unfinished business I have to attend to. It's just possible Newman will follow me back here. If he's still alive. In that contingency you can practise your black magic arts on him. I would want to know where Tweed was. You could manage that, couldn't you?'

&nb
sp; 'Shouldn't be impossible. I worked it with those bankers you asked me to get to know.' She leaned forward. 'The ones who were murdered by some unknown creature. After all . . .' She leaned back again. 'I do have Philip Cardon salivating over me.'

  'Gustav will stay behind to give you moral support.' Brazil said as he stood up, put on a heavy blue overcoat which had lain folded on a chair beside him. 'He'll be company for you.'

  'Company I could do without.'

  'He's really quite a nice chap - when you get to know him.' Brazil said with a smile as he picked up a briefcase.

  'I have no intention of getting to know him. That man.' she said through her teeth, 'is a creep. Have a quiet trip.'

  'I can assure you, it will be anything but quiet.'

  'I think Sion looked better in the mist.' Paula said as they walked away from the car park next to the Hotel Touring where Philip had left their vehicle. 'It could be any small modern town. Oh, Lord, here they come again.'

  Two Leather Bombers had appeared on their machines, riding slowly towards them. No one else was about. Philip slipped his hand inside his brown leather jacket and gripped his Walther.

  'Keep walking. Don't look at them. We're lovers on holiday.'

  He wrapped his left arm round her waist, stopped, kissed her on the cheek. As they started walking again one of the motorcyclists called out something filthy in French.

  'Minds like sewers.' Philip commented. 'Just keep walking.'

  The motorcyclists had passed them, were continuing down the street towards the station. Paula resisted her impulse to look back.

  'I'm hungry.' she said. 'I suppose it's too early for lunch.'

  'Not at the restaurant we passed just up the street. So we'll have a leisurely meal. And, if you're very polite to me, I'll start off by buying you that brandy you wanted back at the hotel before we started off up the mountain.'

  'That seems a hundred years ago. Yes, sir, I do believe I would appreciate a brandy. Is that polite enough?'

  'It will do . . .'

  They ordered Tweed's favourite dish, escalope Zurichoise, a substantial dish, and ate two servings. The restaurant was small and tidy with crisp white tablecloths and no one else in the place. Over their meal they tried to work out what to do next.

  'We could explore the Col de Roc where Brazil has his villa, on the mountains on the other side of the valley,' Paula suggested.

  'We could, but we'd be pushing our luck.'

  'What do you mean? I think it's a good idea. Now we've got into the swing of driving up these mountain roads.'

  'We would be pushing our luck,' Philip persisted. 'On the map the road up to his villa looks at least as grim as the one up to the Kellerhorn.'

  'Any other objections?' she said, piqued.

  The trouble was, Philip knew, that when Paula had enjoyed a good meal she was fired up again with energy, with get-up-and-go. He didn't like to throw too much cold water on her courage.

  'Not an objection, a worry. Thanks to your swift action we got out of that one alive at the alcove. I'm sure Brazil's villa will be equally well guarded.'

  'So we proceed with caution.' she said and smiled.

  'All right, I surrender.'

  Grinning, he raised both hands high in the air. Paula frowned, leaned over the table.

  'You've got at least an equal say in this decision, Philip. I feel I've been rather pushy. What were we going to do if we'd stayed in Sion?'

  'Wait until after dark, then go to see Marchat. Did you notice the old part, huddled under that great hulk of a rock with the old building on top?'

  'No, I didn't?'

  'That's where the old houses are. The original Sion. I saw them. They're built of wood with shutters over the windows and shingle roofs. Just like those houses we saw inside the perimeter running round the fake weather station.'

  'You think it really is a fake?' she queried.

  'I'm certain of it. You may have security round a weather station, but you don't have thugs armed with machine-pistols to go after intruders to kill them. That is the ground station.'

  'We could drive up the Col de Roc, then get back in time to go and see Marchat,' she speculated.

  'All right. Let's do that. But first I need another cup of coffee.'

  Philip didn't say so but he still felt this was a perilous undertaking. And they could find themselves descending a diabolical mountain road after dark. He couldn't rid himself of a premonition that exploring the Col de Roc was going to be a disaster.

  'Just going to the loo,' Newman said to Franklin.

  He had seen Marler passing their compartment, glancing in and looking away as he continued back to the front of the express. And in less than half an hour they were due to arrive in Sion.

  He found Marler sitting in a first-class compartment by himself, smoking a king-size.

  'That was Bill Franklin, wasn't it?' Marler asked before Newman could say anything. 'I remember him from when I met him in Tweed's office and didn't give him my name.'

  'That was Bill Franklin.' Newman agreed as he sat opposite Marler.

  He explained tersely how Franklin had come to be aboard, that he was carrying a Heckler & Koch submachine gun.

  'Is he?' Marler remarked. 'With that he could wipe out a whole posse of Leather Bombers with just one burst.'

  'Where are Butler and Nield?'

  'I have a plan I've worked out for when we get to Sion - so I'll explain it . . .'

  He did so and when he'd finished he glanced out of the window, saw an airfield with a runway cleared completely of snow.

  'I'd better get back. Give Butler and Nield their orders quickly. You saw the airfield? Good. I must move RIGHT SQUARE BRACKET we are coming into Sion.'

  36

  The jet without any markings along its fuselage was airborne, had left Zurich behind some time ago. Brazil sat in his comfortable swivel armchair, staring at the illuminated screen above the entrance to the crew cabin.

  Clear figures gave the mileage they had come, the mileage still to cover to Sion, the present time, the estimated time of arrival at Sion airfield. He glanced at it frequently and occasionally swivelled round to look at the seat behind him.

  Craig sat in it with Igor alongside him, his forepaws resting in Craig's lap. Brazil was amused by Craig's obvious discomfort. The hound saw him looking, made a motion to move towards him, and Brazil lifted a warning finger. Igor subsided.

  'One thing worries me.' Brazil told Craig. 'We haven't yet dealt with Anton Marchat. He's a loose end.'

  'Not any more. I've made certain arrangements. Anton Marchat won't be in the land of the living much longer.'

  'You really are most efficient.'

  'I do my job. Including looking after this poodle.'

  'I wouldn't advise you to treat him as a poodle.'

  'A bang on his nose with the barrel of a gun and you'd see him run like hell, yelping.'

  'If you were still alive to hear him yelping. Anyone would think you don't like Igor.'

  'I don't.'

  Brazil turned away to check the illuminated screen. Behind him Craig grinned to himself. Brazil didn't know everything. Prior to leaving Zurich Craig had phoned The Motorman. Brazil would have been furious had he known what he had done. He mistrusted hired help.

  'Craig here,' he had said when he made the call.

  'You have another commission for me?' the thin reedy voice had enquired.

  'Two targets this time. First, man called Anton Marchat. Marchat,' he had repeated. 'He probably lives in Sion, but I'm not sure.'

  'He does live in Sion. Assume the job is done. And the second target?'

  'Man called Archie. Don't know his second name. But I hear on my grapevine he's a dangerous nuisance. Can't give you any more info.'

  'I don't need any more. I know Archie.'

  'You do?' Craig hadn't been able to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  'Again, consider it done.'

  'You're very reliable.'

  'I have
to maintain my reputation.' the reedy voice had replied smoothly.

  'So that's it. I'm in a hurry. . .'

  'Not too much in a hurry. As usual, I will expect the normal fee to be paid in cash into my numbered account. You won't forget, will you, Mr Craig? If you did then I have been known to do a job for free - when clients have omitted to pay their debts,' The Motorman concluded.

  Aboard the jet, Craig had replayed the conversation in his mind with satisfaction. Except he had remembered he was sweating at The Motorman's last comment.

  Keith Kent, expensively dressed, walked into the Zurcher Kredit Bank in Sion. He had travelled on the same train as Newman, had left it at almost the last moment.

  As he had done in Zurich, Kent looked along the counter behind the grilles, weighing up the three tellers. One man looked pompous, the type that was easily deflated. Kent walked up to him.

  'I have to pay in a certain amount to the main account of Mr Leopold Brazil. Is this the right branch?'

  'We never give out information about clients.' the teller informed him smugly.