Precipice

by Colin Forbes

  'I know what there was.' Tweed interrupted. 'We've had the same thing here. I know what it is.'

  'You do!'

  'Yes.' Tweed was emphatic. 'So leave it to me.'

  'GCHQ is out of action. There are more bodies there. A member of the staff phoned me from outside the building.'

  'I said I know what it is. I repeat, leave it to me. I have to go. Goodbye.'

  GCHQ. That was the key communications station at Cheltenham. Its staff listened in to signals, conversations on telephones all over the world. Even the Americans respected it.

  'I've forgotten something.'

  Tweed jumped up, ran to the door, opened it in time to see below a team of paramedics coming up with George leading them. He stopped the first paramedic.

  'One thing you should know. There's a live cable on the floor. So watch it.'

  'Thank you, sir.' The paramedic called back over his shoulder as his team hurtled up the stairs, disappeared inside the computer room.

  Tweed returned to his office, closed the door. He looked at Monica.

  'Better get Cord Dillon at Langley on the phone if you can reach him.'

  Tweed knew the Deputy Director of the CIA worked all hours, was seldom away from his desk. Monica was reaching for the phone when it began ringing. She listened, told the caller, 'He is here.' and stared at Tweed.

  'Cord Dillon - calling you.'

  'Hello, Cord, just about to contact you.' Tweed managed to say.

  'Tweed, total panic in Washington. The White House is going completely crazy. All my computers have been sabotaged - a lot of dead men in this building.' Dillon added calmly.

  'We've been subjected to the same attack. It's Brazil. Leopold Brazil. I warned you not to trust him. This is phase one of a global operation which hinges on Rogue One.'

  'Phase one, you said. You mean you anticipate a phase two soon?' Dillon enquired in the same deadpan voice.

  'I don't anticipate it, Cord. I expect it. Don't worry. I know what is happening. My team are in Europe hunting his key apparatus.'

  'Tell them to kill the bastard.'

  'I think they may have the same idea. Everything is under control.'

  'The Pentagon is immobilized. Plenty of corpses there. I have to go see the President. You haven't met this one. His predecessor admired you. So what do I tell him? Tweed says the situation is under control? Don't worry? He'll say who the four-letter word is Tweed?'

  'Then put in a good word for me.' Tweed suggested amiably.

  'I suppose I could. I owe you favours. Keep calling me.'

  Tweed suggested a cup of coffee would be welcome as he put down the phone. Monica hurried to the percolator in the corner. He drank two cups straight off. Then the phone rang again.

  Monica answered it, then an ecstatic expression appeared on her face as though she was hearing from a long-lost lover. She could hardly get the words out as she called across to Tweed.

  'Bob Newman is on the line . . .'

  'Good to hear from you, Bob,' Tweed said. 'Where are you calling from?'

  'From a call box in the street. Place called Sion, in the Valais. We've located the ground station - or rather, Paula and Philip, who arrived earlier, tracked it down. They've seen some action.'

  'Are they both all right?'

  'In the pink of condition. Paula is sizzling. I'll give you the details.'

  Tweed listened. More than any man he had ever met Newman could compress a complex situation into as few words as possible. He presumed it was his training and experience as a foreign correspondent.

  'So,' Newman concluded, 'the earliest we can launch an assault on the ground station is tomorrow. That will be done. If you want to contact me I'm at the Hotel Elite. Telephone number . . .'

  'Could you leave someone there I could talk to in your absence?'

  'No.' Newman's tone was hard. 'I'll need the whole team for the job we have to do.'

  'Understood.' Tweed took a deep breath. 'Bob, it is essential that ground station is destroyed, even if it means taking heavy casualties.'

  'Message understood . . .'

  Monica, who had heard, was staring in horror as Tweed put down the phone. She bit her lip, then came out with her comment.

  'I've never in all my experience with you heard you send an order like that.'

  'What do you think we're playing at - a game of Scrabble?' Tweed rasped.

  'Sorry.'

  'Then get me the PM on the phone. No, I'll get him myself.'

  He brushed aside the private secretary who answered the call, who tried to extract from him why he wanted to see the PM.

  'I said I wanted to speak to the PM. Put him on the line now or your job is at stake.'

  'I beg your pardon, sir.'

  'I said your job is at stake,' Tweed growled.

  'I'll only be a minute.'

  In less than a minute the Prime Minister was on the line.

  'Tweed here, PM . . . Yes, I know what has happened. I shall be at Downing Street in fifteen minutes from now. I will expect to see you the moment I arrive.'

  He put the phone down before there was any reply. Getting up from behind his desk, he put on his coat.

  'Shall I get someone to drive you there?' Monica asked.

  'I'm perfectly capable of driving myself there. And I'll be quicker.'

  Tweed returned two hours later, entering his office with a brisk step. He hung up his coat, sat behind his desk.

  'Would you like some more coffee?' Monica asked tentatively.

  'Monica, I would love some more coffee. I think the situation calls for two cups, please.'

  'How did you get on with the PM?' she asked while she was pouring it.

  'What's happened has shaken him to the core, rattled his cage. As I thought, he was in a mood to listen to me without interruption or argument. This is very good coffee. Thank you.'

  'He took a decision?'

  'Between the two of us I took the decisions for him -at risk of my sounding dictatorial. The Rapid Reaction Force is being despatched to strategic airfields in Germany. The first flights take off this evening.'

  'The German Chancellor stuck to his guns, then.'

  'Not at first,' Tweed said grimly. 'After my last call at Downing Street he'd consulted his cabinet in Bonn. The weak willies had expressed concern. Wanted to consult NATO. I told the PM he must call Bonn again.'

  'What happened?'

  'While the PM made the call I listened in on another extension. I practically stood over the PM, dictating his conversation by scribbling notes on a pad and pushing them under his nose. Key communications in Germany have been wrecked, and there are more bodies. I think that factor persuaded the Chancellor. He agreed to receive the Rapid Reaction Force - even went so far as to thank the PM for his cooperation. When I left Downing Street the PM looked exhausted.'

  'I'm not surprised - with you standing over him,' Monica commented tartly.

  'Now, try and get Newman on the phone at that number he gave me.'

  While Monica was trying to get through Tweed sat with his hands clasped in his lap. Then, restless, he got up and poured himself a third cup of coffee from the percolator. He had drunk half the cup when Monica signalled to him.

  'Bob?' He paused. 'Operator, this is a very bad line.' He waited - for the hotel phone operator either to reply or for the sound of the click of a switch. He heardnothing. 'We are alone.' he went on. 'This call is just to let you know I shall be flying to Sion airfield soon in a jet. By courtesy of Mr Brazil - although he doesn't know I've borrowed one of his jets. The one with Brazil flashed all over the outside of the fuselage.'

  'I can't recommend that. This is a danger zone.' Newman warned.

  'Did I ask for your recommendation? Do I have to remind you who is in charge of this operation? I'm only telling you so you don't shoot up a jet with Brazil's name on it.'

  'I'll try to avoid that happening.' said Newman, who had recovered his good humour.

  Tweed had hardly put down the phone
before he made a new request to Monica.

  'Please call Jim Corcoran, security chief at Heathrow. Tell him to warn the aircrew of the jet that I will be flying to Sion. Tell Jim that I'll give him one hour's notice before I want the machine airborne - with me inside it.'

  'He won't like it. That doesn't give him much time.'

  'Tell him. By now he'll have heard the news of Brazil's strike at world communications. That will make him pull out all the stops.'

  'Anything else?' Monica enquired. 'Before I make this call?'

  'Yes, in case I forget. Later, phone Arthur Beck in Zurich and tell him what I'm doing. But only after I am airborne, on my way.'

  'I don't think he'll like that either.'

  'I'm not in the business of being popular. I'm in the business of destroying Brazil.'

  39

  Marler, following Brazil's limo up the mountain, braked as he reached the large plateau, saw the fence, the villa, its roof festooned with aerials, the empty limo parked at the foot of a flight of steps. He was exposed with nowhere to hide and he had no idea how many guards Brazil might have at his disposal.

  He saw a narrow track descending below the edge of the plateau, released the brake, continued down the track - out of sight of the villa. He drove on down the track, stopped suddenly. The track ended - at a sheer rim dropping into the glacier.

  I should have brought my Armalite rifle, he thought.

  He got out, approached the rim cautiously. The view down into the glacier just below was one of the most spectacular sights he had ever seen. The long sea of sheer ice glittered in the sunlight, refracting various colours.

  He frowned, blinked, closed his eyes, opened them again. Yes, he had been right - the glacier was on the move. Very slowly, like some incredible animal stalking its prey. Crevasses, which looked bottomless, were appearing as the ice broke apart. It reminded him of a graveyard for dinosaurs - because the glacier was as ancient as the prehistoric beasts which no longer roamed the earth.

  There was something sinister, doom-laden, about its almost imperceptible, implacable movement. He found it hypnotic, jerked his eyes away from this phenomenon of the might of nature. With his canvas satchel over his shoulder, he followed the edge of the rim which climbed upwards. To his right was a gradual snowbound slope, slanting down from the top of the plateau. He had to find some way of approaching the villa unseen. He had already made up his mind he must destroy the aerials on top of the villa, the key, he suspected, to Brazil's communication with the outside world. There would be no telephone inside the place - even Swiss engineers would balk at laying phone lines up the mountain and radio telephones could be intercepted. He stopped suddenly. A figure had appeared.

  Marler was close to the first sign of vegetation he had seen. A fossilized tree, bare of all foliage, twisted and gnarled, its thick trunk bent over, a few branches extended towards the sky as though in supplication. He moved in front of the trunk, looked up.

  Marco, the sunlight on his face, wore dark glasses, his slim body swathed in a fur coat. Marler stared. Something twitched at the back of his mind. The Reeperbahn, the notorious district in Hamburg. He had strolled inside it once at night. Outside a club he had seen the picture of a knife-thrower. He had paid the entrance fee, had joined the audience inside.

  The knife-thrower was entertaining the audience by throwing knives at figures of men painted on sheets. Each knife had dived into the chest of the figures - and the figures he was throwing them at appeared without warning and from all directions. The knife-thrower was Marco, the man who now stood looking down at him.

  The white face grinned, a deathlike grin. Marco opened his coat, revealed a belt round his waist holding at least a dozen long wide-bladed knives. He held up his hands, cupped them over his mouth, shouted in French.

  'You should not have come, my friend. Say your prayers.'

  He had a knife in his hand in a second, raised his hand above his head, hurtled it through the ice-cold air. Marler, still in front of the tree trunk, ducked. He heard a swish, glanced at the tree trunk. The knife had landed, was twanging just where his chest had been.

  Marler recognized Marco had the tactical advantage -he had the high ground. Something would have to be done about that. He was too far away for a certain shot with a Walther. Marler slipped behind the tree trunk, was no longer an easy target.

  As he had hoped, Marco advanced down the slope, coming closer, moving sideways so he could see behind the tree trunk. Still not close enough for a Walther. He had to encourage Marco to use up his collection of knives.

  He peered quickly round the tree, dodged back instantly. A second very close swish. The knife was embedded in the edge of the tree trunk, where the side of Marler's head had been. Marler calculated Marco would expect him to peer round the other side of the tree. He peered round the same side as he had before.

  Poised on the slope, Marco had to change the direction of his throw. The third knife thudded into the side of the trunk Marler had peered round. Too close for comfort. Then silence. Marco was trying a new tactic, Marler felt sure. He felt inside his canvas satchel, brought out what his fingers had grasped. He had risked taking off his glove. Marco was wearing gloves on both hands.

  Marler ran out into the open along the rim. He had been right. Marco had run silently down the slope so he could target Marler behind the tree. Caught off balance by his enemy's sudden move, Marco, close to the rim, raised his hand, holding another knife. Marler threw the stun grenade. It landed at Marco's feet.

  The knife was never thrown. Marco flung both hands up, dropped the knife, staggered forward. He seemed to pause at the edge of the rim, then stumbled forward. Marler watched his body spinning as it fell toward the glacier. It was not a long drop and Marco, still vaguely conscious, tried to clamber upright on the ice. He lost balance for the second time. Marler continued watching as the knife-thrower vanished, sliding down inside a crevasse. The ice began to close over it.

  Looking up as he hurried up the slope, Marler saw that the villa had been in view during the last deadly duel. It couldn't be helped. He must move quickly.

  Inside the villa Brazil had observed Marco's attempt to wipe out the intruder, had seen Marco's grim end as he disappeared down the crevasse. He hurried to the door of his transmitter room, opened the door, called out.

  'Elvira, we have an intruder. Marco is dead. The intruder is approaching the villa. Deal with him.'

  'I am not leaving the villa. Your meal is ready.'

  'You were trained to use a machine-pistol,' Brazil raged.

  'You said Marco is dead. The man who can kill Marco is good. I am not leaving the villa.' the squat woman said obstinately. 'Your meal is ready.'

  'Then put the wretched thing on the stove and keep it warm,' Brazil shouted at her.

  He'd have to get Luigi to fly back some of the guards from the Kellerhorn. He had a helicopter pilot, a local hired for his knowledge of the area, not one of his own men. He hurried to the transmitter room, shut the door, composing the message he would send in his head.

  'Marco is dead,' Elvira repeated like a litany as she waddled back to her kitchen.

  Taking the risk that more guards would appear, Marler ran up the slope, paused. No one in sight anywhere. Most odd. He ran again until he was within a few feet of the perimeter fence.

  He extracted something else from his satchel, something protected with great care. All the way up the mountain he had worried that he might encounter a rocky patch which would shake the vehicle. The drive up had been smooth all the way. He would be very relieved to get rid of what he was carrying in his gloved hand.

  He stopped for a moment, estimating the distance. They hadn't built the fence far enough away from the villa. Holding his right arm high up, behind his shoulder, he hurled the stick of dynamite.

  It sailed through the air, landed exactly where he had aimed, exploded with a roar amid the network of aerials. The masts were shattered, fragments flying up into the air, larger pieces topp
ling over on top of each other. Where they had stood on top of the flat roof there was now a scrap heap of tortured, twisted, destroyed metal. Marler turned and ran back to his four-wheel-drive.

  Sitting in front of the transmitter inside the villa, Brazil shuddered under the impact of the explosion. Plaster from the ceiling showered down into the room, but the roof held firm. It had been built of reinforced concrete to withstand the huge weight of winter's snow and ice.

  Compressing his lips, Brazil, wearing the headphones, attempted to tap out the message. Nothing. The transmitter was dead. He now had no means of communicating with Luigi. Cursing, he went to the kitchen, which also served as a dining room.

  The table was laid and the moment he appeared Elvira carried a steaming dish of pasta and mince meat to the table in front of where he sat. She glared at him. Brazil sat down, looking at the pilot who was reading a magazine in a corner.

  'Have you plenty of fuel?' he asked.

  'Well tanked up,' the pilot replied. 'It was only a short flight here.'

  'Then, when I have eaten, you could fly me across to the buildings on the Kellerhorn?'

  'Easily. It would be safer if we landed there before it is dark.'

  'Eat!' Elvira commanded. 'The stomach must be fed. I heard a bang,' she said placidly.

  'Never mind about the bang.'

  'Marco is dead.' she said.

  'For God's sake don't say that again.' Brazil shouted, slamming down his cutlery.