Precipice

by Colin Forbes

  Marler drove back down the mountain road in a happier frame of mind than when he had ascended it. He had been only too glad to get rid of the dynamite. And it had done the job. Which meant Brazil could not summon more of his thugs to meet him, coming up as he drove down.

  He was still puzzled by the lack of more guards, but Marler never wasted time or energy on mysteries he couldn't solve. Now he was concentrating on reaching Sion before night fell, although at the moment the valley way below the abyss was aglow in the dusk.

  With a sigh of relief he reached the bottom, drove on into Sion. He parked his vehicle, walked the rest of the way to the Hotel Elite to report to Newman on the day's work.

  'Excellent news.' Newman commented in his room. Marler had reported while Philip and Paula also listened.

  'Mind you.' Marler warned, 'I'm sure Brazil is now on the Kellerhorn. I had just reached the valley when I heard - then saw - a helicopter flying from the direction of that villa towards the Kellerhorn. There was a chopper on a helipad outside the villa when I arrived.'

  'So we assume Brazil has now taken personal control of the ground station. Ready to activate something far more terrible. Let's pray he's inside the place when we go in and attack tomorrow.'

  'It's been pretty terrible so far.' Paula interjected. 'I've been listening to the radio. All normal BBC programmes on the World Service have been suspended. They're continually broadcasting more news of smashed communications systems all over the world. To say nothing of the people who have been killed. Even, in a few cases, businessmen working from their homes with all their computer equipment linked to the information superhighway.'

  'Plus.' Philip added, 'the most alarming rumours from Moscow. That the city is ringed with advancing troops - crack divisions. And a General Ivan Marov is supposed to have issued a proclamation closing the frontiers of Russia from Vladivostok on the Pacific to Belarus in the west. The President, it's alleged, is ill, has been taken to a clinic.'

  'Terror tactics to unnerve the West.' Newman commented. 'But really it's developed into a duel between two men - Tweed versus Brazil.'

  'You have a plan for destroying the ground station?' Marler enquired. 'If so, I ought to know the details.'

  'We do have a plan.' Newman assured him, 'a plan largely devised from something Philip observed when he was on the Kellerhorn with Paula. They worked out the plan between them. I have approved it. Give you the details after Philip and Paula have left.'

  'Bob.' Paula said emphatically, 'when did you last get some sleep?'

  'Can't remember.'

  'I thought not. As soon as we leave you get some kip. You can tell Marler the plan when you wake up. You'll be fresher. Marler can stay on guard while you're comatose which - from the look of you - you will be the moment your head hits the pillow.'

  'Where are Butler and Nield?' Marler asked.

  'Prowling the streets.' Newman replied. 'Both wearing black leather outfits and helmets like the Leather Bombers, and riding Fireblades. They're checking for signs of the opposition. Butler is keeping an eye on that airfield.'

  'We could shoot them.' Marler objected.

  'We thought of that. Both Harry and Pete have red crosses painted on the fronts and backs of their helmets.'

  'And where are Paula and Philip off to?' persisted Marler, who always liked to be in the complete picture.

  Paula had taken out her .32 Browning, was checking its action. Philip had just slipped the mag out of his Walther, examined the weapon, then rammed the mag back inside the butt before returning the gun to his hip holster.

  'They're on their way to try and find a man called Anton Marchat,' Newman told him.

  'Last seen at Devastoke Cottage in Dorset.' Marler recalled.

  'When you find him.' Newman went on, 'ask him if he knows anything about the Kellerhorn, about the ground station.'

  'Do our best.' said Philip as he got up and left with Paula. 'We're walking there.'

  The streets of Sion were deserted and silent after dark. Philip, who had studied the street plan, guided them in the right direction. Paula realized they were heading for the enormous hunk of rock with an ancient building on its summit which dominated the town.

  'How are you getting on with Eve, Philip?' Paula asked. 'Or would you sooner not talk about it? You haven't seen her for awhile.'

  'I've decided she's no good for me. She's a consummate liar. I've detected that, even when I've been glad to be with her. One part of my brain seems to function in spite of the grief for Jean. I know now my feelings for Eve were an infatuation, a dangerous one.'

  'So you're going to ditch her?'

  'One way of putting it.' Philip laughed without humour. 'I think women are more realistic than men about women. More ruthless in their assessment, too. If they've got brains, and you're fully equipped with them.'

  'I didn't put that very nicely.' She paused. 'Philip, we are being followed.'

  'I know.' They rounded a corner. 'Quick! Get into that doorway. Keep perfectly still. Don't say a thing . . .'

  As they huddled into the alcove-like porch Philip took out his Walther. Paula already had her Browning in her hand. They waited, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Paula found the atmosphere eerie. The side-street was as black as coal tar. The nearest street lamp was a long way away. The silence was oppressive, like a heavy blanket pressing down on her. They went on waiting, two figures like waxworks, neither moving a muscle.

  When five minutes had passed Philip told Paula in a whisper to stay where she was. He walked quietly out into the street, peered round the corner. No one. Nothing. Not a sound. He went back to the doorway.

  'I don't think it was our imagination, but whoever it was he's gone. So let's get moving. It could be a relevation - talking to the highly elusive Mr Marchat.'

  40

  'Well.' Philip remarked, as they neared the great rock, 'we should certainly recognize Marchat.'

  'He looks a most unusual character,' Paula agreed.

  They had both studied their photos of Anton Marchat before Marler had arrived in Newman's hotel room. His full face was hairless, very smooth skinned. The face was roundish, the eyes were the most compelling feature. They stared out of the photo from under heavy lids, as though hiding secrets. A gentle face but without the hint of a smile, and a note of determination about the chin. The hair had been smoothed down so it appeared as though it had been painted on his skull.

  'What's this?' whispered Paula, grasping Philip's arm.

  It was a place which encouraged whispering, as they huddled under the massive rock which sheered above them. As he had at frequent intervals, Philip suddenly looked back, plunged his hand inside the satchel looped over his shoulder.

  'Don't be startled.' he hissed.

  Turning round, he hurled the object in his hand at the place where he had seen the stooped shadow. The stun grenade landed, the shadow vanished behind a wall. The grenade exploded. The weird silence was broken by the sound of its hideous crack. Philip stood quite still, the Walther now in his hand.

  'Have you gone mad?' Paula whispered. 'You could kill a pedestrian.'

  'I definitely saw the shadow of a man following us. He won't be so keen to follow us now. Don't forget that Newman believes The Motorman is in Sion. We don't want to lead him to Marchat.'

  'I suppose you know what you're doing.'

  'I do know. We're close to the street where Marchat is living . . .'

  Paula stared ahead, her eyes now well accustomed to the dark since clouds had obscured the moon when they had started out. A small colony of ancient houses had come into view and she realized what old Sion had once been like.

  Crouched under the sheer rock face towering above them the old houses stood almost shoulder to shoulder, were built of wood, two storeys high with sloping shingle roofs. One house was even perched on a mass of rock with a wooden staircase leading up to it. The windows all had shutters which were closed. Here and there was a gleam of light whe
re shutters met, but some of the old houses were empty, Paula felt sure. They were a world -a century - away from modern Sion.

  'Which one?' Paula whispered.

  'They have numbers.'

  Philip shone a pencil torch briefly on a square of wood with a number, just visible, carved into the square.

  'Number 14 is where Marchat lives. It must be that one standing back between two other houses.'

  His pencil torch flashed on and off quickly.

  'This is it. Take a deep breath. Say a little prayer. We're a long way from Devastoke Cottage.'

  Paula's heart sank when she saw there were no gleams of light showing between the shutters. Philip lifted the wooden knocker, shaped like the head of some animal, knocked quietly several times, waited.

  They seemed to wait for ever and Paula, looking up, could have sworn the huge rock outcrop above them was leaning slowly further out. Then there was the sound of a key grinding in a lock and the heavy wooden door opened about a foot. A chain with huge links was still holding the door so no one could enter. A woman's voice spoke in French.

  'Who is it?'

  'We have come all the way from Dorset in England to see Mr Marchat.' said Paula, believing she had a better chance of persuading another woman to open the door at night.

  'You must have the wrong address. There is no one here with that name.'

  'I am Paula Grey. I have a friend with me, Mr Philip Cardon. We are both English. My friend saw Sterndale Manor burning with the old General and his son, Richard, inside it. Your husband escaped death only because he was at a public house in Wareham, having a drink.'

  There was a pause. They couldn't see the woman because there appeared to be no light on in the place. Paula felt sure there was someone else close to the woman.

  'This means nothing to me.' the woman eventually said.

  Oh, Lord, Paula thought. Did I make a mistake assuming she is his wife? She ploughed on.

  'The man responsible for setting fire to the manor was Leopold Brazil. He has his own house near Sterndale Manor. It is called Grenville Grange.' More silence. Paula was becoming desperate. 'We have come to warn Mr Marchat that the man who killed Partridge, thinking he was murdering Mr Marchat, is in Sion. He is called The Motorman.'

  'Let them in, Karin.' a man's voice called out.

  Paula puffed out her lips with silent relief as Karin removed the huge chain, opened the door, told them to come in. They walked into the dark slowly, checking with their feet for invisible steps, but there were none. The door was closed, a light came on, a lantern suspended from a chain in the middle of the small room. Karin locked the door, refastened the chain.

  Philip blinked in the light. In a rocking-chair sat a small man, his face the image of the photo they had studied. He wore a green jacket and heavy dark brown trousers and his clean white shirt was open, revealing a strong neck. The lids were half-closed over the eyes as he gazed at each of them, then they opened wide. His voice was soft.

  'Please sit down. Those two chairs are comfortable. Karin, bring our guests some wine, please. The wines of the Valais are very fine.' he told Paula.

  'You will want to see proof of our identity.' Philip said, taking out his SIS folder.

  Marchat waved the folder aside. He smiled, a slow smile.

  'I heard every word you said. Your information is more convincing than any identity card - those things can so easily be forged. Years ago, I earned good money forging them myself.'

  Philip would have waited but Paula plunged in so he looked round the room. Everything was made of wood. A table laid for breakfast. Karin was a methodical housewife. The chairs, carved and stable-looking, were made of wood. The floor, covered here and there with rugs, designed in tasteful colours, was made of wooden planks. He felt he had been transported back to the beginning of the century. But the room was cosy - a pleasant warmth glowed from an old stove in the centre of the room with a round metal pipe rising vertically and disappearing through a hole in the wooden ceiling.

  'You won't have heard, but there has been a disaster all over the worldRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET' Paula began.

  'Excuse my interrupting, but I have heard.' Marchat indicated an old radio, made of wood, of the type popular in the nineteen-thirties. 'A communications blackout. That is Brazil?'

  'That is Brazil's work.' Paula agreed. 'But there is far worse to come - unless we can destroy the ground station he has built on the Kellerhorn. You know about what he calls a weather station?'

  'I have seen it. But first I drink to your health.' He lifted an old-fashioned wineglass. Paula raised hers along with Philip and Karin who, having served the drinks, sat close to her husband. 'Karin is my wife of many years.'

  Marchat said, putting down his glass. 'I met General Sterndale by chance, he said I looked a good worker and offered me the job at his manor. He paid me very well in cash. It will help us during our old age. And that weather station is something far more sinister. He has great scientists from all over the world working for him. He pays them a fortune.'

  'They are there voluntarily?' Philip asked, continuing to speak French.

  'Oh, yes. They make more money in one month than they could make in a year in the countries he has brought them from. He was clever. He said he would arrange luxurious housing for their wives or girl friends to keep them happy. Inside the fence built round the main buildings was an abandoned village . . .'

  'Abandoned?' queried Paula.

  'Oh, yes. Up in the mountains there are a number of such places. The young people do not wish to endure such a hard life. They leave the Valais and go off to well-paid jobs in Montreux and Geneva. The Valais is dying.'

  'Sorry, I interrupted you,' Paula said.

  'Yes, he had the Italian architects who built the complex convert those apparently unused houses into small palaces. Occasionally the wives are taken with their men to a dinner in a private room at one of the big hotels on Lake Geneva.'

  'What worries us,' Philip intervened, 'is how to destroy the fake weather station, which is where Brazil is using his system to annihilate world communications. When Paula and I were up there this morning I noticed the slope above the buildings looked unstable.'

  'It is very unstable. One day it will slide down when it is disturbed. That will be the end of Brazil's evil plan. The Italian architects he employed told him it was perfectly safe. They wanted the job of designing the place. He got them in the end.'

  'How do you mean?' asked Paula.

  'The project is completed, Brazil puts them in an air-conditioned bus to take them to the railway station. He hands out bottles of excellent wine. The bus starts off. Halfway down the brakes fail, it goes over a precipice. No one can talk about what they have built.'

  'Can I ask how you know all this?' queried Philip.

  'Because I lived here then. Just after the so-called accident to the bus I met General Sterndale and went to England. Earlier I used to walk up the mountain, taking a pack on my back with sleeping bag and food.'

  'You walked up!'

  Paula was astounded. She couldn't prevent herself glancing at Marchat's stocky legs, bulging against his trousers.

  'I took my time. I made friends with one of the workmen, a man from Slovenia who spoke French. He told me what was going on. I went up dressed like one of the workmen so the guards would not notice me. So many workmen.'

  'I think we've taken up enough of your time,' Paula said. 'The information you have given us is invaluable.'

  'Use it to wreck that man.' Marchat growled.

  'Thank you for the wine.' Paula had turned to Karin who, slim and calm, had listened. 'It really was very good.'

  'I made it myself,' Karin admitted and flushed with pleasure.

  Marchat reached out a gnarled hand, grasped his wife by the wrist affectionately, squeezed it.

  'One thing before we go,' Philip warned as he stood up. 'Under no circumstances let any stranger into this house - whatever yarn he spins you. Just keep the door shut.' He deliberat
ely held Marchat's gaze. 'We know The Motorman is in town . . .'

  * * *

  Newman listened to their report of the visit to Anton and Karin Marchat when they had returned to his room at the Elite.

  They sound a nice couple.' he said when they had finished. 'And, without realizing it, Marchat has confirmed our plan will work. So, let the morning come quickly.'

  'Bob.' Philip said earnestly, leaning forward in his chair, 'I think we should give them a guard. Butler - or Nield - would be ideal.'

  'I can't do that. Reluctantly.' Newman replied firmly. 'We will be heavily outnumbered when we attack. Every man - and woman - will be needed. Sorry, but that's the way it is. The top priority is the destruction of that ground station.'

  'I'm nervous about their safety.' Philip persisted.

  'And I agree with him.' Paula chimed in.

  'Then you'll both have to control your nerves.' Newman told them grimly. This is a time when hard decisions have to be taken. I've just taken one.'

  He stopped, jumped up at the sound of a peculiar tattoo on the door. Even though he recognized it he had his Smith & Wesson in his hand as he unlocked the door, opened it a crack, then wide. Butler and Nield walked in, holding motorcycle helmets, clad from head to foot in black leather. Paula noticed the red crosses painted on their helmets.

  'Coffee?' Newman offered as he locked the door. 'It's fresh, delivered for Paula and Philip not ten minutes ago.'

  'Black and strong as sin for me.' said Butler. 'And we didn't locate any sin on the streets. No Leather Bombers.'