by Colin Forbes
He had hardly finished speaking when the phone rang once more.
'Bill Franklin is on the line.' Monica informed Tweed.
'No one sleeps these days.' Tweed greeted Franklin.
'I doubt if you ever did.' Franklin replied with a chuckle. 'Your stamina never ceases to amaze me.'
'Don't do so badly yourself. What's happened?'
'Hoped I'd get you. My phone is safe.' Franklin paused. 'But is yours?'
'Come off it, Bill. You know I'll be on scrambler.'
'Good for you. That you remembered to press the button.' Franklin chaffed him. His voice became businesslike. 'My agency team has been very busy. Mr Brazil, at this moment, is in his villa in Berne. On Kochergasse. Almost opposite the Bellevue Palace Hotel. A woman arrived there earlier last night, driving herself in a Renault. A red job.'
'Description?'
'Difficult. She had a scarf over her head, another one round the lower half of her face. She walked very slowly from the underground garage when she'd parked her car. The garage is just beyond the eastern end of the Bellevue Palace. My chap guessed she was in her fifties, maybe sixties. By her walk.'
'Unless she's very cunning.' said Tweed.
'What does that mean?'
'Nothing. Just a random thought. Any more?'
'Yes. Carson Craig, Brazil's deputy, arrived before the woman. He went inside the villa with an ugly-looking thug, a small lean man. Tell you more when I know more.'
'Take down this number…' Tweed gave him the phone number of the Schweizerhof in Zurich. 'I'll be there tomorrow evening.'
'Going on your travels again. So you're launching a big offensive?'
'Not necessarily. Keep me informed of developments.'
'Don't go yet.' Franklin said quickly. 'One more item. My chap watching Brazil's villa said that soon after Craig and Co. had arrived a team of ten motorcyclists came purring along Kochergasse. They parked their machines in the garage and then came out and walked into the villa. They were dressed all in black leather and wore their helmets. In Geneva last night there was a battle in the Old City between similar motorcyclists and someone else – don't know who. The locals, scared out of their wits, have nicknamed them the Leather Bombers. It appears they've now turned up in Berne.'
'That's very interesting. Thank you, Bill…'
As Tweed told the others what Franklin had said, Marler, standing against a wall, was twiddling a king-size between his fingers, not lighting it. He was frowning.
'That last bit of news from Franklin gives me an idea.' he said slowly. 'You'll need protection, Tweed, when we get to Zurich.'
'Yes, you will,' Newman said vehemently. 'I still think this could be a trap.'
'I don't agree.' Tweed replied. 'I'm getting the measure of Leopold Brazil. Despite what villainies he may have been responsible for I think he has his own peculiar code of honour. Now, I'm going to have a doze for thirty minutes. Unless the phone rings to remind us it's there.'
He had taken off his jacket and tie, loosened his shirt collar, when Pete Nield came in.
'Wrong moment?' he said, looking at Tweed.
'No. What is it?'
'I haven't had a chance to tell you what I found out while I was on my own in Dorset. Buchanan is going berserk down there. He's got it into his head the key to the four murders is the missing Marchat and he's turning Dorset upside-down to find him.'
'Thanks for the information. I wish him luck.' Tweed commented, 'Marchat is somewhere in Switzerland.' He shut his eyes and fell asleep.
***
It was snowing as they left Geneva early in the morning with Philip behind the wheel of a hired Audi he'd collected from the airport. Paula, sitting by his side, was thinking I told you so, but refrained from saying anything.
They were light flakes, drifting down, creating a weird luminosity as the moon faded for another day. To her left Paula gazed at the high white outline of the distant Jura Mountains, the old villages across the fields with snow piled on their rooftops.
'The scenery is beautiful.' she remarked. 'Incidentally, and just for the record, do you think we are being followed?'
'No sign of pursuers so far.'
'What time do you think we'll reach Berne?'
'In time for breakfast at the Bellevue Palace. I have been wondering what Archie had in mind when he mentioned Berne.'
'He's probably after another piece Tweed can fit into the jigsaw he's building up.'
'I've also been wondering where The Motorman is now.'
'Don't go and spoil the journey. I'm enjoying it.'
Which was true. Paula, an expert driver, loved being driven by someone who could really handle a car and she assessed Philip as a superb driver. She'd just had the thought when they skidded. Philip went with the skid, pulled out of it before they hit the barrier.
'This light snowfall is masking the ice.' he commented.
'You did all the right things.' she replied. 'And it was clever of you to ask the receptionist at the hotel when we were leaving the best route to Basle.'
'Well, if anyone enquires where we've gone they'll waste a lot of time searching for us.'
'I guessed that was the idea. You know, I have a feeling our trip to Berne will prove to be very uneventful.'
'Famous last words..?'
Tweed woke up, stretched his arms, stood up, put on his jacket after buttoning his shirt and straightening his tie in a mirror Monica held up for him. He felt as fresh as a daisy.
'You did have a deep sleep.' Monica told him. 'Thirty minutes. Cord Dillon phoned back from CIA HQ at Langley and you never batted an eyelid.'
'What did he say?'
'As far as they can tell – subject to double-checking -Rogue One, Brazil's satellite, is describing an orbit which takes it over Asia, Europe, London, the Atlantic, Washington, San Diego, and across the Pacific. He said the orbit seems to vary spasmodically, which doesn't make sense. He is also furious because he says the main orbit seems to pass over the Pentagon. He'll come back with more later.'
'Curious.'
Tweed went over to a globe of the world standing on a corner table, used his finger to follow the orbit Cord had detailed. The phone rang as he was studying the globe.
'Professor Grogarty.' Monica called out.
'He's been quick. Or maybe he has a query.'
'Tweed?' Grogarty gave a hoarse chuckle. 'I've cracked it – with the aid of the microscope I invented. A sticky one, this. The photos show your satellite is a travelling telephone exchange. Most ingenious. Thousands of numbers, but I recognized one.'
'Which one?'
'The top secret one at the Pentagon – linked, I know, to their computers.'
'You know that number?' Tweed asked sceptically.
'Of course I do, man. They're always asking me questions so I need their number to call them when I've worked out the answer.' He chuckled again. 'I spotted another – yoursl What's the orbit of the damned thing?'
Tweed told him, adding that Rogue One appeared to vary its course.
'That's Irina Krivitsky. Remember I told you one of the names on the list you showed me was a top Russian? She specializes in the control and manoeuvre of satellites by laser. Well, it has a laser mechanism embedded into it. But somewhere there has to be a ground station on Earth and another laser system to activate the one in the satellite. I've never seen anything like this bag of tricks.'
'Would it need a team to produce it?'
'Definitely. The kind of team made up by the missing scientists on your list. They could do it. And it's very advanced, is this little baby rotating over our heads. I've sent the courier back to you with the photos.'
'Can't thank you enough…'
'Yes, you can. Send me a bottle of Chateau d'Yquem.'
Tweed put down his phone, thought for a minute, and then asked Monica a question.
'I suppose my personal phone number isn't linked up with that rubbish upstairs?'
Monica looked embarrassed. She got up and
beckoned for Tweed to look behind her desk at the lower part of the wall.
'I was going to tell you, but we've been so busy. No, the truth is I didn't know how to tell you. I thought you'd blame me.'
'Blame you for what?'
'While you were in Dorset Howard came in with some men and said they were installing a cable to link your phone number with that crazy junk they've got upstairs. I protested, but Howard overrode me.'
'Did he now? Well, I certainly don't blame you. Howard obviously chose a time while I was away to pull that trick. He knows my number – the private one -is the most secure in the building.'
Tweed examined the thick grey cable which almost merged with the grey skirting board and disappeared through a well-concealed hole into the hall outside.
'Howard's getting crafty in his old age. But we can't waste time on that…'
He told the others the gist of what Grogarty had reported.
'It's beyond me.' said Monica. 'Didn't he explain it more clearly?'
'I purposely didn't ask him to. I'd have been here all day…"
He broke off as Monica answered the phone, then pulled a wry face.
'Grogarty is back on the line.'
'Hello again,' said Tweed. 'Keep it short, please. I have a plane to catch.'
'You always have. I just wanted to remind you that one of the team on that list – Ed Reynolds from California – is an expert in sabotaging communications. You hear me?'
'Yes. Go on…'
'The too-clever-by-half scientists have invented a global communications system. They've centralized communications. I think your satellite tearing about the skies over our heads could be a very efficient instrument for sabotaging world communications. The question is why would they want to do that? And when? Bon voyage
Again Tweed tersely reported to the others what Grogarty had said. Marler nodded, looked at his watch.
'I've got to go now to catch my flight. I'll be having a chat with my friendly arms dealer in Geneva.'
He gave a little salute, slipped into a smart cold-weather coat with an astrakhan collar, picked up his bag, and left.
'What we have to do.' Tweed said after he had gone, 'is to locate the ground station controlling that satellite.'
'And how do we do that?' asked Newman.
'I've no idea.'
23
Arriving in Geneva, Marler took the same route Paula had followed. He travelled in a taxi, asking to be dropped outside the Hotel des Bergues. There, unlike Paula, he didn't enter the hotel.
Instead, carrying his bag, he crossed the Rhone, which was swollen, by using the footbridge. He paused several times, putting down his bag as though it was heavy, and changing it to the other hand. As he did so he glanced back. The footbridge was empty. For Rico Sava's sake it was important he was not followed.
It was supposed to be daylight but February had ended and March had begun. The worst time of the year for bad weather. Overhead dark clouds drifted over the city, which was just waking up. It was more like a dirty dusk than daylight and he had to watch his footing. The footbridge was a solid sheet of ice.
Leaving the footbridge, he threaded his way into the street where Sava lived and carried on his illegal business. It was almost dark despite the fact that the street lights were still on. He walked past the heavy door leading into Sava's shop. His instinct told him he was being watched.
And I'm not armed yet, he thought. He walked a long way, turned back suddenly. No one in sight. You are getting paranoid, he told himself. Arriving back at the heavy door he closed his eyes after pressing the bell, remembering the glaring light.
It came on. There was the usual wait. Then the Judas window was opened.
'We are closed.' Sava's voice said in French.
'Not to me. It's Marler. Marler,' he repeated.
The glaring light was switched off, the door was unlocked and he walked slowly into the dark. Sava closed the door, relocked it, switched on a light, took the hand Marler had extended, and clasped it between both his own.
'As always, you are most welcome. Not just for the business you bring me, but for yourself. Why do you never pay just a social call, have a drink with me?'
'I will do. One day. What's your tipple?'
'A fine old brandy.'
'You shall have one. When I have the time. Or maybe a couple?' Marler said with a smile.
'A couple, drunk slowly – so we have time to talk. And now, what can I supply you with?'
Marler rapped out his list, a long one. For the first time since he'd known him Sava stared in amazement.
'You are going to clean up Switzerland, start a small war?'
'The other side will start the war, we'll finish it.'
'But you need something to carry that cargo.'
Marler slapped his suitcase on a table top, unlocked it, took out two large flattened bags with shoulder straps which lay on top of his neatly folded clothes. He gave the canvas holdalls to Sava, who took them and began to accumulate what Marler had ordered. He packed them carefully away.
Two friends of yours called here yesterday.' Sava remarked with a smile.
'I know.'
Twiddling a king-size between his fingers but not lighting it, Marler noted Sava had not mentioned one of them had been a woman. A very discreet man. Sava placed a tin ashtray on the table.
'You may smoke. Please do. I will not be very much longer.'
Every item was carefully wrapped in polythene, stacked so nothing would move. Which was important, Marler thought – considering some of the items he'd ordered.
'I seem to remember there's a taxi rank at the end of the street.' Marler recalled. 'Near the Brasserie.'
'That is so. You will be heavily weighed down.'
'One bag over each shoulder and I can carry the suitcase in my hand. Give me the Walther and a hip holster. I'll want that where I can get at it easily.'
'You are a wise man.'
Marler stripped off overcoat and jacket, fastened on the hip holster, checked the Walther's action briefly, slid a magazine Sava handed him in the butt, then slid the gun inside the holster.
Sava told him how much it would all be with a generous discount and Marler took a fat envelope from the breast pocket of his jacket, counted out thousand-franc notes.
'Take care of yourself,' Sava said as he helped Marler on with his overcoat.
Hoisting each of the holdalls on to a shoulder by the straps, Marler picked up his bag as Sava went to the door and started dismantling the fortress.
'And you take care of yourself,' Marler told him. 'I won't forget the two large brandies.'
It was a remark he was later to recall bitterly.
***
The man inside the darkened arcade on the opposite side of the street stayed in the shadows until Marler had disappeared. He then crossed the street, stood in front of the heavy door set back in an alcove. He glanced up and down the street. A few vague silhouettes trudging off to work in the distance. He reached up inside the alcove on his right, pulled at a small metal box which had been attached to the stone wall by suckers. When it came free he pushed aside the hood covering his head, held the box close to his ear, pressed the button which would activate the listening device.
We are closed…
Not to me. It's Marler. Marler…
The words came out clearly, quietly. He shoved the box inside the pocket of his overcoat, took a deep breath, then pressed the bell. A glaring light came on.
He had a long wait. He was used to waiting. Then the Judas window opened.
'Who is it? We are closed.'
'Marler sent me back. Marler needs something else.' the voice said in French, the language which had been used in the recording. The glaring light was extinguished.
Another wait while locks were unfastened, bolts drawn. The door swung inwards and the visitor stepped inside cautiously. Sava closed the door, switched on the light.
His visitor appeared to be of medium height, shoulders stoo
ped. He looked fat, the buttons on his overcoat straining at the threads. He wore a scarf over the lower half of his face, a hat pulled well down over his forehead. He stood very still.
'Well?' Sava asked, an uncertain tone in his voice. 'I thought I had supplied everything.'
'A Smith and Wesson. 38.'
'He wants a second one?' Sava asked.
'Yes, he does.'
'Odd.' Sava stood hesitantly. 'He's never forgotten anything before.'
'A gun like that one over there.'
The visitor pointed. It was a reflex action on Sava's part to look behind him, although his brain told him there was no weapon on view.
As he turned round, the visitor moved swiftly. One powerful arm locked itself round Sava's neck. The other fell on his victim's left shoulder, holding him still. The visitor's arm performed a certain movement. Sava sagged in his arms, his neck broken. He was lowered to the floor on his back, a corpse in seconds. Whoever found him would see his neck turned at a grotesque angle, his eyes open, seeing nothing any more.
The visitor removed his thick motoring gloves, exposing hands wearing surgical gloves. He swiftly fiddled with the security on the door, opened it a short distance, peered out. No one about. He pulled the door almost shut behind him after putting on his motoring gloves and shuffled off down the street. He didn't want too long to elapse before the body was discovered. After all, he was entitled to his fee.
24
'I'm asking you, Craig, why did you want those descriptions I gave you of Paula Grey, Bob Newman, and Philip Cardon – to say nothing of Bill Franklin?' demanded Eve.
She was in her own room at the villa in Berne, had met Craig on the stairs, and, flashing him an inviting smile, had asked him into her room. Craig, misunderstanding her completely – as she had intended he should – had gone into her room like a lamb to the slaughter.
Now she was raving and ranting at him. He was completely thrown off balance. That a mere woman should talk to him like that was beyond his comprehension. He glared at her and attempted to quell her verbally.