by Colin Forbes
'Again it would be a disappointment. I saw some fool of a pedestrian pick up the weapon, having a good look at it before a uniformed policeman arrived and took him away with the gun. Any prints of Craig's would be smudged out of existence.'
'Pity. That leaves Craig in the clear. He's more than a hired thug. He's amoral and enjoys his work, I'm sure. I'd like to meet him again.'
'Maybe you will, so be careful,' Tweed warned. He checked his watch. 'We'll have to leave soon to catch that express. Only another half-hour at the outside. It will be dark for a while, so let's hope it has a dining car.'
Brazil had just finished an early breakfast, brought to him by room service, when there was a knock on his door. He called out 'Come in,' and Gustav entered, with a small box in his hand.
'What is it?' demanded Brazil.
'My idea has worked already. May I put this cassette in your recorder so you can listen?'
Brazil tensed inwardly. He had hoped Gustav was wrong in his suspicions that an informant, a traitor, existed within his organization. He had always chosen staff so carefully, checking them out himself. He nodded his approval and listened as Gustav started the small tape.
You know who this is? Jose's voice.
Yes. You have more information for me? Another voice, also speaking in English, but with a guttural accent Brazil suspected was faked.
Brazil and three key members of his team, Craig, Luigi, and Marco, are leaving by jet from Kloten this morning bound for Sion. Jose's unmistakable whispering voice again.
Thank you. I am still willing to make a payment to you. The other voice.
No. I want no payment. Brazil is a violent and evil man. I will keep you informed of developments. Jose once more.
Gustav rewound the tape, looked across the desk at his boss, who was gazing out of the window where, through a slit in the curtain he could see snow falling.
'Shall I replay the tape?' Gustav suggested. 'I always was suspicious of Jose. Too smooth.'
'No! I don't want to hear the damned thing again. How did you manage it?'
Gustav showed him the miniature tape-recorder. It had four suckers attached to its base.
'I merely placed this under the surface of his desk so it would pick up phone conversations.'
'Very ingenious.' Brazil sounded disappointed. 'I'll summon Jose when you have left. He will be travelling with me aboard the jet now. Is there any point in your staying here any longer?'
'The helicopter which was going to transport me to Sion is still standing by at Kloten?'
'It is.'
'Please keep it waiting for me. There is still another suspect I wish to check out.'
'The name?'
'I still would prefer not to mention it. After all, I might be wrong.'
'As you wish.'
Gustav, he reflected as his deputy left the room, liked to be secretive, which probably accounted for his reliability. I hope to God there isn't another rotten fish, he thought as he forced himself to press his intercom to summon Jose.
There was another knock on the door and he braced himself not to show his feelings when Jose entered. But it was Marco, bringing in Igor, who loped forward and flopped on the floor beside Brazil.
'He's been fed,' Marco explained. 'He'll fall asleep in no time.'
'Thank you, Marco. I'm expecting someone else…'
Absent-mindedly, his mood on what he had heard on the tape, Brazil took a cigarette from the gold box on his desk. He rarely smoked except in moments of tension. He called out after someone knocked on the door and Jose came in. He hurried forward, took hold of an onyx lighter on the desk, held it to light the cigarette. Brazil had to exert all his self-control not to dash the lighter out of Jose's hand. He let him light the cigarette, leant back in his chair.
'Jose, there is a limo waiting for me at Sion?'
'Yes, sir. I sent another driver with it as you instructed me.'
'I have decided I only feel comfortable with you behind the wheel. So you will fly with me in the jet to Sion.'
'It will be my pleasure, sir.'
'That is all.'
Igor had stood up when Jose had lit the cigarette, had given a low growl. It was extraordinary, Brazil thought, how the hound had sensed his own suppressed feelings of venom towards Jose. He stroked the dog.
'Igor, you'll soon have to work for your supper. Let's see whether you have forgotten your training.'
Tweed checked his watch again in his room and looked at Newman, who sat quite relaxed in a chair. By his side was his packed case and a canvas bag with a shoulder strap.
'Ten more minutes and we should go to the station.' Tweed remarked.
'Best not to get there too early.' Newman agreed. 'I know Beck has cleaned out the Hauptbahnhof but you never know – he could have missed one watcher. And we have the tickets.' he added, producing the envelope he had collected from the concierge's desk.
The phone rang. Tweed pursed his lips, picked it up.
'Yes? Who is calling?'
'The man from Kimmeridge.' said Archie.
'You have more news?'
'Yes. Our very important friend and top members of his team will be leaving this morning. They will fly from Kloten to the Valais.'
'Thank you. We will be leaving here soon. I do appreciate your keeping me up to date.'
He told Newman what Archie had said. Newman shrugged.
'We knew that already. Beck told us.'
'But it shows how closely Archie keeps his finger on what is happening. He's quite a character.'
He had just finished speaking when the phone rang. Tweed tightened his lips. Should he answer? They were due to leave shortly. He picked up the phone.
'Monica here. Thank heavens I've reached you!'
She was speaking quickly and Tweed detected great anxiety under the surface although, being Monica, she was calm.
'What's happened?' Tweed asked. 'If you could keep it brief.'
'Howard has panicked, gone right over the top. Someone is needed here urgently to take control.'
'What caused the panic?' Tweed enquired, checking his watch again.
'The rumours on the international grapevine -rumours that a major coup is imminent in Moscow.'
'Where are the rumours coming from?'
He received the answer he had least hoped to hear.
'That's the odd thing. I am sure they are deliberately being spread by some central organization. And not from Russia. Somewhere in Europe. But Howard is seeing the PM almost hourly, working him up with his panic. It's very serious.'
'What you're suggesting.' Tweed said grimly 'is that the situation is bad enough for me to return to London at once?'
'They're running round like headless chickens. And the atmosphere is getting worse by the hour. Yes, I think you should return. Howard has no idea I'm making this call.'
'Where is Howard now? Could I speak to him for just a minute?'
'I'm afraid not. He's over at Downing Street, waiting to wind up the PM some more.'
'Monica, you realize you're talking to me in my room. There's an unimportant item I'd be interested in. You have obviously been checking these rumours carefully. Where did they start?'
'That's difficult to say.' Monica paused, then went on quickly. 'Zurich.'
After he had told Monica he would call her back when he had had time to take a decision, Tweed told Newman what she had said.
'Could all this come from a rumour factory?' he asked Newman. 'You've had a lot of experience as a foreign correspondent.'
'It could, easily. All you need is a top-flight organization, a big staff, and a brain like Brazil has for planning. You then arrange to phone the right man or woman at key radio outfits, TV – and the newspapers. You'd time it carefully so simultaneous calls were made – to London, Paris, Bonn, Madrid, Stockholm, and Washington. They would immediately start checking with each other and find the same rumours everywhere.'
'It would be the first phase of Brazil's plan. Sometimes,'
Tweed mused, 'I think Brazil hates America more than Russia – because of his being thrown out as chief executive in the States. The Americans frighten easily -imagine the panic in Washington if Russia overnight became rampant again.'
'What are you going to do about Howard?'
'I'm thinking of putting you in sole command of the team we're sending to Sion. That I'll have to fly back to London before Howard does any more damage.'
'I'm ready to go, then.' Newman stood up. 'I'll be looking for the ground station controlling that satellite, Rogue One.'
'That has to be Brazil's key weapon to spread chaos in some way. You know, Bob, if I didn't detest Brazil's violent methods, I'd have a sneaking sympathy for what he's trying to achieve – to wake up the West.'
'He's a villain who employs villains.' Newman looked at Tweed as he heaved the shoulder strap of his canvas bag over his shoulder. 'One thing I've been going to ask you. With both Bill Franklin and Keith Kent you haven't ever mentioned to either of them the existence of The Motorman.'
'Must have slipped my mind…'
'Oh, come on!'
'Well, I have a strong feeling that we have already met and know The Motorman.'
32
When Philip, standing on the platform at Sion station, had watched the express carrying Inspector Leon Vincenau disappear, he felt thirsty. Exploring the lonely station he found a restaurant, to his relief. He went inside, ordered coffee from the pleasant waitress he addressed in French.
He suddenly felt bone-weary, with a desperate need to talk to someone in this grim Valais. Apart from himself the place was empty and he smiled at the waitress. She began talking at once.
'I hope you are not thinking of climbing a mountain. The weather is closing in and we have already had a tragedy.'
'What tragedy is that?' asked Philip.
'Two Englishmen with an American girl went skiing on a slope. They had been warned it was dangerous. They were all killed in a snow-slide yesterday.'
'I'm sorry to hear that – even if they were warned.'
'There is a mystery, so we have heard. The American girl had a bullet in her back. The police have transported the bodies to Geneva.'
'A bullet in her back? You mean someone shot her? So where did the tragedy take place?'
'I will bring you a map.'
Obviously glad of someone to talk to, the waitress hurried away, came back with a map which she unfolded and spread on the table. She pointed to an area on the northern mountains rising up behind Sion.
'It happened near the Col du Lemac on the Keller-horn. That is the name of the mountain, which means Wild Boar Mountain – because the summit is shaped like the head of a wild boar. To get there you have to drive up this dangerous road…' She pointed to a road which, marked on the map, looked like no more than a narrow yellow thread. 'That is where the new meteorological station has been built. It has been in working order for some time.'
'A weather station? A state enterprise?' Philip enquired casually.
'Oh, no! A very wealthy man had it built. He is interested in making weather forecasts more accurate. It was built very quickly before the snows came. It must have cost him a fortune. He brought in workers from outside and they worked in three shifts all day and all night.'
'How could they work at night?'
'He is clever. He had huge arc lights erected so the men could work easily in the dark. He brought most of the workers from the Balkans. Now they have returned to their homes with their pockets full of money.'
'And this weather station is close to the Kellerhorn?'
'It is built on the Kellerhorn, close to the summit. He has it well guarded against vandals. His security force patrols the area day and night.'
'And was it close to this station where the tragedy you have just described took place?'
'Yes, it was. We hear the police visited the chief of security but neither he nor any of his guards had seen the skiers.'
'Point out the site of this weather station to me on the map, if you would be so kind.'
The waitress made a small cross below the word Kellerhorn. She looked at Philip.
'You seem interested. You can keep this map. I have another one.'
'Thank you.' He took the map she had folded and put it in his pocket. 'I suppose you wouldn't know the name of the man who had the station built? He must be very well known round here.'
'No one knows his name. He arrives in a private jet at the airfield outside Sion. A big car with tinted windows so you cannot see inside waits for his plane, then takes him up to his villa.'
'His villa? That is near the weather station?'
'Oh, no. It is in the mountains on the other side of the valley. He had it built when they were creating the weather station. The villa was completed first. It is very remote and overlooks a glacier. I could show you on the map.'
Philip took out the map again, unfolded it, spread it out. The waitress's finger followed another yellow thread of a road, again with frequent zigzags, like the road to the weather station. She marked the position of the villa and the glacier below it. The area was called Col de Roc.
'You want to see the villa? You will have to hire a car with chains. That road is as dangerous as the other one. But do not go now.'
'Why not?'
'Because we have heard this very important man is due to fly in to the airfield. A friend who knows the controller told me. He is always escorted with motorcyclists.'
'Do you know where I could hire a car with chains?' enquired Philip. 'I could go to see this villa when he has gone.'
'Wait a minute. I have a street plan of Sion…'
She rushed off again, eager to please this man she had taken a fancy to. He was so polite, so interested in the Valais. She returned with the street plan, pointed to a cross she had already marked.
'That firm will hire you the car you want. You will have no difficulty. All the tourists have gone. It is the weather – and the few who might have stayed heard about the tragedy.'
'And about the bullet in the American woman's back?'
'Oh, no! That is a secret. The police have told us we must not mention that to anyone who visits Sion. Really I should not have told you, but I got carried away talking to you.'
'I promise not to say a word about it. There, I have had three cups of coffee while we were talking. How much do I owe you?'
She told him. She also said he could keep the street plan of Sion. When he had given her a generous tip she frowned.
'It is too much. And you asked me for the name of the important man. I said I did not know. But I have just remembered the name of the unpopular man who supervised the building of the villa and the station.'
'Why was he unpopular?'
'He was a big man with no manners. An Englishman – you will excuse me for saying that. You are English, of course? I thought so. The English are usually polite but this man was very rude. He spoke to people as if they were slaves.'
'And his name was?'
'Craig.'
Philip left the restaurant in a bemused state. He recalled something Newman had once told him from his experience as a foreign correspondent.
'Philip, if you want to find out something when you are in a new town, don't ask leading questions. Simply mix with the locals – in a bar, in a cafe. Get them talking. There are a lot of lonely people in the world who will tell strangers things. Be a good listener. And if you are listening to a woman who likes you, then you will be surprised how much she will sometimes tell you…'
He was glad he had removed his fur-lined coat before sitting down in the restaurant. Ice-cold air hit him as he stood on the platform. A door opened, the waitress ran up to him.
'You left your gloves. Do put them on. The mist is with us. Otherwise you may get frost-bite.'
'Thank you. You are most kind.'
She had run back inside the restaurant. He realized his hands were freezing. He felt bemused again as he looked across to Sion. A dense white mist had descende
d on the Valais. It shrouded the town in a motionless layer. To his right what looked like a small mountaintop sat on top of the mist. Perched on its summit, probably a couple of hundred feet high, was what looked like an ancient castle. As he watched, the mist layer rose to cover the summit, leaving only the castle-like building which appeared to float in mid-air.
Carrying his bag towards the exit he almost paused, then kept moving. Three motorcyclists clad in black leather with their visors pulled down over their helmets had appeared, were swaggering towards him.
'You want a girl?' one of them shouted in French. 'Then come with us. She will warm you up.'
'I am afraid I can't understand you.' Philip replied in German.
The three louts parted to let him pass just as he reached them. The same man shouted behind his back in French.
'Bloody Kraut.'
Philip ignored the insult, left the station. It began to look as though Sion crawled with Craig's bodyguards.
The mist swirled everywhere as he entered the town looking for a hotel, carrying his bag. Like the icy fingers of a ghost it smoothed over his face, a sensation he found distinctly unpleasant. Here and there it thinned, showing him the buildings.
This part of Sion, which he later realized was most of the town, was not what he had expected. Instead of old houses there were modern office blocks of concrete, shop fronts which were also modern and boring. Because he had walked straight out of the station along the Avenue de la Gare he quickly saw Hotel Touring, a small block of white concrete.
He didn't hesitate. The hotel was near the station and the mist was growing thicker. He went inside, booked a room. While the receptionist took details from his passport he peered into a bar, which had a circular counter of wood, a wooden ceiling, wooden stools at the bar, wooden tables and chairs. They have a lot of wood in Switzerland, he thought.
Once inside his room he partially unpacked his bag, leaving underclothes inside to conceal his small armoury. He also took out two rubber wedges which he pushed under the door, a trick Marler had taught him.
'Hotels always have people with master keys,' Marler had reminded him.
Philip had hung up his coat but now he took off his heavy sports jacket. The hotel believed in keeping its visitors warm and the room was almost hot. He would have liked to go down and eat another breakfast but he was suddenly overcome with a wave of fatigue, the penalty of a disturbed night at the Hotel des Bergues in Geneva and constant alertness since he had started the day – including never relaxing in the presence of Inspector Vincenau.