Precipice tac-14

by Colin Forbes

  Tweed jumped up, ran to Paula's desk where he knew she kept several polythene bags containing earplugs. She used them when she was close to a large helicopter landing. Grabbing one of the bags, Tweed ripped it open, saw Paula's smoked glasses, grabbed them, too.

  He rushed to Monica's desk, slipped a pair of the dark glasses over her eyes. When she opened them he pointed to the earplugs, gesturing to his own ears. She was inserting them as Tweed inserted a pair in his own ears. He snatched his own pair of smoked glasses from a drawer and put them on as he ran onto the landing outside. Looking down the stairs he saw Howard, obviously just woken up, stumbling into the hall.

  'Howard!' he roared. 'Get back into your office, close the door and stay there. Get a bloody move on…'

  Shocked by the violence of the orders, Howard obeyed, disappeared into his office, slammed the door shut.

  'George!' Tweed shouted at the top of his voice to the ex-soldier who guarded the front door. 'Run into the waiting room. Stay there with the door closed until I come down.'

  George, looking dazed, staggered into the waiting room, shut the door.

  Tweed took a deep breath, adjusted his earplugs. The fiendish shrieking, very high decibels, was reverberating inside his head. He forced himself to run up the stairs. The door to the communications room was open. Once again they had been working late. The emphasis was on had.

  Appalled, Tweed entered the large room. The computer screens had gone mad. No longer green, they were flashing at immense velocity, a variety of incredibly brilliant colours, blindingly bright. The colours seemed to recede for a fraction of a second, and then lurch out of the screens again.

  The screeching sound emitted from the screens varied in intensity, a deafening blast which he could hear clearly despite his earplugs. But what appalled him most was the state of the three men who had worked there. Reginald was flopped back in his chair, his head hanging over the rest. Tweed checked his pulse. Nothing.

  He compelled himself to fight the sense of disorientation which was in danger of overcoming him. The other two men lay sprawled on the floor beside their chairs. When he checked their pulses he found nothing.

  He glanced round the room, saw the main cable. Taking a grave risk, he grabbed hold of it, hauled it out of its socket. The screens died quickly, fading away into blanks. The diabolical noise, rising and falling, rising and falling, also faded. Tweed pulled out his earplugs, was struck by the heavy silence, took off his smoked glasses. Leaving the room he ran downstairs, opened the door to his office.

  Monica, looking very shaken, had just taken out one earplug. She removed her dark glasses when she saw Tweed was without his.

  'What happened?' she croaked.

  'I imagine the telephone is out of action.'

  Tweed lifted the receiver, was surprised to hear the normal dialling tone. He handed the receiver to her.

  'Call an ambulance urgently. Paramedics vital. Three men unconscious, may be dead.'

  He left his office as Monica began dialling madly. He had little hope that even paramedics could do anything, but in medicine you never knew. He dashed downstairs to the ground floor, opened the door to the waiting room.

  'What was that, sir?' George asked. 'Start of World War Three?'

  'Not as bad as that. You can go back to your desk.'

  He ran to Howard's room, opened the door. His chief was staring out of the window. He turned round with a bemused expression. Shock.

  'What's happening?' he whispered.

  'Brazil has started. That's just the first phase. We have to stop him before he launches the second one. You look flaked out. Go home to bed. I'm taking charge…'

  He left before Howard could reply but he sensed he would not be protesting. Running back upstairs, he opened the door to the room where the night duty staff worked. Fortunately, there were no computers here or any of the junk which went with them. Four men looked up at him as though emerging from a dream. The fact that their door had been closed had saved them from a dreadful experience.

  'What was that, sir?' the senior member asked. 'I opened the door and then slammed it shut.'

  'Damned good job you did. You're all right, then – all of you?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Then carry on with what you were doing before it started. It won't happen again. I've immobilized the equipment in the computer room. Don't go down there.'

  On his way back to his office, running down more stairs, Tweed called down to the guard.

  'George, paramedics will arrive at any moment. Show them up yourself to the Computer Room, then go back to your post. Tell them where I am.'

  He went back into his office, closing the door. Monica was on the phone. She gestured madly to his phone.

  'Paramedics are coming. I've got a chap at the MoD on the line. Manders. He's scared out of his wits.'

  'Hello, Manders. Tweed speaking.'

  'There's been a catastrophe. All our computers have gone down. The operators are dead. There were violent flashing lights and…."

  '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…'
<
br />   '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.

&nb
sp; 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.