Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  I could kiss you, Foley thought, breathing a sigh of relief. If he could stay with them perhaps he could lose himself in the crowd of tourists.

  A bearded man, wearing dark glasses, stared after them as they pushed through the revolving doors. The doorman darted smartly down the steps and held open the door of a silver Mercedes. Bateman pushed a ten-Euro note into his hand and squeezed behind the wheel. Slowly, they slid from the curb and nudged into the stream of traffic. The man and woman ran after them, jostling residents aside in their haste to get to a black 4 x 4 parked at the end of the street.

  “Follow that Mercedes,” the woman ordered, “and don’t lose it.”

  *

  Foley and the Americans boarded the front carriage of the funicular in Lauterbrünnen. The doors automatically slid shut seconds after they settled in their seats. Two latecomers raced to the ticket office then ran towards the train.

  “The doors are locked. You can’t board now!” a uniformed guard shouted.

  In the front carriage Foley watched nervously as Joseph yanked on the door. He pushed his face up against the window, a look of pure venom on his face. Mouthing an obscenity he jumped back as the cogs engaged and the train slowly started its ascent.

  The funicular seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. The very thought of what they had planned sent his mind into a paroxysm of pure terror. He looked at his wristwatch as they left the funicular in Grütschalp and boarded the train for Mürren. His only hope was to try and lose himself in the crowd once they got to the village.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mürren, Bernese Oberland, July 2016

  The effects of the drugs pumped into him hadn’t completely worn off. His bowels churned like a mixer. He was feeling nauseous again and scared; very scared. Ellie patted his arm reassuringly. When they pulled into the station he jumped up and headed for the door.

  “What’s your hurry, Brucey?” Bateman asked.

  “Call of nature,” he shot back. He ran towards a nearby hotel clutching his stomach. Bateman rolled his eyes.

  “The boy can’t take his booze.”

  The Batemans found a table on the terrace of a hotel opposite the station and ordered coffee. Foley rejoined them a few minutes later. He wasn’t sure what to do next, but if he stayed close to them at least he’d have some protection. The village was too small to hide in; just a main street flanked by tourist shops. He had to move on before another train arrived.

  They ambled down to see the ancient chalet the waiter had mentioned. Ellie nervously eyed the cable car making its way down from Berg.

  “You game, Brucey?” Bateman asked.

  Foley didn’t answer. His eyes were riveted at a spot down the road behind him. Two familiar figures were striding along the street, sidestepping people lingering near the shops. The man pointed in his direction. Panic coursed through him. They had spotted him. Quickly, he pulled out a notebook, scribbled a few words, and pushed it at Ethan.

  “Contact Mac.”

  As soon as the cable car lurched to a halt Foley raced towards to the ticket office.

  “Hey buddy, we’re all waiting ya know,” shouted a young backpacker angrily.

  Making his way to the front corner of the car, he scanned the crowd still left on the station. Joseph’s scowling face loomed out of the crowd. Keeping his eyes on Foley he pulled out his mobile phone before running back down the main street towards the train station. It won’t take them long to get back down, Foley thought.

  At last he felt the pull of the cable car as it climbed up towards Berg. He had a ticket for the Piz Gloria. They couldn’t get to him up there. Breathing a sigh of relief he slumped against the window. Lulled by the smooth movement of the car he relaxed amidst the chatter of voices. The scenery dropping away below him was breathtakingly stunning, almost unreal. Berg station loomed high ahead; beyond it, the Schilthorn and the famous restaurant.

  Suddenly, the faint drone of a helicopter caught his attention. In the distance a black dot appeared casting a shadow on the snow-covered peaks. It moved in their direction flying dangerously close to the cable car.

  “The fool, he’s getting too close! He’s trying to take photographs!” a passenger yelled.

  Foley squinted against the light. His heart was beating so wildly he thought he would choke. A figure was leaning forwards pointing at something. It wasn’t a camera. It was binoculars and they were aimed at him. He shrank back desperately trying to hide behind people. The helicopter circled above the cable car for a few minutes then pointed its nose back the way it had come. It flew up towards the Schilthorn and disappeared over the summit.

  Foley’s blood turned to ice in his veins. How had they summoned a chopper so quickly? In a blinding flash of certainty he remembered the article he had read about James Bond. The Piz Gloria had a helicopter pad! Panic rose up in his throat. Beads of cold sweat popped on his forehead, dripped onto his collar. He gripped the handrail, his hands slick with perspiration. He had to get out! Suddenly, his legs buckled underneath him. The young back packer grabbed his arm

  “I’m just a little dizzy and nauseous. It must be the altitude,” Foley lied.

  “Well, it ain’t gonna get any better up there.” He pointed to the Schilthorn towering high above them.

  The cable car lurched into the station, swaying slightly before locking into position. Unsteadily, Foley wobbled out and made for the observation terrace. He had no doubt they would be waiting for him at all cable car stations down to Stechelberg. The only alternative was to trek down the steep trail to Berg. If the cable car arrived without him on board they might assume that he was still on the summit. At least it would buy him some time.

  Sliding on loose shale Foley staggered down the dangerous path leading from the observation platform on the Piz Gloria. Suddenly, he heard the drone of an engine. Turning towards the Schilthorn he saw a black helicopter flying steeply down the mountain. He tried to duck out of sight between some boulders as it thundered overhead. He was trapped like a moth in a jar. It was losing height, pinning him to the spot. A man leaned out of the open door of the craft wielding a bullhorn.

  “It’s no use, Foley! You can’t escape!”

  Mustering all his strength he leapt up and ran like a madman. Another man descended from the helicopter on a wire, unclipping it as soon as he touched ground. Quickly, he caught up with Foley and felled him with a rugby tackle. He clasped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists then shoved him back to the hovering chopper. Bodies locked together, they were winched up inside. Another man was waiting, syringe poised ready to plunge it into Foley’s arm. Through the holes in the balaclava a pair of hard eyes bored through him. Foley shrank back against the metal wall, his eyes darting around the cabin. Too late, the injection had taken its effect.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Generalissimo’s HQ, Swiss Alps, July 2016

  A harsh, white light pierced Foley’s eyelids. From somewhere far away he could hear voices in muted conversation. His eyelids felt as if they had been glued together. He forced them open, blinking against the glare. Figures materialised in the haze. A blonde woman was bending over him. She must be a doctor, he thought. Suddenly, she stopped and pulled a balaclava up over her head.

  “You’ve been too greedy, Foley.”

  Horror rose up in his throat like a coiling serpent threatening to choke him.

  “No! No!” he screamed over and over again.

  The girl plunged a needle into his arm and waited for the drug to take effect. She had given him just enough to make him drowsy. Foley’s eyes flickered open. She smiled, relishing the terror on his face.

  “Goodbye, Foley,” she murmured, pressing a pillow onto his face.

  Ripping off her balaclava the woman waited for the telltale beam of the retinal scanner. She hated the claustrophobic sensation that left her feeling breathless. The Generalissimo would be pleased. After her handling of Foley he was sure to reward her. The steel d
oor slid open and quickly closed behind her. As soon as she stepped over the threshold a uniformed figure, sporting a gold armband emblazoned with five black motifs, barred her way. A stab of envy knifed through her. Only the highest echelons of the militia wore gold armbands.

  Field agents wore silver, red for computer experts, blue for administrators, yellow for security guards. Subconsciously, she touched the three black motifs on her silver armband. Each one represented a step up the ladder. Quietly, the aide tapped on the inner door and stood aside to let the girl through. The masked Generalissimo rose from behind the oak desk. She shifted nervously, waiting for him to speak.

  “Why did you show your face, Anya?” he murmured. “You know how dangerous it is to reveal your identity.”

  Startled, she took a step backwards never taking her eyes from his face. She was perspiring now, terrified of his impending anger. How could she have been so stupid? He smiled beneath the mask, revelling in her raw fear.

  “You are a beautiful young woman,” he murmured, stroking her face.

  Suddenly, he pinched her cheek, squeezing until she cried out with pain. He let go and patted her face. Clasping her hands together she tried to control her trembling. She was brave, he would give her that, but she must be punished. The very existence of the Black Militia was built on secrecy and subterfuge. There was no room for carelessness.

  “There will be no more mistakes,” she replied, tilting her head with a defiance she didn’t feel.

  “Dosvi’ daniya, my little Anya.”

  “Goodbye, sir.”

  Trying not to hurry she marched through the door. Silently, it slid shut behind her. A few minutes later the Generalissimo’s aide came into the room and crossed to a stainless steel device set on a table behind the desk. Lifting the lid he extracted a gleaming ladle, poured the contents into a glass and handed it to him.

  “Prepare the helicopter immediately.”

  “Da,” his aide replied, giving a shallow bow.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Interlaken, Bernese Oberland, August 2016

  Macaleer had been searching for Bruce Foley for ten days. He had scoured the area around Interlaken, but there was no sign of him. The last time he had been seen was leaving the hotel with an American couple. He decided to retrace Foley’s movements, and ride the cable car to the Schilthorn from Mürren. It didn’t take long to realise he was being followed when he headed back to the cable car station. It was the same ‘tail’ every day. Why? The connection had to be Foley. All he knew from Bruce’s last garbled telephone call was that he was in trouble. He sounded frightened and disoriented.

  “They’re on to me, Mac. I’m a dead man!”

  “Bruce, where are you? Why are you being followed?”

  “I’m on the trail from Schilthorn down to Berg. There’s some kind of army… in the mountains… a masked man. Oh God, the chopper’s coming back… Gilbert MI6… ”

  “Bruce! Bruce, stay with me!”

  The beating of helicopter blades roared in his ears; a long, drawn-out scream, then complete silence.

  *

  The lock gave as soon as Macaleer inserted the key to his room. Warily, he pushed open the door. It was a complete shambles. Clothes strewn over the floor, wardrobe doors and drawers wide open. His suitcase had been ransacked. Even his shaving kit had been searched.

  He froze as a scraping sound came from the bathroom. Pressing his back against the wall near the door jamb, he peered through the gap. Suddenly, the door slammed back on its hinges. A burly man, his face covered with a balaclava, burst out of the bathroom. He dived on Macaleer throwing him off balance.

  Mustering all his strength he lunged at his attacker. The man parried the blow bringing his fists up in front of his face. He jabbed a right hook that connected with Macaleer’s jaw sending him staggering onto the bed. As his assailant ran towards the door Macaleer dived for his lower body bringing him down in a tangle of arms and legs. Hauling him face up, he pushed him back onto the floor and sat on his legs.

  “Now, you bastard, let’s find out who you are.”

  As he pulled off the balaclava Joseph sat up and violently head-butted him. Temporarily fazed by the bone-cracking blow he rolled to one side, instinctively covering his head with his arms.

  “You’ve just signed your death warrant,” Joseph snarled before disappearing into the corridor.

  Macaleer pushed himself into a sitting position. He felt as though he had been run over by a twenty-ton truck. Eventually, he managed to half walk, half crawl to the bathroom. Blinking against the light he peered into the mirror. His face was puffed, one eye partially closed. An angry red patch on his jaw was already turning blue. Blood trickled from his nose to his upper lip. Tentatively, he touched his swollen nose. At least it wasn’t broken. After a long soak in the bath, fresh clothes and some hot coffee, he lay on the bed. His head teemed with questions. Who was the masked man? Could it really be an army? Why was MI6 involved?

  *

  Few people would have paid any attention to the man hunched over the table at the back of the dingy restaurant. The wooden plank floors were stained from years of beer spills, stiletto heel pockmarks and ground-in food. Torn leather banquettes, darkened with grime; tattered fringes hanging limply from dirty lampshades. A haze of grey curled above the tables, gathering in clouds that hung close to the ceiling. The whole place stank of stale smoke and boiled cabbage. A faint odour of urine hung in the air near the lavatories.

  Near the bar a woman sat on a high stool swinging her legs provocatively, hoping for potential customers.

  “Bitte?” queried a slovenly waiter who had appeared at his elbow.

  “Kaffee.”

  The waiter noted the way the man’s hands trembled. Probably a drunk or a junkie. There could be a bit of business in the offing.

  Rob Macaleer glanced surreptitiously round the room. From this vantage point he could watch the entrance. He glanced up as the bar door opened. A thickset man pushed his way in, sauntered to a banquette and ordered a beer. Casually, he strode to the counter, picked up a tabloid newspaper and returned to his seat.

  For some inexplicable reason Macaleer suddenly felt uneasy. Throwing some Swiss francs into the saucer on the table he left the bar, glancing behind to see if he had been followed. There was nobody in sight. Quickening his stride, he walked to the end of the street then retraced his steps past the bar. There was still no sign of anyone leaving.

  Rounding a corner into a side street, he mingled with a group of tourists before slipping back into the main shopping area. Behind him a black 4 x 4 slid to a stop. The man in the passenger seat smoothed his hand over his chin. Joseph still hadn’t got used to being without his beard.

  Briskly, Macaleer walked past the gift shops and restaurants heading for the taxi rank. Urgent footsteps clattered close behind. Someone roughly jostled against him. It was the man from the bar! He must have gone out through the back entrance. Suddenly, he turned and faced Macaleer head-on. Every time he stepped sideways Joseph did the same like a pair of comic actors. Patting the bulge in his jacket pocket he glanced towards a group of children, his eyes spewing venom.

  “Get in,” he hissed, nodding towards the 4 x 4, “unless you want some casualties.”

  Macaleer’s shoulders slumped. He was trapped. Joseph shoved him into the rear of the vehicle and secured his hands with plastic ties. Satisfied he didn’t pose a threat, he pushed him down onto the seat. An hour later they slewed to a stop at the end of a disused farm track. Joseph grabbed Macaleer and hauled him out of the vehicle.

  As soon as his feet touched the ground he bolted back down the track towards the main road. He could see vehicles passing the turn-in. Close behind him boots thumped on the stone-strewn path. Suddenly, a burst of machine gunfire filled the air. Macaleer dropped to his knees. He was dead before he hit the ground. Two hours later a lone Englishman on the mountain slopes spotted a motorcycle towing a loaded trailer.

  October–December 2016


  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Shropshire, England

  A faint, low whistle drifted on the autumn air towards the solitary man walking across the field at the edge of the dense wood. Only the soughing moan of the wind through the trees broke the silence. Fine drizzle misted the air, soaking his shoulders. Pulling up his collar he yanked his flat cap down low over his eyes and miserably tramped across the uneven field, mud sucking at his boots.

  “I should be like other men out exercising their dogs – real dogs,” he muttered. “A Labrador or an Alsatian, not a toy poodle with a bloody stupid bow in its hair.” He squinted against the rain, calling softly to the animal snuffling in the damp vegetation.

  The dog raced ahead into the gloom, bouncing along as though she were suspended by elastic. With a wild, excited yap she jumped over a grassy hillock and disappeared from sight.

  “Come on, girl,” he called.

  Cursing, he squelched over the wet ground towards the spot. Turning full circle he peered through the gloom, but there was no sign of the animal. It would be dark soon then he would have a hell of a job finding her. Muttering to himself he strode towards the mound and stepped into nothingness.

  He felt himself falling; falling like a stone into total blackness. He hit the ground with a squishy, muted thud. When he tried to sit up waves of nausea surged through him. His whole body shrieked pain. Feebly, he shouted into the suffocating darkness.

  “Help! Somebody please help me!”

  It was no use. He must try to stay calm and wait until daybreak. The dog walkers would be back out early in the morning and his wife would raise the alarm when he didn’t turn up. With a muffled cry he sank into merciful oblivion.

  Harsh light seared his eyelids from somewhere above his head when he finally regained consciousness. With a flicker of relief, he realised the shaft of light was coming from a jagged hole high above him. He must have been unconscious all night.