Tourists wrapped up against the cold in padded ski jackets and brightly-coloured scarves ambled along the street, occasionally stopping to gaze in a shop window. Expensive watches, clocks, wood carvings and tablecloths vied with cheap souvenirs in neighbouring stores. Models of the Jungfrau, tin cable cars, handkerchiefs embroidered with edelweiss, Swiss Army knives, postcards and various tat. Across the road, at the edge of the green, golden light spilled from the Schuh restaurant. A few stalwarts huddled outside close to the heaters, sipping drinks and eating the restaurant’s famous gateaux.
Suddenly, Zinzli nudged Dupont in the ribs and nodded towards a man staring at some lethal-looking hunting knives in a shop window. His face was slightly distorted by the artificial lighting of the window display. Moving closer, he surreptitiously studied him as he pretended to admire a cuckoo clock. Aware of the presence at his shoulder the man looked into the mirror at the back of the window display and stared at Zinzli. For a fleeting moment a pair of hard eyes held his gaze.
“Come on, let’s go back to the hotel for a brandy. I’m freezing!” Zinzli complained. “That’s him. I’m sure of it,” he said as soon as they were out of earshot.
“What makes you so certain?”
“He was very good-looking, reddish-brown hair, right height and build.”
“I’m not so sure,” Dupont replied doubtfully.
“His eyes, that’s what makes me certain. The seamstress described him as handsome, but his eyes terrified her; made her shudder. If it’s not him I’ll buy you dinner when we get back to Geneva.”
They tailed him down the street, past the Hotel Beausite, and over the river bridge. He seemed to be making for the car park behind the supermarket. The exact spot where Zinzli had left his old Volkswagen. Suddenly, the man ducked into a discount alcohol store.
They waited until he re-emerged carrying a bag and followed him over the bridge to the car park. He jumped into a black 4 x 4 and drove out onto the road.
“That was a stroke of luck!” Zinzli exclaimed, engaging the clutch.
They tailed him at a safe distance, relying on the popular make of car to provide them with some cover. There were lots of Volkswagens in the area, but he knew that sooner or later, the driver of the 4 x 4 would spot them.
“He’s heading towards Lauterbrünnen,” Dupont said.
They were two cars behind the 4 x 4. It was travelling very fast now, over the speed limit. It slowed down as they reached Lauterbrünnen and drove sedately through the town. Once outside, it raced down the road to Stechelberg. Open grassland on either side of the darkened road stretched out towards the foot of the mountains. Lights twinkled high above them from chalets set into the mountainside.
Zinzli peered through the darkness at the speeding vehicle. Suddenly, a flickering light up ahead caught his eye. At the same time the 4 x 4 veered off the road onto a side track. It headed across the fields towards a dark shape silhouetted against the moonlit sky.
“It’s a helicopter!” Dupont exclaimed. “He’s heading straight for it!”
Zinzli turned off his headlights and rolled slowly forward. He stopped about two hundred metres away. Two men jumped out of the 4 x 4 and ran towards the chopper. In seconds, the helicopter took off and turned its nose towards the Alps. Zinzli and Dupont watched it rise up and disappear over the peaks until the blinking light disappeared. Suddenly, the 4 x 4 turned full circle and roared across the fields towards them.
Slamming the Volkswagen into gear, he shot off down the road looking in his rear-view mirror for the pursuing vehicle. All he saw were its red tail lights disappearing into the gloom.
“That was a close call. I could have sworn he’d seen us,” Dupont said.
“There’s something very odd going on here,” Zinzli muttered. “This isn’t a landing place. Why doesn’t he use a legitimate heliport? Besides, it’s lunacy to fly over the Alps without contacting air traffic control, especially at night in adverse weather conditions. Something smells very fishy to me, Dupont. We’ll get back to Geneva first thing tomorrow morning and report to Dreher.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Geneva, Switzerland
Zinzli waited for Dreher to finish his telephone call. After replacing the receiver he sat back in his chair. For a few seconds he swung from side to side tapping his lips with his finger. He had just finished speaking with Jack Conrad in London. He was flying back out to talk to Sophia about the masked man he had encountered in the facility in the mountains. She was an expert profiler, skilled at compiling psychological profiles of criminals.
It should have been a police profiler, but it was vital that knowledge of the Generalissimo was kept within a tight circle. If it leaked out and the media got hold of it, it could cause a panic. He swung around and gazed directly at Zinzli.
“I know I can trust you implicitly, Bastien, but I must emphasise that what I am about to tell you is top secret. It is restricted to only a handful of people. I had to get clearance from the most senior level in Interpol and British Intelligence.”
“That’s understood, sir.”
“We believe the man you were following is linked to an organisation known to British Intelligence as the Black Militia.”
“Black Militia? I don’t understand.”
As the story unfolded Zinzli couldn’t believe what he was hearing. British Military Intelligence had been sourcing this organisation for some time, yet the Swiss police knew nothing about it. Dreher had kept quiet about Wallace’s involvement other than that he was investigating murders on his patch.
“Not even Wallace knew from the outset that there was a link between the bodies found in Shropshire and Conrad’s investigations. Campbell, the man you were looking for in Interlaken, was also linked to the murder of Joanne Howard aka Anya Sharapova. There are a lot of questions hanging in the air, Bastien. Why did he murder her? What was her role in the Black Militia? What had she done to deserve her execution?”
“This Black Militia, sir; are they mercenaries?”
“Some of them are probably just working for the money. Others may be on a power trip like the Generalissimo. It’s hardly an army: more like a small force of discontents and potential terrorists attacking infrastructures through cyberspace.”
Dreher suspected there was something more sinister involved than merely hacking into computers. It must be something they had been planning for a very long time.
“What do you want me to do, sir?”
“Go back to Interlaken for a few days. Keep your eyes peeled for any further sightings of Alex Campbell. Don’t try to apprehend him or challenge him in any way. Just watch, wait; follow him if necessary. Report back to me personally on anything you consider unusual. On no account give any details to anyone else. Is that clear?”
“What about Sergeant Dupont? He’s bound to ask questions.”
“You need some backup with you just in case. Tell him that Campbell is suspected of drug-dealing, of smuggling the stuff into Britain. On no account let him know the real reason you’re staking him out. By the way, Zinzli, I think you can book into a cheaper hotel this time.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Shropshire, England
Wallace’s mobile jangled in his pocket. He gulped down the dregs of a mug of stone-cold coffee.
“Wallace!” he barked.
“You sound as though you’ve had a bad night,” Conrad laughed at the other end.
“It’s just this bloody case. It’s so frustrating! What’s up?”
“Dreher tells me that his men spotted Campbell in Interlaken. They followed him to a field just outside Lauterbrünnen where he was picked up by a helicopter. It flew off over the mountains and disappeared in the direction of the installation I uncovered. I’ll have to go back up there again.”
“You can’t go back up there! They’ll be on the lookout for you!”
Conrad sighed. “There’s no other alternative unless you are willing to come out and fish around; see what you can find ou
t about this Militia. I know it’s asking a great deal.”
“It’s a far better option. They don’t know what I look like or that I’m involved.”
Wallace was ex-military intelligence. He knew the drill and had all the right qualifications. An engineering degree, expertise in military weapons, computer-assisted design and rapid prototyping. He was the perfect candidate. IMIC would create a whole new identity for him. Sexed-up army records, false passport and civilian history.
“Take the afternoon flight from Birmingham tomorrow. You’ll find a false passport in your pocket before you reach the checkin desk. Come to Dreher’s place in Thun. We can work out the finer details there. There’ll be a hire car waiting for you at Geneva International Airport under the name Alan Munro. Don’t worry, we’ve squared it with your Chief Constable.”
Wallace heard a click before the line went dead. Quickly, he rang Butler to tell him he would be on special leave until further notice.
“Contact me via my mobile if it’s urgent. I want your complete cooperation on this, no questions asked. Is that clear? All you need to know is that I’m working on strict orders from the Chief Constable, but keep that under your hat.”
Wallace smiled to himself. Crew Cut Charlie would be furious, especially as he was being kept in the dark. He imagined him spluttering with indignation when the CC ordered him to back off. He stuffed the phone back in his pocket. A thrill of excitement coursed through his veins. Grabbing his car keys, he almost bounced over the drive to his car. A wide grin spread over his face. He couldn’t wait to get back into harness again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Thunersee, Bernese Oberland
The plane landed in fog, concealing the airport buildings until they were almost upon them. Dim runway lights glowed in the gloom as they taxied to a stop. Impatiently, Wallace waited for the sign to change to green and unfastened his safety belt. He was travelling light, as instructed. His overnight bag contained a change of underwear, socks, a shirt and an extra sweater. Everything else would be supplied when he got to Dreher’s house in Thun.
Barely able to contain his impatience, he shuffled down the aisle behind a line of chattering students rigged out in brightly-coloured skiing outfits. He showed his false passport and drifted towards the exit. Once outside, he headed for the Hertz car park and picked up the Volvo estate Conrad had organised for him. It was a hundred and ninety-one kilometres to Thun. At least two hours driving; more if the fog worsened.
Three hours later he pulled into the driveway of Dreher’s chalet on the shores of Lake Thun. The house was a blaze of lights. The sound of children’s voices and laughter reached his ears. As he walked from his car the door swung open spilling light onto the snow.
“Ben, come in before you freeze to death,” Dreher urged, quickly closing the door. “Jack is already here. We’re having a drink while Sophia finishes preparing dinner.”
Smells of cooking hit Wallace’s nostrils as he walked past the kitchen. He couldn’t resist poking his head round the door. Sophia looked elegant as usual.
“I hope you’re hungry, Ben?”
“Famished. I’ve been dreaming about your cooking all the way over on the plane.”
Sophia fluttered her eyelashes flirtatiously and blew him a kiss. With a wicked grin she turned back to the stove.
In the living room an enormous log fire burned in the grate throwing flickers of orange light round the comfortable room. Wallace turned his back to it and luxuriously warmed his buttocks until Sophia announced their meal was ready.
After dinner Dreher ushered the two men into the sitting room and settled round the fire with large brandies.
“We already know Joanne Howard and Colin Lynes are linked to the Black Militia,” Conrad said. “I’m convinced that Alex Campbell is also involved.” Dreher and Wallace nodded in agreement. “Gilbert from MI6 confirmed that Colin Lynes was summarily executed by the Russian Secret Service for diverting information passed on by Bruce Foley to this self-styled Generalissimo. Pearce believes there will be an attempt to interfere with business and industrial infrastructures through cyberspace. From what I’ve seen the facility in the Alps is gearing up to create maximum impact.”
“It’s not a new concept,” Dreher intervened. “A few years ago the Norwegians discovered that their oil, gas and water supplies were being targeted. GCHQ intercept traffic and computer viruses targeting our infrastructure on a regular basis. The US shared our concerns about this for some time, but they tend to shrug it off for the public. We need to find out more about the Generalissimo. He may be Russian, probably with links to the Russian Secret Service, maybe the old KGB.”
“Lynes was a ‘sleeper’ for a long time. He knew what happens to agents who double-cross the Russian Secret Service. There must have been huge rewards for him to take such a chance,” Conrad said.
“What puzzles me,” Dreher mused, “is where the Generalissimo gets the money to fund the Black Militia. Could it be from a foreign power?”
“Ben is going to attempt to infiltrate the organisation. Tomorrow, he’ll travel to Interlaken and hang out in the hotel bar where Campbell was last seen. Perhaps he can find some answers.”
Dreher leaned forward, a thoughtful look on his face. He hadn’t told Sophia about the Generalissimo or the Black Militia. She had drawn up a psychological profile based on an imaginary scenario. It seemed to fit with Conrad’s assessment. The Militia was in awe of him. Even his trusted aides were terrified of any transgression that could put them into his bad books.
“Sophia believes the Generalissimo has all the classic symptoms of megalomania. If her evaluation is correct it could be very dangerous, Ben. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”
“The term ‘Generalissimo’ bothers me,” Conrad mused. “I’ve been doing a bit of research of my own. We’ve got the obvious ones like Franco in Spain, China’s Chang Kai-shek and Stalin. Hitler also displayed the same characteristics.”
“Where are you going with this?” Wallace asked.
“They are not the same as the traditional Imperial Russian Generalissimos. There were only four of them. The most well known was Alexander Suvorov. The ideology changed when Joseph Stalin became the fifth Generalissimo. The first and last one of the Soviet Union.”
“You think this Generalissimo has modelled himself on Stalin?” Dreher asked incredulously.
“He’s just as cold-blooded and murderous, but our Generalissimo is more cerebral… and patient. He’s waited a long time to achieve his ambitions. Pearce has harnessed all possible sources of information. It’s stalemate unless Ben comes up with something more specific.”
“Zinzli is convinced that the man he saw was Campbell,” Dreher said. “He’s in the picture, but say nothing in front of Dupont. If he turns up in the hotel Zinzli will mark Campbell out. Now, gentlemen, let’s enjoy our drinks before we turn in.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Interlaken, Bernese Oberland
Wallace sat on a bar stool sipping his lager while he watched the entrance. Zinzli walked in with Dupont and sat at a nearby table. Casually, he started a conversation with a young couple sitting next to him, feigning interest in their skiing vacation. To an observer he was just another tourist.
Two hours later they were still in the bar. Damn it! Nothing is going to happen here tonight. We would be better off patrolling the main street like last time. They were about to leave when a tall, elegant man entered the bar. Immediately, Zinzli picked up a coaster and started to tap it against his chin, his eyes following the man. Wallace felt a ripple of excitement. It was Campbell. The stranger settled himself onto a stool, ordered a whisky and soda and eyed the room. Wallace smiled inwardly. Perhaps he was looking for talent. He certainly had the looks to attract women. There was an animal magnetism about the man. It was only when their eyes met that the underlying cruelty revealed itself.
“Excuse me,” Wallace said. “Would you mind passing the peanuts?”
“Certainl
y,” the man answered in faultless English.
Wallace’s mobile shrilled in his pocket. He pulled it out, listened for a few moments, and snapped it shut.
“Damn!” he exclaimed, knocking back his drink. “Have you got any English newspapers?” he asked the barman.
“Yes, but they’re two days old.” He pointed to a rack near the entrance.
Wallace marched over, pulled out the paper, and returned to his seat. He flicked through the pages. Staring at a page he muttered,
“I’ll get the bastards for this!”
Alex Campbell watched Wallace intently, his eyes flicking to the open page. A picture of Wallace stared out at him under the headline, ‘Army Officer Compromised in Drugs Scandal.’ Swiftly, he read down the column of print.
Captain Alan Munro brought dishonour to his regiment after being found drunk at a lap-dancing club in London. The club, allegedly frequented by drug dealers, has been under police surveillance for some time. An undercover officer witnessed drugs changing hands.
Before he could make an arrest a fight broke out when one of the male customers tried to pull a dancer off the stage. One man was seriously injured after being hit over the head with a chair. Another man died on the way to hospital.
Munro, along with three others, was arrested for possession of small quantities of Class A drugs. He denied the charges insisting the drugs had been planted on him during the fight.
He had no previous convictions. The magistrate gave him a suspended jail sentence of six months. Subsequently, he was court-martialled and dishonourably discharged.
“Is that you?” Campbell asked enquiringly.
“I was fitted up,” Wallace snarled. “Fifteen years in the army… due for promotion. Not a stain on my character. It’s not bloody fair!”
Campbell raised an eyebrow quizzically, inviting Wallace to tell him his story. It seemed strange to him that an officer with a long-standing career should be thrown out for one isolated offence. Still, using drugs was very stupid unless it was to enhance physical pleasure. Not that he would use drugs of any kind of course, but the girls he used were different. He smiled to himself.
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