by Colin Forbes
It was the middle of the night when Butler, slumped behind the wheel of the Sierra parked outside the Falcon, heard a car approaching down the steep hill. He sat up, took a bottle of beer he'd kept for the purpose, swilled some round in his mouth, spat it out of the window he'd opened. Newman was taking his duty stretch in the Merc, in the park behind the inn where he could also keep an eye on the Escort. In the wing mirror Butler saw the headlights of the oncoming car dip. When it stopped close to him he saw it was a cream Chevrolet. He recognized the driver as soon as he stepped out and came over.
It was the big American with dark brows which almost met across his boxer's nose. The American who'd tried to pick a quarrel with Newman in the bar at the Metropole in Padstow.. Butler had seen the Yank as he slipped past the bar entrance on his way with the others to the elevator. But the Yank had not seen him.
'You been here long, buddy?' the American asked.
'Hours. What's it to you? I had a skinful back in the inn and I'm not risking getting caught by a patrol car. So you have a problem, mister?'
'Maybe my approach was wrong.'
'So, we've got that settled. You lost?'
'You know the area?'
The American was eyeing Butler carefully. He leaned inside the window. Butler chose that moment to manufacture a large belch. Beer fumes assailed the American's nostrils. His brutal face showed distaste.
'I asked you a question.'
'I know the area. And I asked you a question, mate.'
'You been here long?' the American persisted.
'I told you. Something wrong with your memory?' Butler snapped.
'Sorry. Wrong approach again. It's a friggin' cold night. I'm looking for a Mercedes 280E. Blue colour. Seen a car like that around here?'
'No.'
'Sure?' the American persisted further.
There you go again. Asking the question I've answered. And you still haven't answered mine. You lost or something?'
'My pal and I – the one in the Merc. – were going to meet with each other. I've lost the note he gave me of the name of the hick place he said he'd wait.'
'I was right, mate,' Butler jeered. 'You are lost.'
'How do I get out of this dump?'
'This is a very small and attractive village. You piss off out of it by driving straight on. Get it?'
The American gave him a savage look, walked back to his Chevrolet, clashed the gears and gunned the motor as he drove off, not giving a damn how many people he woke in the middle of the night.
'And you just missed getting a bullet in your gullet,' Butler said aloud.
He holstered the Walther he'd been holding in his lap under his windcheater. Checking his watch, he saw it was 3 a.m. Nield would be coming to take his turn while Cardon relieved Newman at any moment. He grabbed for his Walther again as a slim figure appeared next to his window. It was Nield.
'Time for your beauty sleep, Harry. Had a restful doze?'
Newquay Airport – several miles outside Newquay itself-was one of the bleakest departure points Paula had ever seen. Perched on a lonely plateau in the middle of nowhere, it was little more than a grassy field crossed by concrete runways. An eight-foot wire fence surrounded it and 'reception' was little more than a single-storey shed. They had found a place they could leave the cars and Tweed had reassured the attendant.
'It's a business trip and we might not be back for some time. All right to leave our cars?'
'At your own risk, guv'nor…'
Newman asked the girl behind the counter the question after they had checked in with their luggage when Tweed had collected and paid for the tickets.
'Yesterday a helicopter buzzed us as Padstow, nearly sank the boat we were in,' he lied smoothly. 'Does anyone ever hire choppers from here?'
'It happens occasionally, sir. Yesterday? I heard two Americans hired a machine for a few hours. It caused a bit of gossip – one of them had a British pilot's licence, which is unusual. And your flight is ready for departure…'
Newman exploded after they had all trudged across to the waiting machine with their luggage. It was a sizeable plane but he pointed at the nose.
' Look at those things!'
'They're propellers,' Tweed said quietly, knowing Newman disliked prop aircraft. 'It will fly, you know.'
'Yes, but will it get there? And we seem to be the only passengers for the 11.05 flight
The Brymon Airways aircraft was in mid-air before Paula looked down on the grey landscape. She was seated next to Tweed who stared ahead grimly.
'A penny for your thoughts. You've been very quiet since Harry Butler told us at breakfast about the reappearance of the American brute.'
'I'm worried and relieved at the same time,' Tweed admitted. 'Staggered that one of them should turn up at an out of the way place like St Mawgan. You realize what that means?'
'No, but you might tell me. I expect you will anyway.'
'For one to arrive in St Mawgan they must have an army of them combing Cornwall for us. '
That's the worry. What's the relief?'
'That I guessed right early on in this sequence of macabre and mass-murder campaigns against us. To operate on such a scale calls for an organization of enormous magnitude. With all this firepower against us the ultimate enemy can only be one source.'
'You're not going to tell me what it is, are you? Before you say it, I'm sure you need more data to be absolutely sure. But where are we going now? London could be a death-trap.'
'It would be exactly that,' Tweed agreed. 'Which is why we're flying on to the one safe haven.'
'I suppose I shouldn't ask where?' Paula remarked.
'Switzerland. Where we have a powerful friend.'
15
'Norton is on the private line, Brad,' said Sara Maranoff.
'OK. Put him through. Time that street bum got results.'
'Brad, Norton is the best we've got. Hold yourself in. I also have Ms Hamilton waiting to see you.'
Sara knew what Ms Hamilton was about. She glanced round the Oval Office, checked that there were plenty of cushions on the large couch stood against one wall. She waved her index finger at him, warning him to cool it with Norton.
The President often omitted to shave until the end of the morning. His jaw and upper lip would be covered with a black stubble. But this morning he was freshly shaved, wore a smart blue suit with a crisp clean shirt and a tie. Ms Hamilton, Sara thought. Had to be at his best for her.
'I'll leave you to take your call,' she said.
Alone, March pushed back his chair, planted his feet on the desk top, crossed his ankles. He picked up the phone kept in a drawer.
'That you?' he barked.
'Norton here. I need those reinforcements…'
'They're aboard United flight 918 flying non-stop to London. Over the Atlantic as I speak with you. That's all the rest of Unit One we had in reserve here. Marvin Mencken is in charge.'
'That barracuda
'He's the best…' March remembered Sara's warning.
'I mean the best next to you. Now where are we with this goddamn problem? Where is Joel Dyson? Where is Special Agent' – his tone was savagely sarcastic – 'Barton Ives? Give.'
In Zurich
'You've traced those bastards? Well, well. Miracles still happen. They're six feet under the ground now?'
'Not exactly. Not yet…'
'Don't give me no smoke, Norton. You sittin' on your thumbs out there? What the hell is the position?'
'We know both men are in Zurich. They've been seen but they disappeared again. Temporarily…
Temporarily is too long. What about the CIA shyster – Cord Dillon?'
'No sign of him yet, but we'll track him. An operation like this doesn't happen overnight.'
'I want all three of them put away for good. Norton, your head is on the block. There's always Mencken…'
March slammed down the phone, inserted a thick finger inside his neckband, loosened it. The phone rang again as he st
ood up to go to the door. He snatched it up.
'Yes?'
'Norton here. We got disconnected. I'm handling this my way. I'll be meeting Mencken's flight at London Airport. I'm flying to Zurich to take personal charge. How many reinforcements are aboard that flight? I need specific information.' A brief pause. 'Mr President.'
'Forty men. With what you've got you should be able to check everyone in Switzerland.'
'I said I'd handle this my way…
The line went dead. March stared at the phone. Norton had had the balls to hang up on him. He remembered what Sara had said. Norton is the best. So maybe he was.
He checked his appearance in a mirror, went to the door, opened it, beaming his famous smile. The elegant blonde woman waiting on a seat outside returned the smile, walked in, he closed and locked the door. Taking her by the arm he led her to the couch, turned her round, lowered her gently.
'You've got too many clothes on, Glen. I'll start by undoing this top button…'
Swissair flight SR 803 had departed from London on schedule, taking off for Zurich at 13.50 hours. Tweed and his team were aboard in first class and had that section to themselves. One of the advantages of flying in February.
The Brymon Airways flight from Newquay Airport had arrived on time at London at 12.15 p.m. Tweed had collected and paid for the tickets by calling on Jim Corcoran. He had then had a tough conversation with Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan when he phoned him at the Yard.
'Where are you?' Buchanan had snapped.
'My whereabouts are not important. I see there has been not a single report of the massacre at Tresillian Manor in the press. Nine corpses and the press isn't interested? I suspect a "D" notice has been issued to the press. What excuse was used this time? A matter of national security?'
'This is a major anti-terrorist operation, Tweed. Which is all you're getting out of me. And there were ten corpses. A Tresillian Manor servant girl called Celia Yeo was found at the foot of High Tor. An anonymous caller alerted me. You wouldn't know anything about it, I suppose?'
Buchanan's tone dripped sarcasm. Tweed made him stick to the point.
'A major anti-terrorist operation? You really swallowed that? So they've got at you too…'
'My patience has run out with you, Tweed. I want you here at the Yard yesterday.'
'You're a man of integrity,' Tweed said quietly. 'You know you should be investigating a case of mass murder.
And not by terrorists. Don't take it out on me because they've fenced you in.'
'I said I expect you here at the Yard at the earliest possible moment. Needless to say, you don't leave the country.'
'You're still evading the main issue. Check up on the mass murder in Cornwall. Check on who set up fake roadblocks one night recently. Get a description from anyone who was stopped by them. Make sure you ask what nationality they were…'
'Are you telling me how to do my job?'
'I'm simply suggesting you actually do your job. Have to go. Goodbye
Sitting next to Paula in mid-air he had relayed his conversation with Buchanan to her. He made his comments after he told her how he had ended the call.
'The significance of that verbal duel was what Buchanan didn't say.'
'What was that?'
'He didn't deny he'd been told to pigeon-hole the case. I expect he was ordered to by the Commissioner. After the Commissioner had taken a call from Downing Street. They have thrown a tight net round the whole horrific business.'
'But why? I'm getting scared the way Howard can't contact the PM.'
'Someone with immense power has thrown out a smokescreen. By labelling these violent events as the work of a major terrorist organization it gives the people at the top a perfect excuse for their inexcusable actions. I know I've just contradicted myself, but you grasp what I'm getting at.'
'Except I can't grasp who could have such an evil influence over our Prime Minister.'
'Read the papers – the international news. That's where one of the keys lies. Now I want to give a message to the pilot to be radioed ahead of us.'
'Can I see it?' Paula asked, her curiosity aroused.
While Tweed was writing on a small pad he'd taken from his pocket Paula glanced beyond him from her window seat at Newman and Cardon who were seated opposite across the aisle. Newman grinned at her, gave a thumbs-up signal. Tweed and Paula occupied the front seats where there was plenty of leg room. Immediately behind them sat Butler and Nield who had refused drinks and remained very alert.
Tweed finished writing, showed her the message, put it in an envelope, sealed it and called to the stewardess.
'Could you please hand this to the wireless operator? It's very urgent.'
'Certainly, sir
Paula sat frowning. She asked her question as the plane flew on over dense clouds which looked just like the Alps, shining in the brilliant sun. At that moment the aircraft was barely midway between London and Zurich.
'I thought you said Switzerland would be a haven of safety?'
'It won't be,' Tweed said with a face like stone. 'Not for the opposition once I locate them.'
The radio message, addressed to Tweed's old friend, Arthur Beck, Chief of Federal Police, had been terse and to the point.
Urgently request full protection six people aboard flight SR 803. ETA Kloten Airport, Zurich, 1625 hours your time. Tweed.
The plane had begun its descent to Kloten when Paula saw out of the opposite window a breathtaking panorama of a great range of snowbound mountains. Massive in their continuity, she realized she was staring at the Bernese Oberland, the most spectacular mountains in all Europe. She continued gazing at them. They reminded her of some enormous tidal wave about to engulf the entire continent. The descent increased in angle, the view vanished. Beyond her own window there was nothing to see but a curtain of clouds drifting past, growing denser as they dropped lower and lower.
Suddenly the clouds cleared and the lights of Switzerland were coming up to meet her. The stewardess returned again, whispered to Tweed.
'We've had instructions from Zurich Control that you and your party will leave the plane first after landing.'
'I'm glad you added "after landing," Tweed joked.
Paula sensed his sudden change of mood – Tweed was looking forward to the opportunity to take action. She felt her own spirits rise. For days she had lived in a state of suppressed terror. She stared eagerly out of the window again.
They were landing – she could see the forest of evergreens which surrounded Kloten Airport. The Swiss pilot brought the machine down so smoothly the wheels barely kissed the concrete runway. As they emerged Paula saw a familiar figure waiting just beyond the metal platform leading from plane to airport building. The Chief of the Federal Police. He took hold of her in both arms and hugged her.
'Welcome to Switzerland, Paula.'
'I'm here too,' said Tweed, amused because he knew Beck was very fond of Paula.
Arthur Beck, in his forties, was slim and plump-cheeked. His most arresting features were his alert grey eyes beneath dark brows and his strong nose above a trim moustache. Of medium height, he moved his hands and feet quickly, his complexion was ruddy and he wore a smart grey suit, a blue striped shirt and a blue tie. Tweed quickly introduced him to Philip Cardon: Beck had met the others before and knew Bob Newman well. He led the way, talking rapidly to Tweed and Paula in perfect English.
'We're bypassing Passport Control and Customs. I have limos outside waiting to take you wherever you want to go.'
The Hotel Schweizerhof opposite the Hauptbahnhof. It will be our official residence but we won't actually be staying there. We'll be at the Hotel Gotthard just behind the Schweizerhof,' said Tweed.
'You are taking great precautions, my friend,' commented Beck. 'This must be a very serious affair.'
'A matter of life and death – for all of us. I'll tell you what's happened while we're driving into Zurich.'
'Our bags,' Paula intervened. They'll be delivere
d to the carousel…'
'We travelled first class and were the only passengers,' Tweed said quickly.
'Easy.' Beck grinned. He spoke to an aide in plain clothes who had walked alongside them. As the man dashed off he explained. 'I've told him to collect all the first-class luggage off the carousel. He'll bring it to the cars…'
They were escorted via a devious route which bypassed Passport Control and Customs. Striding across the concourse, Beck guided them to a convoy of three waiting stretched Mercedes, all black in colour. Near by uniformed motorcyclist police waited, straddling their machines. Beck gestured towards them as he opened the door of the first car.
'Outriders. Our escort. After receiving your message I decided to take no chances. I drop you outside the Schweizerhof?'
'Yes, please,' said Tweed. 'Later we make our way on foot one by one to the Gotthard. I've booked rooms in both hotels…'
It was a twenty-minute drive from the airport into the centre of Zurich. Beck sat next to Tweed in the rear of the limo while Paula was seated alongside Tweed. The driver wore civilian clothes, as did the tough-looking individual in the front passenger seat.
Newman, Butler, Nield and Cardon occupied seats in the limo behind them and the third car was full of more men in plain clothes. The outriders on motorcycles led the way into the Swiss city while two more brought up the rear.
Beck listened in silence as Tweed told him concisely everything that had happened to them – including the bombing of SIS headquarters in London and the events in Cornwall. Frequently the Swiss glanced back through the rear window. At one moment he interrupted Tweed for the first time.
'Excuse me, I have to radio a message to the rear car. We were followed from the airport by an Impala – significant, possibly, that it is an American car…'
Picking up the microphone slung from the side of the car he spoke in Switzer-Deutsch, the dialect understood only by the Swiss. Tucking the microphone back on its hook, he explained after again glancing through the rear window, 'I ordered interception. The third car has just stopped that Impala. They'll think up some fictitious traffic regulations the driver's broken to delay him. And all these cars are bulletproof. Your story, Tweed, is very strange, but of course I believe you. It might interest you to know there are too many Americans arriving in Switzerland -especially in Zurich.'
