Precipice tac-14

by Colin Forbes

  'We would be pushing our luck,' Philip persisted. 'On the map the road up to his villa looks at least as grim as the one up to the Kellerhorn.'

  'Any other objections?' she said, piqued.

  The trouble was, Philip knew, that when Paula had enjoyed a good meal she was fired up again with energy, with get-up-and-go. He didn't like to throw too much cold water on her courage.

  'Not an objection, a worry. Thanks to your swift action we got out of that one alive at the alcove. I'm sure Brazil's villa will be equally well guarded.'

  'So we proceed with caution.' she said and smiled.

  'All right, I surrender.'

  Grinning, he raised both hands high in the air. Paula frowned, leaned over the table.

  'You've got at least an equal say in this decision, Philip. I feel I've been rather pushy. What were we going to do if we'd stayed in Sion?'

  'Wait until after dark, then go to see Marchat. Did you notice the old part, huddled under that great hulk of a rock with the old building on top?'

  'No, I didn't?'

  'That's where the old houses are. The original Sion. I saw them. They're built of wood with shutters over the windows and shingle roofs. Just like those houses we saw inside the perimeter running round the fake weather station.'

  'You think it really is a fake?' she queried.

  'I'm certain of it. You may have security round a weather station, but you don't have thugs armed with machine-pistols to go after intruders to kill them. That is the ground station.'

  'We could drive up the Col de Roc, then get back in time to go and see Marchat,' she speculated.

  'All right. Let's do that. But first I need another cup of coffee.'

  Philip didn't say so but he still felt this was a perilous undertaking. And they could find themselves descending a diabolical mountain road after dark. He couldn't rid himself of a premonition that exploring the Col de Roc was going to be a disaster.

  'Just going to the loo,' Newman said to Franklin.

  He had seen Marler passing their compartment, glancing in and looking away as he continued back to the front of the express. And in less than half an hour they were due to arrive in Sion.

  He found Marler sitting in a first-class compartment by himself, smoking a king-size.

  'That was Bill Franklin, wasn't it?' Marler asked before Newman could say anything. 'I remember him from when I met him in Tweed's office and didn't give him my name.'

  'That was Bill Franklin.' Newman agreed as he sat opposite Marler.

  He explained tersely how Franklin had come to be aboard, that he was carrying a Heckler amp; Koch submachine gun.

  'Is he?' Marler remarked. 'With that he could wipe out a whole posse of Leather Bombers with just one burst.'

  'Where are Butler and Nield?'

  'I have a plan I've worked out for when we get to Sion – so I'll explain it…'

  He did so and when he'd finished he glanced out of the window, saw an airfield with a runway cleared completely of snow.

  'I'd better get back. Give Butler and Nield their orders quickly. You saw the airfield? Good. I must move -we are coming into Sion.'

  36

  The jet without any markings along its fuselage was airborne, had left Zurich behind some time ago. Brazil sat in his comfortable swivel armchair, staring at the illuminated screen above the entrance to the crew cabin.

  Clear figures gave the mileage they had come, the mileage still to cover to Sion, the present time, the estimated time of arrival at Sion airfield. He glanced at it frequently and occasionally swivelled round to look at the seat behind him.

  Craig sat in it with Igor alongside him, his forepaws resting in Craig's lap. Brazil was amused by Craig's obvious discomfort. The hound saw him looking, made a motion to move towards him, and Brazil lifted a warning finger. Igor subsided.

  'One thing worries me.' Brazil told Craig. 'We haven't yet dealt with Anton Marchat. He's a loose end.'

  'Not any more. I've made certain arrangements. Anton Marchat won't be in the land of the living much longer.'

  'You really are most efficient.'

  'I do my job. Including looking after this poodle.'

  'I wouldn't advise you to treat him as a poodle.'

  'A bang on his nose with the barrel of a gun and you'd see him run like hell, yelping.'

  'If you were still alive to hear him yelping. Anyone would think you don't like Igor.'

  'I don't.'

  Brazil turned away to check the illuminated screen. Behind him Craig grinned to himself. Brazil didn't know everything. Prior to leaving Zurich Craig had phoned The Motorman. Brazil would have been furious had he known what he had done. He mistrusted hired help.

  'Craig here,' he had said when he made the call.

  'You have another commission for me?' the thin reedy voice had enquired.

  'Two targets this time. First, man called Anton Marchat. Marchat,' he had repeated. 'He probably lives in Sion, but I'm not sure.'

  'He does live in Sion. Assume the job is done. And the second target?'

  'Man called Archie. Don't know his second name. But I hear on my grapevine he's a dangerous nuisance. Can't give you any more info.'

  'I don't need any more. I know Archie.'

  'You do?' Craig hadn't been able to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  'Again, consider it done.'

  'You're very reliable.'

  'I have to maintain my reputation.' the reedy voice had replied smoothly.

  'So that's it. I'm in a hurry…'

  'Not too much in a hurry. As usual, I will expect the normal fee to be paid in cash into my numbered account. You won't forget, will you, Mr Craig? If you did then I have been known to do a job for free – when clients have omitted to pay their debts,' The Motorman concluded.

  Aboard the jet, Craig had replayed the conversation in his mind with satisfaction. Except he had remembered he was sweating at The Motorman's last comment.

  Keith Kent, expensively dressed, walked into the Zurcher Kredit Bank in Sion. He had travelled on the same train as Newman, had left it at almost the last moment.

  As he had done in Zurich, Kent looked along the counter behind the grilles, weighing up the three tellers. One man looked pompous, the type that was easily deflated. Kent walked up to him.

  'I have to pay in a certain amount to the main account of Mr Leopold Brazil. Is this the right branch?'

  'We never give out information about clients.' the teller informed him smugly.

  'No, of course not. I haven't the transfer with me but I can get it in an hour.'

  'I see, sir.' the teller replied, not seeing at all.

  'Mr Brazil particularly asked me to pay it to his main account. The transaction is urgent.'

  'I understand, sir.'

  'I don't think you do.' Kent said in his most aggressive manner. 'May I have your name?'

  'What do you want that for? Sir.' he added a little late.

  'So I can report to Mr Brazil the lack of cooperation I encountered.'

  'We always wish to cooperate with clients.' the teller said, this time his manner showing signs of nervousness.

  'But you're not giving me any. Not to worry.' he continued in French. 'I have your description.'

  'You put me in a difficult position, sir.'

  'You've no idea how difficult it will become. I am talking about a transfer of one million Swiss francs.'

  'Into Mr Brazil's account?' The teller was looking very concerned.

  'I said into his main account.'

  'Yes, of course you did, sir. One million francs, you mentioned, I believe?'

  'I did.'

  'May I say we will look forward to your arriving again with the transfer?' The teller was smiling.

  'It is for the main account. I am fast losing patience.'

  Kent began to turn away as though about to leave the bank for the last time. The teller became almost frantic, calling through the grille.

  'Sir! Sir! The main account of the
individual you named is at this bank. Would you like to give me your own name?'

  'When I come back. There's a deadline for this deal to be completed.'

  Kent walked out of the bank, pulled the collar of his coat up round his neck. Now he had the information he needed.

  He was looking for somewhere to eat when Newman appeared, carrying his bag and a canvas satchel over his shoulder.

  At Park Crescent the phone rang. Tweed was either asleep or not prepared to be disturbed. Monica answered it.

  'Beck here, Monica. Can I speak to Tweed?'

  'He's not in his office. I'm not sure where he has gone. Can I help?'

  'Yes. It's urgent. We're tracking Brazil's jet on its flight to Sion by radar. Tell Tweed Brazil will be landing within fifteen minutes at the outside. It's a difficult approach -too many mountains.'

  'Maybe he'll hit one.' Monica said cheerfully.

  'You are full of constructive ideas. But I very much fear the devil looks after his own.'

  'Then we must be talking about the same person. I'll let Tweed know, as soon as he surfaces.'

  The recumbent form in the chair behind his desk opened one eye, winked at her.

  'Tweed has surfaced. For a moment, anyway. What was that all about?'

  Monica told him, repeating word for word what Beck had said.

  'Then it won't be long now.' Tweed said.

  He winked at her again, closed his eyes, and fell asleep for the second time.

  Because Newman was such a good organizer he had earlier sent Butler to a travel agency while they were still in Zurich to collect all the brochures he could on Sion.

  During his brief conference with Marler aboard the express, he had given very detailed orders with the aid of a street plan of Sion and the list of hotels. These Marler had passed on to his subordinates.

  So the moment the train stopped at Sion, Marler, Butler, and Meld left it in a hurry, but not in time to see Keith Kent, who could move like the wind, hurtling down the steps and into the town.

  Returning to his compartment, Newman had told Franklin he had urgent tasks to complete. Franklin, the one-time soldier, had understood at once.

  Tell you what.' he had said to Newman who was gathering up his luggage, 'why not meet me for a drink this evening? I'm staying at the Hotel de la Matze. It's just off the Rue de Lausanne.'

  'I'll give you a call first.' Newman had replied, prior to leaving the compartment.

  Newman had chosen to stay at the Hotel Elite because it was just off the Avenue de la Gare and instinctively he wanted to be near the station. Butler and Nield were staying in a small hotel nearby while Marler, striking out on his own, had been instructed to stay at the tallest hotel, to get a room on the top floor – facing west so it overlooked the airfield area. His first job was to report back to Newman any sightings of a plane landing. They all knew where the others were staying.

  Leaving the express ahead of Franklin, Newman hurried down the steps. Like Franklin, close behind, he failed to see the last passenger alight from the rear of the express. It is doubtful whether he would have recognized the passenger. Archie's disguise was very effective.

  'What on earth are you doing in this back of beyond?' asked Newman.

  He concealed the fact that he was startled to meet Keith Kent emerging from a side-street onto the Avenue de la Gare.

  'You sound a mite aggressive.' Kent replied with a smile.

  'You haven't answered my question.' Newman rasped.

  'Extracting more information Tweed will value.' said Kent, refusing to be intimidated by Newman's unusual attitude.

  'Well, maybe you wouldn't mind letting me in on it?'

  'Since we are on the same side – in case you've forgotten it – I've been checking to make sure where Brazil's main bank account is now. He moves it about, you know. Or.' he added acidly, 'maybe you didn't know.'

  'No, I didn't know.' Newman said more quietly.

  He had been testing Kent's nerve to see how he stood up to his verbal onslaught. He knew from Tweed that Kent was interested in guns, that he regularly practised on a shooting range. He was a first-rate marksman – not as good as Marler, but no one was. But in the present situation it wasn't impossible he'd find Kent alongside him in a firefight. He decided he wouldn't have anything to worry about.

  'Well, you know now.' Kent smiled, adapting to Newman's sudden change of mood. 'And if you're in touch with Tweed you can tell him Brazil's main account is definitely here in Sion. At the Zurcher Kredit Bank. Where are you staying? I don't imagine you're just on a day trip.'

  'At the Elite.'

  'I know the place. Now, if I find out anything else I can contact you. Good hunting…'

  What bothered Newman as he walked on up the Avenue de la Gare was his recollection of Tweed's remark made to him at the Schweizerhof.

  I have a strong feeling that we have already met, and know, The Motorman.

  Now he found Keith Kent and Bill Franklin had both turned up in Sion. He found it difficult to imagine either in the role of professional assassin. What motive could either have?

  Then he remembered that Bill Franklin spent a fortune on keeping his string of expensive lady friends happy. And Kent had extravagant tastes. For a money tracer it was odd how money slipped through his hands like water. He heard a vehicle coming down the road towards the station, looked up.

  Philip was behind the wheel and beside him Paula was waving madly. The vehicle pulled over to the kerb and Paula, jumping out, ran towards him.

  37

  The Lear jet was losing height rapidly. It was a brilliant sunny day now and from his window Brazil looked down at his ground station below the Kellerhorn. He smiled with satisfaction. So much research, so many months to obtain the capital by any means to build it. Now he was about to succeed.

  Some time before leaving Zurich, he had phoned Ivan Marov in Moscow, had confirmed the vital timetable they would both work to. It was fortunate that Marov spoke perfect English, albeit with an American accent. Marov had once been an unnoticed attache at the Soviet Embassy in Washington.

  Brazil turned round in his chair. Craig had at long last managed to attach the harness to Igor, prior to landing. Igor did not like the harness and only sharp commands from Brazil had enabled Craig to complete his unwanted task.

  'Excellent!' he said to Craig. 'We'll make a good dog handler out of you yet.'

  'Not with this animal.' Craig grumbled.

  Swivelling his chair further round, Brazil was amused by the fat Luigi, who ate too much pasta. On take-off from Kloten he'd had trouble fastening his belt into the last hole, unlike the white-faced slim Marco, who had closed the belt and sat quite comfortably.

  'We are coming in to land, sir.' the pilot's voice informed him over the tannoy.

  Brazil swivelled his seat round again, so he could look out of the window. From that height he could just see the long white block which was his villa, and the glacier below it on the other side of the valley.

  He checked his watch, trusting it more than the time shown on the illuminated panel. Yes, he would have time to spare before sending the first signal to the ground station. Probably well over an hour – even allowing for the drive up the diabolical road into the mountains.

  He glanced across at Jose, who occupied a seat on the other side of the central aisle. The smooth-skinned man was fast asleep. Brazil's expression became grim – he was recalling his treachery, the recording he had listened to supplied by Gustav, the recording which had proved beyond any doubt that Jose had been informing on him. Well, he had worked out how to deal with that problem before they reached the villa.

  From the high window in his hotel Marler watched the jet landing through high-powered glasses. His binoculars were so good he saw Brazil with his dog, descending the step-ladder, followed by three other men.

  A limousine with tinted windows was waiting close to where the aircraft stopped. He saw Jose run to the car to bring it to Brazil, get in behind the wheel. He wait
ed a moment longer before reporting to Newman at the Hotel Elite. Five minutes later, after trying to start the limo, Jose got out, spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. Men in overalls appeared, began to fuss with the engine. Marler made his call.

  'Black Beaver has landed. There seems to be some delay in leaving. The limo won't start. Mechanics are looking at the engine.'

  'That gives you extra time then. Get into your four-wheel-drive and wait across the Rhone at the agreed point.'

  'On my way.'

  There had been furious activity after Newman had met Paula and Philip in the Avenue de la Gare. He had asked them where they had obtained the vehicle. Climbing aboard, he had stopped on the way to the Elite to get the phone number of the vehicle display room. Immediately on arrival at the Elite he had phoned Marler, given him the number, told him to phone up the company to ask them to send him a four-wheel-drive with chains on the wheels and he'd pay in cash if it arrived in fifteen minutes.

  The vehicle had arrived at Marler's hotel in ten minutes. He had paid over the money, adding a generous tip, then confirmed to Newman that it had arrived.

  In the meantime Newman had taken Philip and Paula up to his suite, had listened for ten minutes without once interrupting while they told him of their exploits when they had visited the ground station on the Kellerhorn. He watched both of them as they took turns putting him in the picture. Philip insisted Paula explained what had happened when they were nearly killed at the rock alcove on the way down. While they talked, he occasionally glanced at the map Paula had spread out over the bed.

  'I'm truly staggered,' he said when they had finished, 'staggered at what you have achieved. I thought that would be our great problem locating the ground station – and you've done it while I was on my way here.'

  'Couldn't just hang around and get bored,' said Paula, being very British and glancing at her fingernails.

  'You look very fit,' Newman said, gazing at her.

  'It was good exercise. Exciting at times, but I don't waste time meditating on that bit.'

  'So what do we do next?' Philip asked.