by Colin Forbes
'A top-flight professional. Identity unknown.'
'That seems unlikely.'
She walked to the automatic doors which opened for her. She slowly descended the steps, cautious about the ice. Now she was safe.
Luigi Morati had positioned himself in the middle of the Parade-platz. He was hidden amid the endless convoys of trams which arrived and left endlessly. He was smoking a cigarette, leaning against his motorbike. Dropping the cigarette, he watched her coming down the steps. He moved his machine, dipped his hand into the pannier for the Clock. One swift shot at this range and the job was done.
The police car which had been parked further down Bahnhofstrasse cruised slowly towards Parade-platz, then parked by the kerb again, much closer. Luigi swore. They could not have spotted him.
Once he had broken into a police station in Berne when all the police had rushed off to answer an emergency call. It had taken him no time to find Records, to extract his file. He had been given the codename Bull. Presumably short for Bullet. Which amused him. No name for him in the file, no description of him, no data about his nationality. Merely a list of assassinations credited to Bull. Three correct, the other five nothing to do with him.
He began wheeling his motorbike back down Bahnhofstrasse in the direction Paula was taking. It was quiet now in the area.
The extremely low temperature had kept even the winter-hardened Swiss off the streets. The elegant lady shoppers had stayed at home. The workers were inside their offices. An ideal situation for Luigi. Then it went wrong.
Paula, who always reacted to her instinct, had the feeling she was being followed. She had seen nothing suspicious, but the instinct was strong. Her original destination had been ACTIL headquarters. She hoped to find Roman working there.
Now she paused on the kerb, looked to her right, then her left. Wrong way round, idiot. You're on the Continent. She crossed the empty street, began walking back the way she had come. Luigi just had time to change direction, to start wheeling his machine back to Parade-platz. So she didn't notice him.
Harry Butler, who had been more cautious, remained where he was. Seated on his motorcycle he was out of sight amid the muddle of trams converging on Parapade-platz, most of them empty. Patiently he waited to see where Paula had decided to go next.
Pete Nield had been alerted by her standing on the kerb, looking the wrong way. He'd pull her leg about that mistake later. He had dodged into the large entrance to a shop, was studying the goods on display when she walked past.
Paula had her right hand inside her shoulder bag now, gripping the Browning. She couldn't see anything to disturb her. Opposite Parade-platz she turned right, as though returning to the bar. Walking past it, she continued down a side street where a strange triangular-shaped church stood to one side. Passing it, she knew she was entering the Altstadt with its maze of streets.
Luigi grinned to himself. The perfect killing ground. No one would be about down there in this weather. He wheeled his machine across the street. Too early to rev up. Walking quickly, revelling in the stimulus of the biting cold, Paula reached an open space. Behind she heard a motorcycle's engine starting up. She looked back swiftly. Something about the rider worried her. Luigi had already grabbed the Glock pistol out of the pannier, shoved it down the inside of his belt. A large truck, driving slowly from a street to the right, was about to close off her exit.
The truck driver stopped, doffed his cap to the attractive lady, waved her on. She gave him a warm smile, a brief wave, started to cross the wide open space. The truck driver began moving forward, completely blocking the exit.
Luigi swore. This would have been the perfect place. Across the bridge over the river beyond the open space was his flat. He waited impatiently, hoping he'd see which route his target had taken. He was so absorbed he hardly heard the motorcyclist approaching behind him. Harry was suspicious. When Pete Nield appeared on the narrow pavement beside him he fingered the machine ahead.
As the truck turned across the open space to cross the bridge Luigi saw Paula disappearing up the Schlussel-Gasse, a narrow cobbled street leading into the heart of the Altstadt. Perfect! He knew the area so well. She was walking into a death-trap.
Paula knew the Schlussel-Gasse, had explored this area on an earlier trip to Zurich. From here on the surface was cobbled. She was glad she'd worn her rubber-soled boots. She was well inside the narrow alley when she heard the machine coming at speed. Ahead of her the alley became a steep slope fit for goats. At the top on the right she saw the Vetliner Keller, one of the best restaurants in the city and where Tweed had said they would eat tonight. She looked back, saw the rider crazily holding the handlebars with one hand, something in the other. A gun. She dived inside the entrance to a small shop. A bullet whistled past. She had her Browning in both hands.
The assassin on the motorbike roared past. He'd heard Harry coming behind him like a thunderbolt. Paula had no chance to use the Browning. The machine had flashed past like a rocket. Now Luigi's motorcycle was wobbling madly as he increased speed, ascending the cobbled slope. At the top he entered a large square. He tried to turn with the Glock aimed at his pursuer. Couldn't do it and keep control of his machine. Harry was too close, gaining on him every second.
He began racing round the square, enclosed by ancient houses, one dated 1673, and a church on the far side. It became a gladiatorial contest, both machines circling the cobbled square, swaying, bumping up and down. Harry was very close when Luigi changed direction. Near a wall, he paused and turned his machine broadside on to use the Glock. Mistake. Harry's machine hammered into Luigi's, the front wheel slammed into it. The assassin's machine was hurled back against the wall. Luigi, very nimble, jumped off, ran just in time to avoid being killed by his own machine. He scrambled over the wall, dropped out of sight.
Paula appeared. Browning in her hand. Harry had come off his machine, was lying on the cobbles. She knew who it was - she'd recognized his crouched figure as he'd flashed by the shop where she had sheltered. Breathless from rushing up the slope, Paula forced herself to run to the prone Harry as Pete Nield arrived.
Harry had streaks of blood running down his face from a cut on his forehead. She bent over him, hauling out the small first aid kit she always carried. Harry opened his eyes, spoke.
'He . . . went over that wall . . . Get him . . .'
Paula handed the first-aid kit to Pete, knowing he was without a weapon. She darted over to the wall, was careful not to poke her head over. He might be waiting for that down below. When she peeked over she was surprised at the extent of the drop. She was more surprised to see no body. Only an empty alley. She ran back to Harry.
'I think he's just dazed,' Pete told her.
He had already applied a plaster to the cut and was wiping the last of the blood off Harry's face. Harry was blinking regularly. Paula was worried that he was seriously injured. She bent over him, spoke softly.
'How are you feeling, Harry? Pretty bruised?'
'Help me up.'
'I don't think that's a good idea,' she warned. 'Not until a doctor's seen you.'
'Hate doctors . . .'
He pressed both hands on the ground, began to lift himself up. Paula grabbed one arm, Pete the other as Harry continued to heave himself up until he was standing. He took one step forward, then another, pulling himself away from them. He walked normally, swinging his arms, bending his elbows, taking off his motoring gloves, stretching his fingers.
'I'm OK. Would you recognize him again, Paula? See him at the bottom of the wall?'
'No. He'd gone. And I wouldn't recognize him again.'
'Neither would I.'
He hauled his machine upright, sat in the saddle, pressed the button. The engine ticked over normally. He shut it down, turned round and grinned. The colour was coming back into his round full face. He walked to the assassin's machine, grinned again.
'The swine won't be riding this any more. Shot at you, didn't he, Paula. Bastard.'
He
looked down with satisfaction at the machine lying against the wall. The handlebars were twisted at an unnatural angle. The front wheel was torn loose, the saddle lay on the ground. Before they could stop him he'd lifted his own machine off its strut, was wheeling it towards the slope.
'Funny that no one has come out to see what had happened,' Paula commented, staring round the deserted square. 'I did see a net curtain twitch.'
'The Swiss believe in keeping out of harm's way,' Pete replied. 'Sensible people.'
T could do with a drink,' Harry remarked.
'Water first,' Pete said firmly. 'Then maybe^a beer. We can go to that bar where Snyder was first spotted.'
'Beer first,' Harry retorted, 'then water - for you to drink.'
Both Paula and Pete were ready to grab Harry's arms but he wheeled his machine down the bumpy slope confidently. At the bottom, in the open space, she gave them the slip, walking down another street. She had deliberately not asked what they had been doing so close to her. She was off to interview her next 'client'. Roman Arbogast.
24
One contract Luigi had carried out had involved leaving the apartment of his target by a rope attached to a fifth-floor window. Knowing this, he had practised in advance over and again. He had first dropped from a height of fifteen feet from the ground, letting go of the rope. After several successful trials he had next dropped from twenty feet, then thirty feet. He had immensely strong and supple legs. They had served him well when he had gone over the wall in the Altstadt in Zurich.
Now, by a devious route, he had returned to his apartment overlooking the Limmat. He was confident that when he made his final attempt to kill Paula Grey he wouldn't be recognized. During his first attempt he had worn his crash helmet. Now he was making a radical change to his appearance.
With coloured lotion he changed his red hair to black. He was very thorough. Then he unlocked a wardrobe, the contents of which would have surprised the very few people who knew him in Italy.
He changed his underclothes, which no one would see, but it made him feel more the part, wearing silk. He put on an expensive starched white shirt, a black suit, black socks, black shoes. A modest but expensive grey tie looked right.
Picking up a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles - the lenses of plain glass - he stood back and studied the impression in a cheval glass. He was now Aldo Moldano, a Swiss banker. He could walk into the Baur au Lac and no one would think him out of place.
Finally, to complete the transformation, he picked up the executive case all bankers carried with them. Inside it would be the Glock. The only other item he lacked was an expensive limousine. He would hire that, dressed as he was now.
Paula had a twinge of trepidation as she walked down the side street to ACTIL's headquarters - disturbed by the police tape fencing off the end of the street. She was still appalled by the murders of Hank Foley, Adam Holgate and Abraham Seale. But what was driving her on, the controlled fury she felt, was the brutal killing of Elena Brucan, the obscene, callous touch of placing the severed head back on the corpse's shoulders.
Arriving at the entrance to the building she paused. The heavy front door was not quite closed. Her right hand whipped into her shoulder bag, gripped the Browning. She pushed the door open slowly, soundlessly. Hinges well oiled. Immediately inside was a large rubber mat. She carefully stepped over it onto the stone floor beyond. Not much light.
Slowly she began to mount the old wooden staircase beyond the door. The fifth tread creaked. Reaching the second-floor landing, she headed for the door which had to open into the front room where she had seen a light the night before. Listening, she heard nothing. It was too quiet.
Using her gloved left hand - she had slipped the glove off her right gripping the gun inside the special pocket - she took hold of the door handle. She turned it slowly, pushed gently. Daylight. She would sooner have had the Browning aimed and ready but if Roman was inside he wouldn't have liked it. Not the best way to start a conversation. The door opened wider and she could see inside. Roman wasn't there.
Instead, sitting at Roman's desk, files spread out before him on the desk, was Broden. He sat very still, staring at her, a Mauser Military Model 7.63mm pistol in his hand, the long barrel aimed point-blank at her.
'Do come in, Miss Grey,' he said in a neutral tone. 'You avoided the pressure pad by the front door, but the fifth tread on the stairs creaks.'
'Yes, it does,' she said in an uncertain voice.
'Take your hand out of your shoulder bag, slowly. I hope it has nothing in it.' The same neutral tone.
She obeyed his command. He smiled, laid the Mauser on the desk. Always before he'd looked grim and dangerous. Now, wearing a suede jacket, zipped up at the front, with his wide smile and en brosse hair, he reminded her of a teddy bear. He offered her coffee and she refused. Wrapping his huge hands behind his thick neck he was still smiling. She wished he'd put the Mauser away in a drawer. Designed long ago its engineering quality was superb. She knew the magazine could take ten rounds.
'You're tough,' Broden remarked. 'You've looked at some very grisly sights but I can tell you're still in control.'
Paula wasn't going to fall for that approach. She held his hard eyes as she made the remark.
'I think your security is lousy. Anyone can walk in here.'
'I agree. But I'm under orders. Roman is coming. Hates to waste time fiddling with the two locks. I rely on the pressure pad.' He grinned. 'With people like you the fifth tread warns me.'
'I came to see Roman. Now I'm here maybe we could talk.'
'My pleasure.'
'Have you met Russell Straub, the Vice-President?'
It threw him. She knew this by the crinkle of his bushy eyebrows. He made a performance of taking out a pack of cigarettes, offering her one, which she again refused. He lit it, stared at the ceiling while he took a puff.
'I have been briefly introduced to him by Roman. Where does he come into the picture?'
'Anyone who was in the area when all the murders were committed is a suspect.'
'Well, I wasn't in Pinedale when Hank Foley got his.'
'You could have been.' She was building up a head of steam. Don't pander to this tough nut. He'll despise panderers.
'I could?'
'By flying first to Boston on the Grumman Gulfstream which, I'm sure, is at your disposal.'
'You are tough.' With a forefinger he twirled the Mauser so at one moment the muzzle was aimed at her. He continued twirling until the muzzle pointed at the wall. 'No one knows you're here, I'm sure. You take chances.'
'Know any hitmen?' She was really wound up.
'Once. One. Hired to hit my Colonel. Colonel played poker, lost a bundle, refused to pay up.'
'Some Colonel.'
'Rank doesn't mean you're honest. I learned that in the SIB.'
'SIB?' She knew what it was but she had him on the defensive, talking about himself. She doubted he did that often.
'Special Investigation Branch. The army's SIS, up to a point. Investigates crime in the army.'
'What happened to the hit man?'
'I broke his arm, the one with the gun in it. He's still serving time for attempted murder.'
'What made you leave the army?' she pressed.
'Term of service was up. Roman had somehow heard of me. He interviewed me. He's good at that. Hired me as security chief for ACTIL. I answered him back. It impressed him. Not many people do that to Roman.'
'What sort of a boss is he?'
'All right. So long as you don't ever grovel. He admires you, takes quite an interest in you. You must have stood up to him. Now, if you don't mind, I think—'
'I think I should go,' she forestalled him. 'You're not quite what I thought you were,' she said standing up.
'What did you think I was, then?' he said smiling, standing up.
'You don't want to know.'
Leaving, she stepped over the fifth step, to amuse Broden. On the ground floor she stepped over the pressure pad
. She had just reached the pavement when a tall heavily built figure well muffled with scarf and overcoat gently took hold of her arm. Roman Arbogast.
'What have you been up to?' he growled.
'I've been up to your office hoping to see you. Instead I saw Broden.'
'Couldn't have been much fun, talking to the stone face from Easter Island.'
'Actually, I'd come to see you, but Broden was interesting.'
'Interesting? We can't be talking about the same man. Can you come back and see me at, say, three this afternoon? Don't be late. I value punctuality.'
'That must be the one thing we have in common. 3 p.m. then.'
She left him before he could reply. She was dying for some coffee. Sprungli, the most famous cake and coffee shop in Zurich, was just up the street. Absorbed, her mind playing back the confrontation with Broden - because that was what it had been despite his constant amiability - she entered Bahnhofstrasse, turned left. A hand grasped her left arm.
Her right hand dived inside her shoulder bag. She was swinging round, the weapon half out of its pocket, when a familiar voice spoke.
'It's me. Not going to shoot, are you?' Newman joked.
'What did you crawl out of?'
'News travels fast,' he went on, walking alongside her as she hustled up Bahnhofstrasse. 'Pete Nield phoned Tweed about the attempt to kill you in the Altstadt. Sent me out to find you PDQ. I should have been with you. I am now.'
