Dead Halt

Chapter Seven

“There’s a Mr. Tillman here to see you, sir.”

“Show him in, Marsha.” Navarro rose from behind his desk to greet his visitor. “Mr. Tillman, I’m Martin Navarro,” he said, approaching Tillman.

Tillman eyed Navarro’s extended hand with disdain. “I’m not in the habit of shaking hands with wise guys.”

Navarro smiled. “The only difference between us, Mr. Tillman, is that a politician’s crimes are legal.”

“I didn’t come here to be insulted,” Tillman snapped.

“No, of course not,” Navarro replied then gestured to the man sitting on the couch against the wall. “Tony Varese, my right-hand man.”

“Is that what you call him?” Tillman retorted sarcastically. “I would have thought ‘hatchet man’ would have been a better description of his duties.”

Varese chuckled softly to himself. “Then it would seem we have something in common, Mr. Tillman.”

“Tony, that’s enough,” Navarro interceded before Tillman could say anything. “Please, sit down, Mr. Tillman. We’ve got so much to talk about.”

“You can begin by telling me why you called me this morning threatening to release certain information to the Press – which, you claimed, would destroy Senator Scoby’s reputation – unless I met with you here today. What is this, some kind of blackmail scam? Because if it is–”

“Sit down,” Navarro repeated, indicating the chair to the right of his desk. “Would you like a coffee? Or perhaps something a little stronger?”

“Nothing,” Tillman replied, sitting down.

Navarro moved around behind his desk and sat down. “Did you tell Scoby you were coming here?”

“Certainly not,” Tillman retorted indignantly. “The less the senator knows about this the better.”

“Of course,” Navarro said with a smile.

“Navarro, my time is limited,” Tillman snapped. “Will you get to the point!”

“What if I told you I knew all about the deal you finalized earlier this week with the Cabrera cartel in Medellin?”

Tillman’s face went pale but he was quick to regain his composure. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Let’s bypass the denial stage, shall we? It’s not fooling anyone.”

“I tell you, I don’t know about any deal made in Medellin, ” Tillman snapped back.

Navarro removed a folder from the drawer in front of him. “There’s enough evidence in here to put you and Scoby in San Quentin for the next twenty years. Let’s see what we’ve got here. A copy of the reservation card from the Intercontinental Hotel in Medellin. The name on it is Charles Edward Warren. Your handwriting, I believe? And then there’re the photographs which were taken at the various meetings you’ve had with Miguel Cabrera, both here in New York and in Medellin, over the last five months.” He tossed a dozen photographs onto the desk in front of Tillman. “Any one of these photographs could ruin Scoby’s career.”

Tillman swallowed nervously then picked up the nearest photograph. It showed him dining with Cabrera at a small restaurant in Medellin. He dropped the photograph back onto the desk. “The senator knew nothing of this. The whole thing was my own idea.”

“Your loyalty’s very touching.” Navarro opened another drawer and removed a shoe box. Inside, neatly arranged in chronological order, was a row of audio cassette tapes. “All your meetings with Miguel Cabrera were recorded secretly on tape. They proved that Scoby’s been involved with it from the very beginning. And if that wasn’t enough, we can even prove that Jorge Cabrera provided Scoby with financial aid to help with his election campaign,” Varese said, getting to his feet. “I doubt any of this would go down very well with the public, do you? Especially as Scoby won the election on such a strong anti-drugs campaign.”

“Tony, I think Mr. Tillman may need that drink after all,” Navarro said to Varese.

Varese crossed to the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. “What would you like, Mr. Tillman?”

Tillman stared at Navarro. “Miguel Cabrera gave you this information, didn’t he?”

“We do have a mole in the cartel,” Navarro replied evasively.

It had to be Miguel Cabrera. He must have known the risks. What if his father had discovered his duplicity? Kinship would have counted for nothing. If anything, it would have made it even worse for him. Family betrayal. But why?

“Your drink,” Varese said, breaking Tillman’s train of thought.

Tillman drank the bourbon down in one gulp. He handed the glass back to Varese. “It’s Miguel Cabrera, isn’t it? It has to be.”

“Who it is doesn’t concern you,” Navarro replied.

“I want to know!” Tillman yelled, the blood rushing to his face. “I want to know,” he repeated, this time in a calm voice.

“Why?”

“Wouldn’t you want to know if you were in my position?”

Navarro looked up at Varese who gave him a noncommittal shrug. “Yes, it was Miguel Cabrera.”

“But why? The Colombians and the Mafia have been archenemies for years.”

“Pour me a small bourbon, Tony,” Navarro said, then got to his feet and crossed to the window. He turned back to Tillman. “Miguel Cabrera wants to take over the cartel from his father. And that means he needs money to finance his power base. We agreed to provide him with that money in return for this information.” He took the glass from Varese. “You see, Miguel has a vision of the future. The strongest cartel in Colombia uniting with the most powerful family in the United States. The Cabrera cartel and the Germino family. And, in doing so, creating a complete monopoly on the movement of drugs into the United States.”

“It could never work of course,” Varese added.

“So you’ve deliberately set him up?” Tillman said.

“We played along to get the information we wanted. But he doesn’t know anything about our plan to intercept the drugs and distribute them as our own. So, when the time’s right, he’ll be dealt with accordingly.”

“So where does my deal with Cabrera come into all of this?”

Navarro returned to his desk. “First, let’s run through the basic points of this deal you made with Jorge Cabrera. You have senior customs officials who, in return for the right kind of financial incentive, would see to it that each month several large shipments of cocaine, all sent by the Cabrera cartel, were allowed to pass undetected through certain customs checkpoints in New York State for distribution across the United States. And, in return, the Cabrera cartel would be willing to allow some of their smaller shipments to be seized by the same customs men to give the impression that they were carrying out Scoby’s tough anti-drugs measures successfully. How am I doing?”

Tillman just nodded.

“And, for every shipment that was successfully smuggled through customs, Scoby would receive ten percent of its final street value. That money, in cash, would then be distributed amongst certain right-wing governments in South and Central America.”

“The senator has no personal interest in the money: it’s purely a political venture,” Tillman said proudly. “The world believes that Marxism is dead now that Russia’s finally decided to turn its back on the old-style communism. They couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Spare us the political rhetoric,” Navarro said disdainfully. “Now, let me put our proposal to you. Your deal with the Cabrera cartel remains the same. But once the cocaine gets through customs, your people will tip us off as to its ultimate destination. We’ll then intercept some of those shipments before they reach their destination and distribute them as our own. But only some.” He held up a finger to stress the point. “We don’t want it to appear suspicious. Well, at least not at first. And in return we’ll pay Scoby fifteen percent of its street value. The money will be laundered through our legitimate businesses, like West Side Electronics, and forwarded to any government of his choice. So not only will the deal provide more financial aid for the death squads in South and Central America, it’ll also give us the edge over the Colombians in the drugs war.”

“And what’s going to happen to the senator and myself when Cabrera finds out what’s happened?”

“What can he find out?” Navarro replied, shrugging his powerful shoulders. “You’ve kept to your side of the deal. We won’t touch any of the shipments until they’ve cleared customs. That puts you in the clear. We’ll be taking all the risks.”

“And how will we explain the loss of the shipments to the cartel? Cabrera’s going to get suspicious after a while.”

“Get your senior men to throw a couple of their minnows to the cartel every now and then to keep them satisfied.” Navarro gathered together the photographs, put them back in the folder, then placed it on the desk in front of Tillman. “Show them to Scoby. I’ve got the negatives locked away in a safe place. You can take the tapes as well if you want. I’ve got copies.”

Tillman took the folder and the box of audio cassettes. “And if the senator refuses to go along with your plan, you’ll see to it that the negatives and a set of the tapes are made public?”

“You’re very astute,” Navarro replied with a smile. “I believe you’re off to England for the weekend. It’ll give the two of you time to consider my more than generous offer. When are you flying back?”

“Monday morning.”

“Then I’ll expect your answer by Tuesday. Shall we say ten o’clock, here in my office?”

“Very well,” Tillman replied tersely as he packed the last of the cassettes into his attaché case.

“There is one other thing,” Navarro said. He nodded to Varese who produced an attaché case and placed it on the desk. Navarro unlocked it and opened the lid. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash. All in untraceable notes. We can match whatever the Colombians gave you. Just a little incentive to help you make up his mind.”

“I didn’t know we had a choice,” Tillman replied, eyeing the money which was laid out in neat bundles in the case.

“Of course you have a choice,” Navarro replied, locking the case again. “After all, isn’t that what America’s all about?”

Varese placed the case at Tillman’s feet.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you,” Navarro said, extending his hand again.

Tillman ignored Navarro’s hand then, picking up both attaché cases, walked to the door.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Navarro said as Varese opened the door for Tillman. “Bon voyage.”

Tillman eyed Navarro coldly then turned and left the room without a word.

It was already dark by the time the Swissair Airbus finally touched down, nearly three hours behind schedule, at Kloten International Airport. A thick blanket of snow covered the perimeter of the airfield and the snow plows were continually having to clear the fresh snow as it drifted down across the city. And, according to UNACO’s weather charts, the situation was set to deteriorate over the next twelve hours. Eastman had been assured before he left London that the Swiss authorities would assist them in every way possible once they touched down at Zurich. Their contact in Lausanne would be Captain Philippe Bastian, one of the most experienced officers in the Swiss anti-terrorist squad.

A black Mercedes was waiting for them on the runway when they disembarked. The driver, a plainclothes police officer, immediately drove them to another section of runway where a police helicopter was waiting to fly them on to Lausanne.

“You wanted to see me, Dom?”

Lynch looked around at Kerrigan who was standing in the doorway. “Come in, Liam. And close the door.”

Kerrigan entered Lynch’s study and closed the door behind him.

“It’s a breathtaking view during the day,” Lynch said, gesturing to the darkness beyond the window. “I’m really lucky to have got this place.”

“I’m sure you didn’t ask me here to discuss the view from your window,” Kerrigan said bluntly.

“No, of course not,” Lynch replied, turning back to Kerrigan. “Sit down, Liam. Drink?”

Kerrigan eased himself into the armchair by the door. “No drink. I’m going to need my wits about me if we’re to get McGuire tonight, especially in these godforsaken conditions.”

“Yes, it’s definitely getting worse,” Lynch muttered, crossing to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a whiskey.

“Still no news of the weapons?”

“Nothing yet,” Lynch replied with an apologetic shrug. “And this weather won’t help matters any either.”

Kerrigan banged the chair arm angrily with his fist. “Those pigs will probably be in the country by now. Christ, if those guns don’t arrive soon they’ll get to McGuire first.”

“The weather’s going to work against them as well, you know.” Lynch sat down behind his desk and looked across at Kerrigan. “I want to talk to you about Fiona.”

“What about her?” Kerrigan retorted suspiciously.

“I think she’s cracking under the pressure of being put in charge of the cell in Sean’s absence.”

“Cracking?” Kerrigan snorted. “I guess that’s one way of putting it. But the Army Council made the decision to put her in charge and until they relieve her of that responsibility, there’s nothing any of us can do about it.”

“You don’t like her, do you?”

“Not particularly, no. But she’s Sean’s girl and that’s why I tolerate her.”

“That’s where we differ.” Lynch took a sip of whiskey then turned the glass around thoughtfully in his hand. “Sean and Fiona are good friends of ours. He was my best man. She was Ingrid’s chief bridesmaid.”

“I was at the wedding, you know,” Kerrigan was quick to point out.

“It upsets me to see her like this. You said just now that there was nothing any of us can do about it. Well, that’s where you’re wrong.”

“You know the rules, Dom. I can’t call the Army Council unless it’s an emergency. What would I tell them? That she’s cracking? Where’s my evidence? The Army Council don’t deal in suspicions and rumors. Only facts. And anyway, they think she’s bloody marvelous. That’s Sean’s fault for falling so heavily for her.”

Lynch finished his drink and placed the glass on the desk. “You can’t call the Army Council. But I can.”

Kerrigan’s eyes narrowed. “And tell them what?”

“What I’ve seen since she got here. What can they do to me? I’m not part of your cell. And I’d only be calling because I’m worried about her, which will be true.”

Kerrigan chewed his lip thoughtfully. “When are you going to call them?”

“When you’ve gone,” Lynch replied.

“It’s good thinking, Dom. For her, and for the cell.”

“I’m doing it for her. Period. And only because she’s got a hell of a future ahead of her with the Provos. I don’t want to see her burnt out before she’s thirty.”

“You always were a pragmatic one, Lynch,” Kerrigan said with an edge of sarcasm. He got to his feet. “You call, mind.”

“I’ll call,” Lynch assured him. “But in the meantime you do as she says, no matter what she tells you to do.”

“As if I wouldn’t,” Kerrigan replied with a look of mock innocence.

“I know she’s riding you, Liam. But let it go. Because if you cross her you’re going to find yourself in a whole load of trouble when you get back home. You remember that.”

“I can look after myself, Dom. Don’t you worry yourself about that.”

There was a knock at the door. Kerrigan opened it. Ingrid looked around the door at her husband. “Alain’s here.”

“At last.” Lynch stood up and looked at Kerrigan. “The guns have arrived.”

“Then let’s go,” Kerrigan said.

Fiona waited until the voices had died away then eased open the door and peered out cautiously into the hallway. It was deserted. She emerged into the hall and closed the door silently behind her. She automatically glanced toward the study door. Her suspicions had first been aroused when she had overheard Lynch asking Kerrigan to meet him in his study. Why the secrecy? Now she knew. She had overheard the entire conversation. Well, almost all of it before she had to duck into the room opposite when she had heard Ingrid approaching. Lynch was going to call the Army Council. She doubted they would listen to him. As Kerrigan had said, there was no evidence to taint her reputation. But what if Lynch’s call planted a seed of doubt in their minds? What if she was recalled after the operation? No, she couldn’t afford to take that chance. Not with so much at stake …

She went into the bathroom further down the hallway, flushed the toilet, then made her way to the lounge.

“We were about to send out a search party for you,” Lynch said as she entered the room.

“I was in the toilet,” Fiona replied. Her eyes flickered to the man beside Lynch.

“This is Alain,” Lynch told her. “The weapons have finally arrived. Hugh and Liam are busy transferring them from Alain’s car to my car. I’ll pick my car up in the morning.”

“Thanks, Dom.”

“You still think you’ll be able to find your way over to the helicopter?” Lynch asked.

“I might not but Hugh’s great at memorizing routes.”

Alain said something to Lynch in French. Lynch shook his hand and Alain left the room. Moments later the front door banged shut.

“He’s a good man,” Lynch said. “Very reliable. And he doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“Perfect,” Fiona replied softly.

“Something wrong?” Lynch asked, putting an arm around her shoulder. “You seemed to be in another world just now.”

“I guess I’m just tired. It’s a real bitch running the show now that Sean’s in custody.”

“I can believe that. But it’ll all be over after tonight.”

“It will be if we don’t get McGuire,” Fiona replied with a sigh. “The Army Council will crucify us. But even if we do tag him, what’s to say the Army Council won’t want us to carry out another operation? We’re on a run. Why pull us in now?”

“They’ll call you back after this,” Lynch said.

“How can you be so sure?” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I’m not,” Lynch replied quickly. “But why push you to the limit when Sean’s due out at the weekend?”

“Which brings us back to McGuire. We have to get him, Dom.”

“You will,” Lynch said, squeezing her arm. “Hey, I almost forgot. I’ve got something for you.” He took a Glock 17 automatic pistol and a silencer from the top drawer of the sideboard. “Recognize it?”

“It’s Sean’s,” Fiona said in surprise, taking it from Lynch. “He told me he’d lost it.”

“He left it behind the last time he was here,” Lynch replied. “I know he’d want you to have it.”

She slipped it into the pocket of her windcheater. The front door opened and Mullen and Kerrigan came inside, their windcheaters flecked with snow.

“God, it’s cold outside,” Mullen said, rubbing his gloved hands together. “We’re set, Fiona.”

“Great,” Fiona replied. “Then let’s say our goodbyes and get the show on the road.”

Mullen and Kerrigan shook hands with Lynch.

“You two go on out to the car,” Fiona said to them. “There’s something I need to talk to Dom about. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Sure,” Mullen replied. “But don’t shilly-shally. We’re already running late.”

“I told you, it’ll only take a minute.”

Lynch waited until Mullen and Kerrigan had gone before looking at her. “What is it, girl?”

“Can we go to your study?”

“Sure, come on.” Lynch led the way down the hall and opened the study door for her. Closing it behind them, he moved to a window before turning back to her. “Well, what …?” He trailed off when he saw the silenced automatic in her hand.

“I heard everything you said to Liam earlier,” she announced, holding his stare. “You were going to call the Army Council and tell them I wasn’t fit to run the cell, weren’t you?”

“Fiona, it’s not what you think,” Lynch said anxiously, his eyes riveted on the automatic in her hand. “I was only concerned about you. You and Sean are like family to me. I’d never hurt you, you know that.”

“Family aren’t supposed to betray each other, are they?” she replied coldly.

“Fiona, listen … listen to me,” Lynch stammered. “Put the gun down, girl. We can talk about this.”

“The time for talk’s over,” she said, squeezing the trigger.

The bullet took Lynch in the forehead. He was dead before he hit the floor. She left the study, closing the door behind her, then made for the kitchen where Ingrid was busy loading the washing machine. She looked up and smiled as Fiona entered the room.

“I’ve just come to say goodbye,” Fiona said, returning the smile.

“Then do it properly,” Ingrid replied, arms outstretched.

“I will,” Fiona said and as they embraced she pressed the tip of the silencer against the back of Ingrid’s head and pulled the trigger. She caught Ingrid’s limp body as it fell and eased it onto the floor. Wiping her fingerprints off the automatic she tossed it into the bin. She then walked calmly down the hall, zipped up her windcheater, opened the front door, and went out into the cold night air.

Two police cars were waiting for the plane when it touched down at Lausanne’s La Blécherette Airport.

Eastman and Marsh got into the first car. Graham and Sabrina shared the second. The sirens were switched on and the cars headed for Les Paccots, a ski resort thirty kilometers from Lausanne.

When the two police cars finally pulled up behind a mobile police van close to Les Paccots the four of them were ushered inside. Half a dozen policemen, all wearing white Gortex overalls, were seated at two long tables on either side of the van, poring over charts and reports.

“We’re looking for Captain Bastian,” Eastman said to the man.

“Capitaine Bastian?” The man pointed to the figure at the end of one of the far tables. “La-has.”

“Over there,” Sabrina translated.

Eastman crossed to the man. “Captain Bastian?”

“Oui?” the man snapped without looking up from the map he was studying.

“I’m Inspector Keith Eastman, Scotland Yard. I believe Commissioner Mansdorf told you to expect us?”

“Of course,” Bastian replied with a quick grin. He pulled off the white peaked cap he was wearing and got to his feet. He was a sturdy man in his mid-thirties with short cropped brown hair and a craggy, weather-beaten face.

Eastman introduced him to the others and was glad when Bastian didn’t extend his hand in greeting.

“Please, sit down,” Bastian said hesitantly in a thick accent. “You understand, my English is not good.”

“It’s a lot better than our French,” Graham assured him as he sat down. “So where exactly is McGuire? All we’ve got is an address. And that doesn’t mean anything to us.”

“I will show you on here,” Bastian said, gesturing to the map on the table beside him and stabbing his finger at a point where a group of lines intersected each other.

“Where is it in relation to us?” Marsh asked.

“We are here,” Bastian replied, pointing to an “X” marked on the map.

“So we’re not far from the chalet?” Eastman asked.

“Not far, no,” Bastian agreed. “About three kilometer.”

“A couple of miles,” Graham said. “How long has the chalet been under observation?”

“Since this afternoon.”

“What about the man in the chalet with him?” Eastman asked. “Do you have any information about him?”

“A little,” Bastian replied. “We have taken a photograph of him when he go to the shop this afternoon. We then send the picture to Interpol. They say he has long criminal record. A friend of the IRA.”

“Is he Swiss?” Sabrina asked.

Bastian shook his head. “He is from France. Paris.” Graham and Eastman exchanged glances.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Graham asked.

“The man Roche told you about in the pub?” Eastman nodded and turned back to Bastian. “Is this man a builder?”

Bastian nodded slowly. “He is a builder. But how do you know?”

“One of McGuire’s friends in London told us about him,” Graham explained. “But he didn’t give us a name.”

“I have his name,” Bastian said, taking a battered notebook from his overall pocket. He leafed through it then held up his index finger when he found the entry. “Marcel Bertranne. You want his address?”

“Not at the moment,” Eastman replied. “How many men have you got watching the chalet?”

“Always four men. They change every hour. You understand it is very cold on the mountain.”

“Yeah,” Graham agreed. “Has McGuire left the chalet since your men started watching it?”

“He did not leave, no.”

“So how do you know he’s even in there?” Marsh asked the obvious question.

“He often go to the window. My men see him then.”

“And your men haven’t reported anything suspicious since they’ve been up there?” Eastman asked.

“Suspicious?” Bastian replied with a frown. “I do not understand.”

“Haven’t you been told that there’s an IRA cell out to kill him?” Eastman asked.

“I was told that he is hiding from the IRA. But the Commissaire told me that they do not know he is here in Switzerland.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Graham replied, then asked Sabrina to explain to Bastian in French what they knew about the Provo unit.

“I did not know this,” Bastian said when Sabrina had finished talking. Then, opening the safe in the corner of the room, he handed each of them a Heckler & Koch MP53 machine-pistol and a twenty-five-round magazine.

“So how do we get to the chalet?” Graham asked.

“There is a cable car not far from here. It is the only way up the mountain. You will all put on the white ski suits before you go. Then you will not be seen in the snow.”

“More to the point, will we be able to see in the snow?” Graham said after the ski suits were brought for them.

“It’s definitely getting worse out there,” Marsh agreed.

Bastian looked at Graham. “We can wait until the storm has gone.”

“No,” Graham retorted as he put on his ski suit. “If the IRA cell’s already in the area then you can be damn sure they won’t be put off by these conditions. That’s why it’s essential we get to McGuire first.”

“You think they’re already in Switzerland, don’t you?” Eastman said to Graham.

“I think there’s a good possibility of it, yes,” Graham replied, slipping a pair of goggles over his eyes.

“I hope you’re wrong.”

“So do I,” Graham said.

“The skis and ski boots are outside,” Bastian announced once they had finished dressing.

“Then let’s go,” Sabrina said and followed Bastian to the door.

One of Bastian’s men was on hand when the cable car docked at the first of the funicular’s four landing stages. He opened the door and they gratefully piled out onto the concrete platform.

“Now I understand why the Pope kisses the ground when he gets off an airplane,” Marsh said, shaking his head slowly to himself.

Sabrina smiled. “It was a bit rough out there, I agree.”

“Now there’s an understatement for you,” Marsh replied. “We took a right buffeting out there. It’s a miracle the cable car wasn’t blown away.”

“Just be glad we don’t have to go any further,” Eastman told him.

“I am, guy.”

Bastian had a brief word with his colleague before turning back to the others. “You are ready?”

“We’re ready,” Graham told him.

“Good. There is a rope outside that will lead us down the mountain to where my men are waiting for us. You understand?”

“Yeah,” Graham told him. “How far are your men from here?”

Bastian consulted again with his colleague before answering. “About three hundred meters.”

“And the chalet?” Eastman asked.

“It is also there. But my men cannot be seen. They are hidden in the trees.” Bastian tapped the harness attached to his white overall. “You fasten this to the rope. Then you will not get lost.”

“After you,” Eastman said.

Bastian led the way down the steps to the door at the foot of the platform. They snapped on their skis then Bastian braced himself and pulled open the door. The wind burst through the doorway like an unwelcome intruder and whistled eerily around the interior of the station. Bastian stepped out into the snow, guided only by the light above the doorway. He pulled a flashlight from one of his pockets and switched it on. The rope had been looped through a pole beside the door and secured firmly by a figure-of-eight knot. He attached his harness to the rope then looked around at Graham and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Graham stepped out into the night. After each of them had secured themselves to the rope, Bastian switched off the torch. He couldn’t risk it being seen from the chalet. They would have to move in complete darkness. Slowly, and arduously, they made their way down the slope to where Bastian’s men were staked out below. In one gloved hand they held their ski poles, using the other to grip the rope tightly. They repeatedly stumbled into each other in the darkness, their heads bowed against the driving snow that lashed against them. At one point Marsh lost his balance, but was saved by the harness which ensured he didn’t stumble away from the rope. But, like the others, he was comforted in the knowledge that they were being led by a competent guide. Bastian obviously knew his way around the slopes, even in these treacherous conditions.

It seemed to take forever for them finally to reach the edge of the small grove of trees though, in reality, less than ten minutes had passed. Bastian tugged twice on the rope, the prearranged signal for them to stop. He stood for a moment, listening, as a message was relayed to him via the small transmitter which was tucked firmly into his ear under the thick padded hood. Satisfied, he tugged three times on the rope. The signal to continue. Seconds later the group noticed through the falling snow the flickering light marking a snow cave. The entrance had been purposely built facing away from the clearing which housed the chalet, allowing one of the men to guide them in with a powerful flashlight. Once they had all scrambled inside the cave a block of snow, which acted as a door, was replaced to keep out the snow. Bastian pulled back his hood then sat down and spoke to the two men at some length.

Sabrina listened in on the conversation, mentally recording anything that needed to be passed on to the others, so that when Bastian turned to brief them she was able to tell him that she could give them the gist of what had been said. Bastian gave her a grateful smile then reached for the thermos flask and poured himself a coffee.

“The spotlight’s been mounted on the edge of the clearing,” Sabrina explained. “So once we’re in position at the chalet, they’ll switch it on, hoping McGuire will panic and try to escape. We’ll then be on hand to grab him the moment he opens the door.”

“And if he doesn’t take the bait?” Graham asked.

“Then we go in,” she replied.

“And pray he doesn’t have a Kalashnikov,” Eastman said.

“McGuire’s the least of our problems.”

“You’re still convinced the IRA are going to get to him first?” Eastman said. “How are they going to do it? The cable car’s guarded by Bastian’s men. What does that leave? A helicopter? Jesus, what lunatic would take a chopper up in these conditions?”

A radio crackled into life and one of the men passed the handset to Bastian. Sabrina’s eyes widened in horror as she listened to the communiqué. She looked around at Eastman. “An unidentified helicopter’s just been picked up on police radar. It’s heading this way. ETA: five minutes. Two police helicopters have been scrambled from Geneva but they won’t be able to intercept it before it gets here.”

“Assuming it’s coming here,” Eastman said, but there was no conviction left in his voice.

“We’ve got to get McGuire out of there before the helicopter gets here,” Graham said, moving to the door. “God only knows what kind of arsenal they’ll have with them.”

“You have a plan?” Bastian asked.

“Sabrina and I will go to the chalet,” Graham replied, holding up his hand before Marsh could say anything. “We know him. It’s our only chance.”

“What do you want us to do?” Eastman asked.

“You could start praying,” Graham replied, moving to the door. “Captain, we’ll need two-way radios to keep in touch with you.”

Bastian snapped an order at the two men and they unclipped their radios and gave them to Graham and Sabrina.

“I’ll call you once we’re in place,” Graham said. “That’s when you switch on the spotlight.”

“We can switch it on now. It will make it easier for you to reach the chalet.”

“Sure it would, but you’re forgetting the back door. The moment you switched on the light McGuire could duck out of the back and we wouldn’t be any the wiser.” Graham looked at Sabrina. “Ready?”

“Ready,” she replied, pulling the goggles back over her eyes.

“Good luck,” Eastman said, patting them both on the shoulder. “Call us if you need us.”

“You can count on it,” Graham assured him.

“You will follow me?” Bastian said, putting on his skis, pushing aside the block of snow and ducking out into the night.

Graham and Sabrina were right behind him. They harnessed themselves to another section of rope which led from the door to where the spotlight had been mounted at the edge of the trees. Bastian tapped Graham’s arm and pointed into the darkness. Graham could just make out a light, barely visible through the falling snow. But it was enough for him to get his bearings. He tugged Sabrina’s sleeve and she gave him a thumbs-up sign. She had also seen it. Bastian switched on his torch and one of the men manning the spotlight took a length of rope from his haversack and looped it through their harnesses. He secured it with an overhand knot which could be easily untied once they reached the chalet. Sabrina tugged Graham’s sleeve then stepped out into the clearing. Graham, who had expected to take the lead, cursed sharply under his breath but quickly went after her. She dug her ski poles into the snow as she struggled against the fierce wind. She was determined to stay on her feet; one slip and they would both fall. And they could ill afford to get tangled up on the ground. Every second was precious to them now.

The light, which came from behind the drawn curtains of a window facing out over the clearing, became more defined with each stride. Then, suddenly, the silhouette of the chalet appeared through the falling snow. It was barely ten yards in front of them. Graham tugged sharply on Sabrina’s sleeve, indicating that she should go to the rear of the chalet. Again she nodded and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Stealthily they moved closer to the chalet until there was enough light for her to untie the rope binding them together. Sabrina held up her index finger, indicating that she wanted a minute to get into place as she moved off around the side of the chalet. Graham made his way cautiously to the front of the chalet. He reached the door, counting out another thirty seconds before unclipping the two-way radio from his belt. Praying that his voice could be heard above the wind, he crouched down, his body in the lee of the wall and, pressing the radio against his lips, shouted his instructions to Bastian as loudly as he dared. For a moment Graham thought Bastian hadn’t heard him. Then suddenly the spotlight snapped on, bathing the chalet in a bright, piercing light. Graham unclipped his skis, unslung the machine-pistol from his shoulder, then pushed down hard on the door handle. The door was locked.

The explosion knocked Graham off his feet. He landed painfully on his side and wrapped his arms around his head as debris rained down onto the snow around him. He lay there, momentarily winded, still struggling to comprehend what was happening. Above the howling wind, another sound pierced his consciousness. Horrified, he looked up to be blinded by the dazzling beam of a second spotlight directly above him, one being operated from the open cabin door of a helicopter. A burst of gunfire from the helicopter scored a direct hit on the police spotlight and darkness descended over the trees. Graham clawed frantically in the snow for the machine-pistol which had slipped from his grasp when he hit the ground. It was gone. He cursed furiously. He could have taken out the helicopter’s light if he’d had it. Another rocket grenade hit the roof and the chimney disintegrated in a hail of bricks. Graham, now without his skis, stumbled on through the snow to the chalet and was about to smash one of the windows when a row of bullets peppered the wall above him. He flung himself to the ground seconds before the window disintegrated in a hail of bullets.

The front door swung open and a figure was momentarily illuminated in the doorway. It was McGuire. He was wearing skis and his face was partially obscured by a hood. Graham yelled at him to get back into the chalet but the wind whipped away the words the moment he opened his mouth. McGuire looked up in terror at the helicopter then launched himself out of the doorway. A moment later the builder, Bertranne, followed him onto the snow. Graham stayed down, watching helplessly as McGuire and Bertranne stumbled blindly down the slope. In the sky the helicopter was banking around steeply, coming in low behind them, stalking their clumsy movements like a giant bird of prey. A burst of gunfire from the helicopter hit Bertranne in the back; as he fell one of his ski poles sliced into McGuire’s leg and both men tumbled headlong into the snow. The helicopter descended to within twenty feet of the ground and a masked figure in the doorway emptied the machine gun into the two men. Immediately the spotlight clicked off and the helicopter banked sharply to the right before disappearing over the trees.

Graham sat up slowly and looked around him, still struggling to come to terms with what he had just witnessed. It had all happened so fast that it was almost like something out of a nightmare. He couldn’t see McGuire or Bertranne in the darkness but he knew they were dead. Nobody could have survived that onslaught. Irrelevantly, he wondered which member of the cell had been responsible for such a clinical, coldblooded execution. Not Mullen, he would have been the pilot. Which left Kerrigan or Gallagher. It had to be Kerrigan. He had a history of extreme violence. And he would have enjoyed it. But he knew it didn’t really matter who had pulled the trigger. All that mattered now was that UNACO were back to square one again. And Scoby was due in London the next day …

Lights appeared out of the darkness as Bastian skied over to where Graham was slumped against the side of the chalet. He directed the flashlight onto Graham’s face. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Graham retorted, then a look of horror suddenly crossed his face. “Sabrina?”

Bastian put a restraining hand on Graham’s shoulder. “You stay there. We will go and check on her.”

“She’s my partner.” Graham brushed Bastian’s hand off his shoulder then got to his feet and stumbled through the knee-deep snow to where Marsh and one of Bastian’s men were crouched at the back of the chalet. Sabrina lay motionless by the door. The blood, which was seeping out from under her hood, had already stained the cushion of snow behind her head.

“She’ll be OK, Mike,” Marsh was quick to reassure him.

“Don’t touch her,” Graham snapped as Marsh was about to lift her up. “I’ll take her. You get the door.”

Marsh didn’t argue and set about breaking down the locked rear door with the help of one of Bastian’s men. Easing his hands underneath Sabrina, Graham cradled her to his chest, carried her into the chalet and laid her down gently on the sofa in the lounge.

“What happened?” Eastman asked, appearing in the doorway behind them.

“It looks as if she was hit by some falling debris,” Marsh replied.

“How is she?” Eastman asked anxiously.

“Do I look like Dr. Kildare?” Graham snarled. “Get me some towels. And see if you can find a pair of scissors.”

Marsh hurried from the room.

“McGuire and Bertranne are both dead,” Eastman said.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Graham replied, brushing the stray strands of hair from Sabrina’s face. “I was there when it happened. Neither of them stood a chance.”

Marsh returned with two bath towels, and Bastian appeared behind him with a pair of scissors he’d found in the kitchen. Graham carefully severed the elastic strap which held the goggles against her face, then, cutting away part of the hood, tilted her head gently to one side to get a better look at the wound. She had a deep gash at the base of her neck which would require stitches. That meant hospital.

“Are your police choppers equipped with stretchers?” he asked Bastian.

“No, but I have radioed for a mountain rescue helicopter. It has a stretcher.” Bastian looked down at Sabrina. “Is it serious?”

“It’s a nasty cut but she’ll be OK once she’s seen a doctor. How long before the chopper gets here?”

“It will be here soon,” Bastian assured him. “The station is not far away.”

Sabrina’s eyes fluttered open. “So which one of you is going to give me the last rites?” she asked of the anxious faces peering down at her.

Graham crouched beside her. “How you feeling?”

“OK, apart from the bulldozer in my head. What happened? All I remember is an explosion. Then nothing.”

Graham explained briefly what had happened after she blacked out.

“So McGuire’s dead?”

Graham nodded grimly. “He was dead the moment he opened the door. That was obviously the idea. Send down a couple of rocket grenades to panic him into trying to make a run for it. That way they could track him with the spotlight and pick him off almost at will. It was also the only way of making sure they killed him. Poor bastard, he didn’t stand a chance.”

“Any casualties on our side?” she asked.

“One of my men was hit in the leg,” Bastian replied. “But it could have been a lot worse. It was fortunate that most of the bullets hit the spotlight. They stopped firing at us after that.”

“That’s because they weren’t after us,” Graham said, looking up at Bastian: “That’s not to say they wouldn’t have killed us if we had got in the way. Hell, they took a shot at me when I tried to break into the chalet. But that was because I could have got to McGuire and prevented him from leaving. No, they knew exactly what they were doing. And, like true pros, they were out of here the moment the job was done.”

“Leaving us with more egg on our faces,” Marsh said.

“Yet again,” Graham added, staring significantly at Eastman.

Eastman remained silent. One of Bastian’s men appeared to announce the arrival of the mountain rescue helicopter and Bastian hurried from the room.

“Mike?” Sabrina said softly.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t start getting sentimental now,” he said gruffly.

She grinned then winced as a pain shot through the back of her head. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

“Next thing I know you’ll be wanting me to hold your hand on the way to the hospital.”

“Would you?” she replied with a mock innocent look, then inhaled sharply as she struggled not to laugh again.

Bastian returned with one of his men. “It is too dangerous for the helicopter to land. They will lower a stretcher for Miss Carver.”

“I can manage–” Sabrina tried to sit up but gasped as a spearing pain pulsed through her head. Gritting her teeth until the pain subsided, she slowly lay back on the sofa. “Then again, maybe not.”

A paramedic, lowered from the helicopter, came into the room, his ski suit still flecked with snow. He spoke briefly to Bastian then crossed to the sofa and kneeled beside Sabrina. As he examined her wound, Sabrina was aware of Graham standing over him, watching his every move. She looked up at him, her eyebrows raised questioningly; Graham muttered something under his breath and stepped back. The paramedic took a hypodermic syringe from his bag, pulled back her sleeve, and inserted the needle into her skin. Within seconds she began to feel drowsy and when she looked over at Graham, who had now taken up a position at the foot of the sofa, she smiled contentedly to herself. She knew he’d be there to watch over her. Then she drifted into unconsciousness.