Precipice

17

Leopold Brazil stood at the window of his spacious office in the villa in Berne. He was protected from view by thick net curtains. Behind him stood Carson Craig, clad in a grey suit which had cost him a thousand pounds.

Time I left for Belp Airport, sir.' Craig reminded his chief. 'I've got your double standing by to board the jet with me. We should land at Cointrin, Geneva, in no time.'

'You said my double, Craig.' Brazil turned round and stared at him. 'Some bosses would resent the idea that they had someone who looked exactly like him.'

'I'm sorry.' Craig's brutal face crinkled into what he hoped was an apologetic expression. 'He doesn't look exactly like you.'

Brazil was amused. He didn't give a damn how closely the so-called double resembled himself, but he liked confusing his minion, who lacked a sense of humour.

'I wouldn't worry too much about it, Craig. But now I mean what I say. Go easy in Geneva.'

'We have reason to believe that trouble is on its way from London,' Craig said stubbornly. 'Our watcher at Heathrow has reported that one of Tweed's lackeys – the woman, Paula Grey – boarded a flight for Geneva. He had a good description of her from The Recorder. I'm going to wipe up Tweed's troublemakers before they can start anything.'

'Like you did at Sterndale Manor?' Brazil's tone had sharpened. 'Nobody told you to kill everybody in that house. My order was to raid the safe, make it look like a robbery.'

'We couldn't get into the house.' Craig persisted. 'I used my initiative.'

'I said go easy in Geneva. That is all.'

Craig left the room and joined his henchman, Gustav, who was waiting in an anteroom. Gustav was a fat, mean-looking man with a thin, cruel mouth.

'He's on again about us going easy,' Craig growled as they descended a wide curving marble staircase to the ground floor. 'You've got your kit?' he asked, glancing at the canvas bag Gustav was carrying.

'Everything, boss. Black leather jacket and trousers and helmet. The machines are waiting for us in Geneva with the rest of the team.'

'Good. We'll give them hell. They're getting just too close to the laboratory.'

'Where's that?'

'Shut your face.' snarled Craig.

The call to Tweed from Arthur Beck in the Federal Police building came an hour later.

Tweed, I think you should know the jet left Belp with three men a few minutes ago. My man reported Carson Craig was definitely one of the passengers. Another looked superficially like Brazil, but wasn't.'

'How could he tell?' Tweed asked.

'Body language. He observes how people move.'

'And where was this jet flying to?'

'Geneva. It should arrive there in no time. Trouble, savage trouble would be my guess – as Craig is with them. That's all for now …'

At Park Crescent Tweed put down the phone, looked at Newman and Marler with a grim expression. He told them what Beck had said.

'It looks as though Paula could be walking into an inferno.' he said bleakly.

'Then it's a good job you sent Philip.' Newman told him. 'And don't look so worried. Philip will have left his emotional baggage on his doorstep. And he likes Paula.'

'If I'd known earlier I'd have sent both of you to back up Philip. But I wanted to discuss my interview with Professor Grogarty. What do you both think is the significance of what he told me, in his mixed way?'

'I think.' Marler said, 'if it can be arranged safely you should now meet Leopold Brazil as soon as possible. I repeat, if it can be arranged so your safety is guaranteed. By us.'

'What do you suggest?'

'That at least four of us, disguised, are in the vicinity of the meeting place, which must not be a hole in the wall. By all of us I mean Bob, myself, with Butler and Nield.'

'Pete Nield is expected back from Dorset any moment.' Tweed told him. 'I overlooked one thing – I should have put a tail on Eve Warner.'

'Not to worry.' Newman replied cheerfully. 'I knew you were up to your neck so last night I called on Philip briefly in his suite at the Priory and asked him for Eve's address. She lives in a flat near mine. Quite posh. That's why Marler arrived late.'

'Get to the point, Bob.'

'Marler followed her when she left her flat after Philip had gone. Followed her to Heathrow where she boarded a flight. Bound for Geneva.'

Thank Heaven I brought arctic clothing, Paula thought.

The aircraft was flying lower over Switzerland. It was dark but the sky was star-studded and the moon shone brightly. They were passing over the Jura Mountains, which were snow-bound, and a small lake was a gleam of solid ice.

As some flights did, the plane flew east, then south, then west over Lake Geneva. It landed smoothly at the airport and the American beside her she had chatted with got up. She was in Business Class and quickly put on the fur-lined coat a stewardess brought her from where it had hung during the flight.

'Say, I can remember this airport when it was pretty small.' said the American who had come up next to her as they walked along an endless corridor. 'Now it's too goddamn big – and gettin' bigger all the time.'

'I can remember it in those days too.' Paula replied. 'It was cosy and no distance at all to walk.'

'You're on your own, lady. Care to join me for dinner this evening? No strings attached. I mean that.'

'That's very kind of you but I do have a date for this evening.'

'Enjoy your date. Nice to have met you…'

He walked more quickly and Paula heaved a sigh of relief. The American was a nice man, it was pleasant to realize she was still attractive, but she had no time to waste.

Leaving Cointrin, she took a taxi to the Hotel des Bergues, booked a room, and tipped the porter when he'd carried her heavy bag up. The spacious room overlooked the River Rhone and a blaze of neon lights on the far side advertising this and that. The lights were reflected in the water as wavy distortions. She dialled Park Crescent and Monica answered.

Paula. I'm at the Hotel des Bergues, room number

'Got it.' said Monica.

Paula put down the phone, unpacked her bag swiftly, went back down into the lobby wearing her fur coat again.

'Be careful, miss.' the commissionaire warned as she was about to step into the street. 'It's like a skating rink out there…'

She paused outside, tested the grip of her fur-lined boots, found it was good. She was wearing a pair of boots with special soles which had tiny spikes. After being inside the warm hotel for a few minutes the cold air hit her and she adjusted the coat's hood over her head.

On the plane she had checked the address of the dealer in arms and found she was familiar with the street which ran parallel to the Rhone across the water. She started walking across the footbridge, which zigzagged over the river. A raw wind froze her exposed cheeks, a wind blowing all the way from the distant Rhone glacier down the lake into Geneva. Despite the heavy gloves she wore, with her hand on the rail to keep her balance, she felt the cold penetrating the gloves. It was way below zero.

Leaving the bridge, she walked a short distance, turned into the right street, checking the numbers. Her destination turned out to be a shop with the word Antiquateren over the fascia. No sign of the name Rico Sava.

She had checked several times coming across the bridge to make sure she hadn't been followed. And the street she was in was deserted. So, it appeared, was the shop. The windows were in darkness with a grille over them. The door was ancient, heavy, and had a Judas window with bars. She pressed the bell beside it, pressed it several times when no one came. God, has he gone home, she thought. But I do need a gun.

There was a rattling sound and the Judas window opened. She couldn't see who was behind it.

'Rico Sava?' she asked.

'Oui.'

'Do you speak English?' she asked; although she was fluent in French, she thought Sava might be more convinced of her identity. 'A friend of mine, Marler. Marler.' she repeated, 'sent me here. He said you could supply me with something special.'

'I speak English. Are you alone? You say you are. Now close your eyes.'

Mystified, she did so, and a glaring light over the door came on. It was so powerful she was aware of it even with her eyes closed. She heard several locks being unfastened, bolts drawn, then the door opened. She kept her eyes shut.

'You can open your eyes now.'

The light had gone off. She blinked, stared at a small figure silhouetted in the dark. Sava told her to come in, took her elbow, warned her about a step down, then closed the door, made it secure, and switched on a normal light.

Rico Sava was small, had the beginnings of a paunch, was dressed in corduroy trousers, a dark waistcoat which was unbuttoned revealing a clean white shirt, open at the neck. In his sixties, she guessed, he had a turnip-shaped head with the short end his chin. His swarthy skin was lined but his eyes were bright, very alert.

'Describe Marler,' he said, hands on his hips.

She did so, emphasizing his upper-crust accent and languid manner.

'Mimic his voice.' Sava suggested pleasantly.

Paula did so, exaggerating the drawling manner Marler spoke with. Sava nodded, satisfied.

'You're careful.' Paula commented.

'In my business I have to be. So tell me how I can help you.' he said with a smile which lit up his previously sombre face.

'I want a. 32 Browning automatic in perfect condition. And spare mags. Have you got one?'

'You know, I think we might be able to oblige.'

Sava walked quickly to a bookcase on a wall hidden from all the shop windows. He opened the case after unlocking it, took another key from the ring in his hand, and inserted it into a keyhole Paula, even with her sharp eyes, could not see. The entire interior of the bookcase from floor to ceiling revolved open like a giant door, revealing another compartment behind it. On the shelves, neatly stored, was a large collection of handguns. He turned round to hand her a Browning.

'In perfect condition, you said. That fell off the back of a lorry on its way to a police armoury.' He chuckled. 'That is a British joke, is it not?'

'It is.' replied Paula with a smile.

She made sure the weapon was not loaded, then checked its mechanism. Sava handed her a magazine. She slid it inside the butt, rammed it home with the heel of her hand, then lifted the gun in both hands, raised it to test its weight and feel, staring along the shallow gunsight. It nestled in her hands like her own weapon back at Park Crescent.

'Great.' she said. 'Just great. How much – with the spare mags?'

'For you, three thousand francs. Including the mags.'

'And for someone else?' she teased him.

'Three and a half thousand.' he said seriously, and she believed him. 'Because you are a friend of Marler's.' he explained.

She paid him in thousand-franc notes, slipped the gun into the hip holster she was already wearing. She normally carried the weapon in a special pocket inside her shoulder bag but her fingers were so cold, as she had anticipated might be the case, she knew she could reach the gun quicker out of the holster.

She turned to speak to Sava and he had already closed and locked the fake bookcase. A very careful man.

'Thank you for your help.'

'Give my regards to Mr Marler when you next see him.'

'I will – and I'll tell him about the generous discount.'

'It was nothing.'

He spread his hands, then crinkled his brow and Paula waited, guessing he was wondering whether to say something else.

'I would never dream of asking you why you are here.' Sava began, 'but I hope you are not going near the Old City tonight.'

'Why the warning, if I may ask?'

'Of course you may. There is a murderous gang we have nicknamed the Leather Bombers patrolling that area. They are men in black leather on motorcycles and the other night they knocked down a woman crossing one of the old streets. They just picked up her body, slung it over the rear of one of their machines, and drove off.'

'That's horrible, and thank you for the warning…'

Paula hurried back to the Hotel des Bergues and had dinner at the Pavilion restaurant leading off the lobby. Tonight, she felt, was a very unknown quantity and she was more alert after a light meal.

Leaving the restaurant, she hailed a cab and asked the driver to take her to Les Armures. The driver nodded that he knew where it was and crossed the Pont du Rhone, the bridge over the river.

From that moment they left behind the bright lights of the international city of Geneva and climbed into the dark of the Old City, perched high up. Although he was driving on snow tyres the cabbie proceeded cautiously. He was climbing ever more steeply, veering round dangerous bends, and on both sides of the narrow cobbled street Paula looked out at ancient stone buildings which gave her the impression of an abandoned district. He skidded three times but managed to regain control. Higher and higher they mounted until, to Paula's relief, the cathedral, built on the summit, came into view, a menacing edifice in the moonlight.

He pulled up beside a weird stone platform and looked over his shoulder.

'The restaurant is over there. I can't get any closer,' he said in French.

She paid him off, standing on treacherous cobbles covered with ice. Then he was gone. An uncomfortable silence she could almost hear descended. No one else was about. She checked her watch. The illuminated hands registered 8 p.m. She had deliberately arrived one hour before the earliest time Archie had said he would be at Les Armures. She wanted to check out the area.

Philip's flight landed at Geneva and he went immediately to a phone and called Monica.

'Philip here. Calling from Cointrin Airport. I've just arrived. Any news of Paula?'

'Yes. Staying at the Hotel des Bergues, room number…'

'Thanks. Must go.'

'Put that phone down and you're fired.'

Tweed's voice, grim.

'To hell with that,' Philip snapped. 'I've arrived late. Plane held up at Heathrow. Something about engine maintenance. It's eight o'clock here, for God's sake…'

'Information you need.' Tweed's voice was calm now. 'I had Beck on the line over an hour ago. Carson Craig has flown to Geneva. Beck reported a motorcycle gang which is careering round the city. Killed a woman and took her away. The police can't locate the gang.'

'Got it. I'm going now…'

'Good luck.' said Tweed but Philip didn't hear the words. He had slammed down the phone.

He was in a desperate rush to reach Les Armures by nine. But he had vital jobs to do first. He ran out of the concourse, grabbed a cab, asked to be taken to the Hotel des Bergues.

At the hotel he registered for a room quickly, left his bag for a porter to take up to his room. He paused to enquire whether his friend Paula Grey was in the hotel.

'No, sir. She went out…'

'Thanks.'

Philip dashed out, nearly lost his balance on the ice even though he was wearing special boots with soles to grip ice. He dived back into the cab he'd kept waiting, gave the driver the address of Marler's dealer in arms. Reaching his destination, he gave the driver an amount far exceeding the fare.

'Wait for me and there's a large tip. For God's sake don't go away. I'm late for an appointment with a girl friend.'

'I'll be here.' This driver had a sense of humour. 'Never keep a woman waiting is my motto…'

Philip had spoken in French, which he found came back to him easily. He nearly went mad as Rico Sava put him through the same procedure he'd adopted with Paula, taking centuries to open the Judas window, then the door. Asking for a description of Marler.

'I need a 7.65mm Walther automatic, the one with eight rounds capacity.'

'You may need more than that.'

'What do you mean?' Philip asked, controlling his growing impatience.

'I had a very nice lady here. She purchased a Browning automatic. ..'

'She did?'

'I warned her not to go into the Old City. I think she was going to ignore my warning. If you're here to protect her you'll need more than that.' Sava repeated.

'Supposing I was here to do that?'

'There's a villainous motorcycle gang…'

'I've heard about them…'

'After the lady had gone a murderous-looking man with a mean face called here and spent a fortune. I heard his motorcycle stop further down the street.'

'What about it?'

'I'm breaking my golden rule' – Sava looked regretful – 'never to inform on one customer to another, but you come from Marler. And I didn't like this man.'

'He spent a fortune, you said. What did he buy?'

'A large supply of stun grenades. Also a number of Army grenades. Lethal. Twelve handguns, plenty of ammo. And this, which puzzled me.'

He took Philip across the shop into another room, showed him a huge searchlight-like lamp. It wasn't cumbersome. Sava handed it to Philip, who was surprised at how little it weighed. Sava showed him how easily it was switched on.

'Motorcycles,' Sava reminded him. 'What do you want? I can put the searchlight into a canvas bag with a strap to hang from your shoulder.'

'What about both types of grenade?'

'They would go into separate pockets inside the bag.'

'How much? Don't forget the Walther with spare mags.'

'Expensive, especially the searchlight. Fifteen thousand francs.'

'Pack them quickly. Everything in the bag except the Walther. Very quickly, please…'

Thanking God that Tweed always insisted key members of his staff carried a lot of money in high-denomination Swiss francs and Deutschmarks, Philip peeled off fifteen notes.

'Excuse me.' Sava said as Philip was leaving, 'but you are a brave man…'

Canvas bag over his shoulder, Philip dived back into the waiting cab, told him to drive to Les Armures.

'I'm sorry, sir.' the driver said as he drove off, 'but I can only drive you as far as the cathedral. There is big trouble in the Old City. The police have got it wrong -they are watching the outskirts of Geneva to check everyone entering. The people they are after are already here.'

'All right, then. The cathedral.'

Philip checked his watch. Ten minutes to nine. Everything had taken too long. He had an awful feeling he was going to be too late.