Precipice

39

Marler, following Brazil's limo up the mountain, braked as he reached the large plateau, saw the fence, the villa, its roof festooned with aerials, the empty limo parked at the foot of a flight of steps. He was exposed with nowhere to hide and he had no idea how many guards Brazil might have at his disposal.

He saw a narrow track descending below the edge of the plateau, released the brake, continued down the track – out of sight of the villa. He drove on down the track, stopped suddenly. The track ended – at a sheer rim dropping into the glacier.

I should have brought my Armalite rifle, he thought.

He got out, approached the rim cautiously. The view down into the glacier just below was one of the most spectacular sights he had ever seen. The long sea of sheer ice glittered in the sunlight, refracting various colours.

He frowned, blinked, closed his eyes, opened them again. Yes, he had been right – the glacier was on the move. Very slowly, like some incredible animal stalking its prey. Crevasses, which looked bottomless, were appearing as the ice broke apart. It reminded him of a graveyard for dinosaurs – because the glacier was as ancient as the prehistoric beasts which no longer roamed the earth.

There was something sinister, doom-laden, about its almost imperceptible, implacable movement. He found it hypnotic, jerked his eyes away from this phenomenon of the might of nature. With his canvas satchel over his shoulder, he followed the edge of the rim which climbed upwards. To his right was a gradual snowbound slope, slanting down from the top of the plateau. He had to find some way of approaching the villa unseen. He had already made up his mind he must destroy the aerials on top of the villa, the key, he suspected, to Brazil's communication with the outside world. There would be no telephone inside the place – even Swiss engineers would balk at laying phone lines up the mountain and radio telephones could be intercepted. He stopped suddenly. A figure had appeared.

Marler was close to the first sign of vegetation he had seen. A fossilized tree, bare of all foliage, twisted and gnarled, its thick trunk bent over, a few branches extended towards the sky as though in supplication. He moved in front of the trunk, looked up.

Marco, the sunlight on his face, wore dark glasses, his slim body swathed in a fur coat. Marler stared. Something twitched at the back of his mind. The Reeperbahn, the notorious district in Hamburg. He had strolled inside it once at night. Outside a club he had seen the picture of a knife-thrower. He had paid the entrance fee, had joined the audience inside.

The knife-thrower was entertaining the audience by throwing knives at figures of men painted on sheets. Each knife had dived into the chest of the figures – and the figures he was throwing them at appeared without warning and from all directions. The knife-thrower was Marco, the man who now stood looking down at him.

The white face grinned, a deathlike grin. Marco opened his coat, revealed a belt round his waist holding at least a dozen long wide-bladed knives. He held up his hands, cupped them over his mouth, shouted in French.

'You should not have come, my friend. Say your prayers.'

He had a knife in his hand in a second, raised his hand above his head, hurtled it through the ice-cold air. Marler, still in front of the tree trunk, ducked. He heard a swish, glanced at the tree trunk. The knife had landed, was twanging just where his chest had been.

Marler recognized Marco had the tactical advantage -he had the high ground. Something would have to be done about that. He was too far away for a certain shot with a Walther. Marler slipped behind the tree trunk, was no longer an easy target.

As he had hoped, Marco advanced down the slope, coming closer, moving sideways so he could see behind the tree trunk. Still not close enough for a Walther. He had to encourage Marco to use up his collection of knives.

He peered quickly round the tree, dodged back instantly. A second very close swish. The knife was embedded in the edge of the tree trunk, where the side of Marler's head had been. Marler calculated Marco would expect him to peer round the other side of the tree. He peered round the same side as he had before.

Poised on the slope, Marco had to change the direction of his throw. The third knife thudded into the side of the trunk Marler had peered round. Too close for comfort. Then silence. Marco was trying a new tactic, Marler felt sure. He felt inside his canvas satchel, brought out what his fingers had grasped. He had risked taking off his glove. Marco was wearing gloves on both hands.

Marler ran out into the open along the rim. He had been right. Marco had run silently down the slope so he could target Marler behind the tree. Caught off balance by his enemy's sudden move, Marco, close to the rim, raised his hand, holding another knife. Marler threw the stun grenade. It landed at Marco's feet.

The knife was never thrown. Marco flung both hands up, dropped the knife, staggered forward. He seemed to pause at the edge of the rim, then stumbled forward. Marler watched his body spinning as it fell toward the glacier. It was not a long drop and Marco, still vaguely conscious, tried to clamber upright on the ice. He lost balance for the second time. Marler continued watching as the knife-thrower vanished, sliding down inside a crevasse. The ice began to close over it.

Looking up as he hurried up the slope, Marler saw that the villa had been in view during the last deadly duel. It couldn't be helped. He must move quickly.

Inside the villa Brazil had observed Marco's attempt to wipe out the intruder, had seen Marco's grim end as he disappeared down the crevasse. He hurried to the door of his transmitter room, opened the door, called out.

'Elvira, we have an intruder. Marco is dead. The intruder is approaching the villa. Deal with him.'

'I am not leaving the villa. Your meal is ready.'

'You were trained to use a machine-pistol,' Brazil raged.

'You said Marco is dead. The man who can kill Marco is good. I am not leaving the villa.' the squat woman said obstinately. 'Your meal is ready.'

'Then put the wretched thing on the stove and keep it warm,' Brazil shouted at her.

He'd have to get Luigi to fly back some of the guards from the Kellerhorn. He had a helicopter pilot, a local hired for his knowledge of the area, not one of his own men. He hurried to the transmitter room, shut the door, composing the message he would send in his head.

'Marco is dead,' Elvira repeated like a litany as she waddled back to her kitchen.

Taking the risk that more guards would appear, Marler ran up the slope, paused. No one in sight anywhere. Most odd. He ran again until he was within a few feet of the perimeter fence.

He extracted something else from his satchel, something protected with great care. All the way up the mountain he had worried that he might encounter a rocky patch which would shake the vehicle. The drive up had been smooth all the way. He would be very relieved to get rid of what he was carrying in his gloved hand.

He stopped for a moment, estimating the distance. They hadn't built the fence far enough away from the villa. Holding his right arm high up, behind his shoulder, he hurled the stick of dynamite.

It sailed through the air, landed exactly where he had aimed, exploded with a roar amid the network of aerials. The masts were shattered, fragments flying up into the air, larger pieces toppling over on top of each other. Where they had stood on top of the flat roof there was now a scrap heap of tortured, twisted, destroyed metal. Marler turned and ran back to his four-wheel-drive.

Sitting in front of the transmitter inside the villa, Brazil shuddered under the impact of the explosion. Plaster from the ceiling showered down into the room, but the roof held firm. It had been built of reinforced concrete to withstand the huge weight of winter's snow and ice.

Compressing his lips, Brazil, wearing the headphones, attempted to tap out the message. Nothing. The transmitter was dead. He now had no means of communicating with Luigi. Cursing, he went to the kitchen, which also served as a dining room.

The table was laid and the moment he appeared Elvira carried a steaming dish of pasta and mince meat to the table in front of where he sat. She glared at him. Brazil sat down, looking at the pilot who was reading a magazine in a corner.

'Have you plenty of fuel?' he asked.

'Well tanked up,' the pilot replied. 'It was only a short flight here.'

'Then, when I have eaten, you could fly me across to the buildings on the Kellerhorn?'

'Easily. It would be safer if we landed there before it is dark.'

'Eat!' Elvira commanded. 'The stomach must be fed. I heard a bang,' she said placidly.

'Never mind about the bang.'

'Marco is dead.' she said.

'For God's sake don't say that again.' Brazil shouted, slamming down his cutlery.

Marler drove back down the mountain road in a happier frame of mind than when he had ascended it. He had been only too glad to get rid of the dynamite. And it had done the job. Which meant Brazil could not summon more of his thugs to meet him, coming up as he drove down.

He was still puzzled by the lack of more guards, but Marler never wasted time or energy on mysteries he couldn't solve. Now he was concentrating on reaching Sion before night fell, although at the moment the valley way below the abyss was aglow in the dusk.

With a sigh of relief he reached the bottom, drove on into Sion. He parked his vehicle, walked the rest of the way to the Hotel Elite to report to Newman on the day's work.

'Excellent news.' Newman commented in his room. Marler had reported while Philip and Paula also listened.

'Mind you.' Marler warned, 'I'm sure Brazil is now on the Kellerhorn. I had just reached the valley when I heard – then saw – a helicopter flying from the direction of that villa towards the Kellerhorn. There was a chopper on a helipad outside the villa when I arrived.'

'So we assume Brazil has now taken personal control of the ground station. Ready to activate something far more terrible. Let's pray he's inside the place when we go in and attack tomorrow.'

'It's been pretty terrible so far.' Paula interjected. 'I've been listening to the radio. All normal BBC programmes on the World Service have been suspended. They're continually broadcasting more news of smashed communications systems all over the world. To say nothing of the people who have been killed. Even, in a few cases, businessmen working from their homes with all their computer equipment linked to the information superhighway.'

'Plus.' Philip added, 'the most alarming rumours from Moscow. That the city is ringed with advancing troops – crack divisions. And a General Ivan Marov is supposed to have issued a proclamation closing the frontiers of Russia from Vladivostok on the Pacific to Belarus in the west. The President, it's alleged, is ill, has been taken to a clinic.'

'Terror tactics to unnerve the West.' Newman commented. 'But really it's developed into a duel between two men – Tweed versus Brazil.'

'You have a plan for destroying the ground station?' Marler enquired. 'If so, I ought to know the details.'

'We do have a plan.' Newman assured him, 'a plan largely devised from something Philip observed when he was on the Kellerhorn with Paula. They worked out the plan between them. I have approved it. Give you the details after Philip and Paula have left.'

'Bob.' Paula said emphatically, 'when did you last get some sleep?'

'Can't remember.'

'I thought not. As soon as we leave you get some kip. You can tell Marler the plan when you wake up. You'll be fresher. Marler can stay on guard while you're comatose which – from the look of you – you will be the moment your head hits the pillow.'

'Where are Butler and Nield?' Marler asked.

'Prowling the streets.' Newman replied. 'Both wearing black leather outfits and helmets like the Leather Bombers, and riding Fireblades. They're checking for signs of the opposition. Butler is keeping an eye on that airfield.'

'We could shoot them.' Marler objected.

'We thought of that. Both Harry and Pete have red crosses painted on the fronts and backs of their helmets.'

'And where are Paula and Philip off to?' persisted Marler, who always liked to be in the complete picture.

Paula had taken out her. 32 Browning, was checking its action. Philip had just slipped the mag out of his Walther, examined the weapon, then rammed the mag back inside the butt before returning the gun to his hip holster.

'They're on their way to try and find a man called Anton Marchat,' Newman told him.

'Last seen at Devastoke Cottage in Dorset.' Marler recalled.

'When you find him.' Newman went on, 'ask him if he knows anything about the Kellerhorn, about the ground station.'

'Do our best.' said Philip as he got up and left with Paula. 'We're walking there.'

The streets of Sion were deserted and silent after dark. Philip, who had studied the street plan, guided them in the right direction. Paula realized they were heading for the enormous hunk of rock with an ancient building on its summit which dominated the town.

'How are you getting on with Eve, Philip?' Paula asked. 'Or would you sooner not talk about it? You haven't seen her for awhile.'

'I've decided she's no good for me. She's a consummate liar. I've detected that, even when I've been glad to be with her. One part of my brain seems to function in spite of the grief for Jean. I know now my feelings for Eve were an infatuation, a dangerous one.'

'So you're going to ditch her?'

'One way of putting it.' Philip laughed without humour. 'I think women are more realistic than men about women. More ruthless in their assessment, too. If they've got brains, and you're fully equipped with them.'

'I didn't put that very nicely.' She paused. 'Philip, we are being followed.'

'I know.' They rounded a corner. 'Quick! Get into that doorway. Keep perfectly still. Don't say a thing…'

As they huddled into the alcove-like porch Philip took out his Walther. Paula already had her Browning in her hand. They waited, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps.

Paula found the atmosphere eerie. The side-street was as black as coal tar. The nearest street lamp was a long way away. The silence was oppressive, like a heavy blanket pressing down on her. They went on waiting, two figures like waxworks, neither moving a muscle.

When five minutes had passed Philip told Paula in a whisper to stay where she was. He walked quietly out into the street, peered round the corner. No one. Nothing. Not a sound. He went back to the doorway.

'I don't think it was our imagination, but whoever it was he's gone. So let's get moving. It could be a relevation – talking to the highly elusive Mr Marchat.'