The Power

46

On the summit of the cliff Marler and Butler had operated again as a skilled team. Butler had waited by the plunger while Marler ran further along the brink away from the convoy. He had stopped at a point where he could look down on the winding road and see it clearly.

Holding his right arm upright, Marler watched the roof of Newman's station wagon pass below him, followed by the grey Espace and Gaunt's BMW. He had waited until he saw Nield on his motorcycle, speeding past. The moment Nield wag well clear of the cliff he had dropped his hand and run like hell away from the brink to the centre of the plateau. That was the moment when Butler pressed down on the plunger with all his strength.

His job accomplished, he began running back to join Marler. Butler felt the ground trembling under his feet and wondered whether he was going to make it. Reaching the scatter of boulders where Marler waited he looked back and sucked in his breath.

The two Americans had misjudged placing the plunger mechanism. Butler stared in awe as a fissure zig-zagged across the plateau, as half the plateau crumbled away, taking the mechanism with it. The roar was deafening. Clouds of rock dust appeared from under the snow. Choking, both men ran for the shallow slope, Marler gripping his Armalite and tear-gas pistol.

The crash and rumble of the avalanche continued as they ran, slithered down the long slope to where the convoy was stationary, waiting for them. Cardon greeted them as they arrived on the road, calling out to Butler.

'We manhandled your machine into the back of the Espace. Paula helped me. We had only seconds.'

'I'll get it out, then,' Butler decided. Take up my old position at the head of the convoy.'

'Congratulations, both of you,' Tweed said tersely when he had jumped down to meet them. 'Marler, get back into the station wagon. Tell Newman to get moving. I want us out of the mountains before dark. And again, everyone keep a sharp lookout for more welcomes from the enemy.'

'I'll go ahead of Newman as before,' repeated Butler.

With Garden's help he had been hauling his machine out of the back of the Espace. Amberg was twisted round in his seat, staring fixedly. Butler gave him a brief wave, whispered to Cardon.

'The Swiss looks stiff as a poker. Obviously not used to these day trips…'

Mounted on his machine, he started it and sped off as Gaunt came striding down from his BMW.

'What the devil was all that about?' he barked.

'Avalanche,' Tweed told him. 'You get them in this part of the world in winter. Get back to your car. We're on our way…'

Soon the convoy was driving down an even more murderous series of spiral twists and turns which went on and on. Dusk was descending and great stands of fir trees closed in on either side, immense branches weighed down with thick coatings of frozen snow. Paula shivered at the sight of them – it reminded her of films of Siberia she had seen. The forest moved in to the edges of the road, creating tunnels which she found claustrophobic. Inside the Espace the temperature was dropping despite the fact that Tweed had the heaters turned full on.

They emerged from the tunnels as they reached lower levels and lights inside houses appeared as they passed hamlets tucked into bends and located inside ravines. Their headlights swept over small houses with red-tiled rooves showing in patches close to chimneys: heat from a stove inside had temporarily melted a little snow. First-floor balconies looked as though they'd soon sag under the accumulated snow they supported.

They passed through the small town of Munster, bumping over cobbled streets, slowing down as they approached the outskirts of Colmar. They had just passed a petrol station with a small cafe attached when a motorcyclist drew alongside the Espace out of nowhere. Eve, who had remained calm and quiet during the drama of the falling cliff, raised her rifle. Paula was already aiming her Browning as Tweed slowed down, saw them.

'Put down those weapons, for God's sake, both of you!' he shouted.

He stopped the Espace as the motorcyclist, a Union Jack whipping from its aerial, pulled up. Tweed left the engine running and looked over his shoulder before he opened the door.

'Paula, keep him covered with your gun, but don't fire unless he produces a weapon.'

He opened the door and the. tall motorcyclist stood in the road, the machine leant against him, both hands raised above his head.

'You're Tweed. I've been waiting here hours for you. I'm Barton Ives, Special Agent FBI…'

'How did you know I would be coming this way?' demanded Tweed.

'Cord Dillon said you had to pass this spot when you came down from the mountains. That was in the afternoon. I have papers…'

'Be very careful what you take out of your pocket,' warned Paula as the stranger reached inside his leather jacket.

He slowly produced a folder, handed it up to Tweed, who examined it by the courtesy light. With the front door open the temperature inside the Espace dropped even further.

Newman appeared behind the stranger. He pressed the tip of his Smith amp; Wesson into his back.

'This is a gun,' he warned.

'Yeah. I guessed it was. You guys are wise to take all precautions. But aren't we exposed, standing out here?'

'Not really,' Newman told him.

Marler had left the station wagon, was now positioned at the side of the cafe next to the petrol station. He had loosened the belt round his fur-lined windcheater so he could thrust the tear-gas, belt inside it. He was holding the Armalite, his eyes scanning the whole area. Butler, who had returned on his motorcycle, had taken up a position on the opposite side of the road.

Tweed had examined the folder, which seemed genuine, had compared the photograph with Ives' appearance. The American had removed his helmet, had pulled down the scarf from his face. What convinced Tweed of the man's identity was that he fitted the descriptions Dillon had given him. At long last he was meeting the real Barton Ives.

'Get in,' Tweed ordered, 'sit next to me, keep your hands in your lap. There are people behind you with guns and itching trigger fingers. Bob, put his machine in the back of the Espace…'

Tweed's careful check had taken no more than a minute. He signalled to Marler and Butler that they were moving on. He waited until Newman had returned to the station wagon and Ives whispered to him.

'I need to be alone with you. I've one helluva story to tell you. My guess is you've no idea what you're up against. Doubt if you'll believe a word I say. It's all incredible, but true.'

'Not now,' Tweed replied. 'We're in a hurry to leave France to cross the border into Switzerland – travelling non-stop this evening. Norton hasn't given up yet – of that I'm sure.'

'You can bet on it,' agreed Ives.

Paula was impressed with the FBI agent's appearance and manner. In his late thirties, she estimated, he was tall, had thick dark hair, his strong-featured face with a firm jaw was clean-shaven. Despite his long ordeal of staying under cover, moving constantly from place to place in fear of his life, he showed no signs of strain. His voice was quiet, controlled, almost matter-of-fact.

'We're going to have to hurry to do that,' Ives observed. To reach Switzerland tonight.'

'It's just a matter of organization,' Tweed commented as he continued to drive the Espace close to the station wagon.

The rendezvous point where they had picked up Barton Ives had been well chosen. An oasis of quiet, there had been no one else about. Now, only minutes later, they were caught up in Colmar's rush-hour traffic. The convoy had closed up and Gaunt's BMW was on Tweed's tail, a little too close for his liking, but that was Gaunt.

'How shall we manage it?' Paula called out.

'I'll go out the way we came in. By train to Basle. I want you to come with me, and you too, Eve. Philip,' he called over his shoulder to Cardon, 'you'll also be with us as bodyguard, together with Butler and Nield. Ives, you come with us aboard the train.'

Tweed had no intention of letting the elusive American out of his sight after waiting so long to contact him.

'Anything you say,' Ives agreed cheerfully.

'What about the Espace, the station wagon and the weapons?' asked Paula, her mind racing ahead to the next problem.

'I'm changing tactics from the way we came in,' Tweed said with a surge of vigour in his voice which made Paula feel tired. He glanced briefly back at her at a red traffic light and his eyes gleamed with purpose and drive. This, Paula thought, is where we really take off.

They were nosing their way closer to the Bristol as Tweed explained further.

'I'm assuming our friend, the Swiss police chief, Beck, will be on the alert at the frontier. The French frontier control will still be on the look-out for terrorists entering France – not the other way round. If Newman and Marler meet trouble Bob will immediately ask to be put in contact with Beck.'

'What about the Uzi Bob is carrying?' Paula pressed.

'All the weapons will be hidden, attached under the chassis of the station wagon and the Espace – including the Uzi. That is the sort of trouble Newman may run into. We shall need those weapons for a final showdown, I'm convinced of that.'

'And we stay in Basle overnight?' Paula asked.

'No! We keep on moving. We arrange to meet Newman and Marler with their transport at Basle Bahnhof. From there we drive on non-stop south-west into French-speaking Switzerland. From Basle to Neuchatel, on past the lake to Yverdon, then due south to Ouchy on the shores of Lake Geneva. Amberg, you did say that is where you have hidden the items I want to see and hear?'

'I did,' the banker replied tersely. 'But we have to stop at my branch in Basle for a few minutes – so I can collect a safe deposit key.'

'Make sure it is only a few minutes. Two of my men will accompany you into the bank. Paula, when we reach the main station in Basle phone up two hotels in Ouchy – the Hotel d'Angleterre to book rooms for Butler and Nield, then the Hotel Chateau d'Ouchy to book rooms for the rest of us, including Amberg.'

'I prefer to stay at-' Amberg began.

'Your preferences went out of the window when we watched a blank screen at the Chateau Noir,' Tweed snapped. 'You stay with us – all the way.'

'So,' Paula mused, 'we'll be ahead of the opposition for once, may never see them again.'

'That,' commented Eve, stretching her arms above her head,'will be a dream.'

'And if you believe that,' Tweed warned, 'considering the huge organization we're up against, you are dreaming…'

On the heights of the Vosges Norton, just managing to stop himself from freezing into a block of ice by keeping the engine running, the heaters turned full up, had earlier received a static-ridden report on progress from Mencken.

Progress! Norton would probably have strangled Mencken had his subordinate been close enough. Bleakly and bluntly Mencken had told his chief about the failure of the major ambush planned on D417.

'You say the Nestle truck was crushed, sent over when the cliff came down?' Norton asked incredulously.

'It was lousy luck…' Mencken began, glad that he was miles away from Norton and close to Munster.

'Luck? Crap! ' Norton shouted. 'Don't give me no smoke. What happened to Phase Two?'

'The huge log pile we were going to roll down on them was frozen solid. So was the earth-moving machine we'd planned to use…'

'And Tweed's convoy is where now?' Norton rarely lost his iron self-control and now had a tight grip on himself as he planned the next move. 'Also where are the cars Yellow, Orange and Brown – the vital reserve? I am assuming you know,' he added sarcastically.

'Cars Orange and Brown got frozen up. I had to call back Yellow to jump-start them. It all took time. I sent the three of them back down route N415 and through Kaysersberg. I hoped to intercept Tweed, but my guess is they were too late. They couldn't go back down the other route – we'd have been caught by the cliff fall.'

'We were,' Norton reminded him. 'Stay where you are until I contact you again. I've got a job to do – since I want it done OK, I'm handling it myself. Keep the reserve in Colmar until I get back to you

…'

Norton, due to arrive at Lac Noir at 6 p.m. to keep the appointment with Growly Voice, deliberately reached the rendezvous early at 5.45p.m. Switching off his headlights, he left the engine running to avoid freezing to death.

Night had fallen and the temperature had fallen with it – to below zero. He lowered the window a few inches, his right hand gripping an HP35 Browning automatic in his lap. His headlights had illuminated a low stone wall with the black waters of the silent lake beyond it.

Very little rattled Norton's nerve but the total lack of sound, the incredible silence and tomb-like atmosphere was unsettling. Where the hell was Growly Voice?

There was no sign of another vehicle, of any human habitation, of any human being. Using his left hand he switched on a powerful torch beam, used it to slowly scan the top of the wall. It was then he saw the wooden box perched on the parapet.

He slid out of the car fast, closing the door quickly so he wasn't illuminated by the courtesy light. For a long minute he stood listening. The icy cold seeped through his astrakhan coat. He approached the box slowly. About a foot long and a foot deep, it was old and the lid was closed. He had an unpleasant suspicion this was a booby-trap. No, that didn't make sense. Growly Voice wanted the big bucks.

The huge sum of money was still under guard in the care of Louis Sheen at a room inside the Hotel Bristol. Earlier Norton had been amused at the thought of Sheen staying tied with handcuffs to the suitcase. The only time he released himself from his burden was when he went to the bathroom or took a shower. Even then he took the suitcase with him.

Norton studied the old box. He was still suspicious. No sign of wires in the torch-light beam. Using the tip of his Browning, he gently lifted the lid until he could see inside. It appeared to be empty. Sucking in a deep breath of icy air, he raised the lid wide open, stared, swore in Marine Corps language.

A sheet of paper was lying at the bottom. Words had been crudely written on it by someone using a felt-tip pen. The infuriating message was clear enough.

Mr Norton. Welcome. If you really want the two items you are interested in bring the money. Proceed now to Ouchy, Switzerland, Lake Geneva. A room has been reserved for you at the Chateau d'Ouchy. Occupy it this evening. You will hear from me. Do not delay a minute. This time, do bring the money. This is your last chance.

Norton hurled the box into the still black waters of the lake. By the light of his torch beam he watched it sink. He returned to his car, closed the door, the window, and pulled out from the glove compartment a collection of maps until he found one of Switzerland.

It took him a while to trace his finger along the shore of Lake Geneva until he located Ouchy. He picked up his mobile phone. By some miracle Mencken answered at once and the connection was loud and clear.

'Ouchy, Switzerland…' Norton spelt the name of the port. 'Move the entire reserve to this goddamned hick place tonight. Spread them out among as many little hotels as you can find. Call me at eleven tonight but don't come near the Chateau d'Ouchy. OK? What the hell do I care how you make it? Get on it, street bum…'

For the moment Norton was no longer concerned with Tweed. His mind was concentrated on getting hold of the film and the tape – and that meant reaching Ouchy fast. Disinclined to linger by the sinister lake – he had glanced up once and in the moonlight had seen the fateful chateau perched like a menace above him.

He drove on as fast as he dared until he reached the N415 which would take him back to Kaysersberg. There he'd make a brief call at the Green Tree, collect his few things, pay the bill. At a lonely spot he pulled in off the road on to a snow-covered verge, kept the engine running.

Taking out his collection of maps, he studied them and decided to take the autoroute to Basle. From there he'd drive on through the night until he reached Ouchy. As he put away the maps he decided he'd better later call in at the Hotel Bristol to check that all his remaining team had left. A careful man with detail, Norton was a fanatic for checking out everything.

Marvin Mencken had taken a few decisions of his own. After receiving orders from Norton, he used his mobile phone to contact car Yellow and arranged to meet the men in that car in Munster.

The leader of this team was Jason, a professional gunman from New Jersey. With a face like a bulldog and the determination of the animal, he was probably the most ruthless American below the ranks of Norton and Mencken.

Unlike Norton, Mencken was still very much concerned with the fact that Tweed still survived. It was an insult to his professional integrity. Reaching Munster, he parked his car close to Yellow, got out into the bitter night and walked to give special orders to this reserve team. Cars Orange and Brown were already on their way south to Switzerland. Mencken had warned them over his mobile phone first to collect their bags from the Bristol, to pay their bills. In his own cunning way Mencken rivalled Norton in attention to detail.

'Jason,' he began without ceremony, talking through the open window, 'later you grease your butts and move like the wind to this dump, Ouchy. I've marked it on this spare map. OK? It had better be. Put your men up in a small hotel. Avoid the Chateau d'Ouchy – I've written that name down on the edge of the map.'

'You said later. We've got a job to do first?'

Jason spoke in a hoarse tone – he was a three-pack a day smoker. His large head and face were faintly illuminated by a nearby street lamp. With his piggy eyes, his pug nose and his lower teeth protruding slightly above his bottom lip, even Mencken thought he looked horrific.

'You've got three other men,' Mencken continued. 'I want you to drive straight to the Bristol. Make yourselves inconspicuous – and keep a lookout for Tweed and his mob.'

'We lose that guy for ever – and the rest of his team?' Jason suggested hopefully.

'You do just that. I'll be following you, get there later. Do a nice quiet job. Afterwards maybe you can prop them up in their beds in their rooms. Give the night maid a nice surprise,' Mencken suggested with his macabre sense of humour.