Precipice

Philip heard her, told Archie to sit down and make himself at home. He pushed the bedroom door open, shut it behind him. Paula was sitting crouched in an armchair, shaking, shuddering, crying uncontrollably.

He went into the bathroom, found a glass, filled it with water, took a flannel, held it under the warm-water tap, put it on a towel, and went back to her as she looked up at him through fingers over her face.

'Use this warm flannel.' he said firmly. 'Then dry yourself with the towel. Then have a drink.'

'What is it? I could do with a brandy.'

'No, you couldn't. Spirits are the last thing you need when you're in a state of delayed shock. Come on.'

'Thank you, Philip. You are kind.'

She applied the flannel, used the towel to dry herself, then started to gulp down the water.

'Not so fast,' he told her. 'Sip it first.'

'I will…'

She drank all the water, took a deep breath, stood up, walked over to a wall mirror.

'I look a mess.'

'You look great. I'm not kidding.'

'What's Archie doing?' she asked.

'Smoking a cigarette.'

'He's doing what! I thought he didn't smoke.'

'He doesn't. He lit one, took a couple of puffs to get it going, then left it in the ashtray. I think he'll stub it out when it's half-smoked, then stick it in the corner of his mouth.'

'Philip, that's ridiculous…'

She began to laugh, a high-pitched laugh, couldn't stop. He walked over, slapped her on the face hard. She blinked, stared at him, but she had stopped laughing.

'You were hysterical,' he said quietly.

'That's the first time a man has done that to me and I haven't fought back. Philip, I haven't said thank you -you saved my life.'

'We're a team.'

She came forward and buried her face in his chest. He put his arms round her, held her tightly as she cried again, quiet tears. Eventually she pulled gently away from him, used a handkerchief to dab her eyes. When she spoke her voice was normal.

'How are you getting on with Eve? Or perhaps I shouldn't ask.'

'Don't see why not. I'm all at sea with her.' He waved his hands helplessly. 'I can't get her out of my mind but I'm still stricken with grief for Jean. It could be affecting my judgement.'

'I've never met anyone like her.'

'Neither have I. She can be intimidating and that worries me.' He felt the atmosphere was becoming emotionally overcharged, changed the subject. 'I suppose we ought to call Tweed about this evening.'

'Not until I've had a shower and a good dinner. My tummy is rumbling. Incidentally, they made copies of Marchat's photograph before I left and I've got one with me. Do you think we ought to show it to Archie?'

'I doubt if he's ever even heard of him. We might try it – after dinner. Go and have a good relaxing shower.'

'I'll only be ten minutes. Order dinner from room service for us, would you? You know what I like.'

'Make it twenty minutes, then you can have your shower and change into something else. That will help your morale.'

'Philip, you know one hell of a lot about women…'

19

'Beck is on the phone for you from Berne,' Monica informed Tweed as he sat back in his swivel chair. 'And he sounds in a bad mood.'

'Just what I need.' Tweed glanced at Newman and Marler, who had returned from having dinner together. 'Still, I'd better take the call …'

'Tweed?' Beck's voice verged on the harsh. 'Have you any of your people on my patch – in Geneva, to be exact?'

'Why?' asked Tweed, concealing his anxiety. 'I don't make a habit of reporting to all and sundry where my staff are.'

'Because there's been slaughter in the Old City outside a restaurant called Les Armures. The target was a woman.'

'Tell me what's happened, then. Don't beat about the bush.'

Tweed was gripping the phone tightly. His expression was grave.

'A gang of motorcyclists attacked her. They've been terrorizing that area for a couple of days. I've only got first reports but they say six bodies have been recovered.'

'And what happened to the target? Give me a complete story, please.'

'You sound concerned. The woman apparently escaped unscathed, disappeared. She was aided by a man. There was gunfire, grenades exploding, you name it.'

'How do you know all this?' asked Tweed, to divert his caller.

'The usual source. An old busybody woman who lives nearby watched the massacre from behind her curtain. Tweed, I'm flying to Geneva as soon as we've ended this call. I'm going to find out what's going on. I'm going to question the staff of Les Armures, who have been told to stay there until I arrive.'

'Good idea. Arthur, you say this gang has terrorized the Old City for two days. How on earth did you allow that to go on for so long?'

As he'd hoped, his provocative question enraged Beck.

'Because the fool of an inspector in charge at Geneva took it into his wooden head to station his men outside the city to watch all entrances into Geneva. He should have had them patrolling the Old City itself – it never occurred to him they might be holed up there. That's why.'

'A bad mistake.'

'And don't think I haven't noticed you never answered my question as to whether you have any of your people in the city!'

The phone at the other end was banged down, the connection broken. Tweed had never known Beck treat him like that. He sat back, sighed with relief, told the others what had happened.

'At least it looks as though Paula got away,' he said. 'And I'm sure the man he mentioned was Philip. The meeting place with Archie was Les Armures.'

'Do you want me to call Paula at the Hotel des Bergues?' asked Monica.

'I think it might be more tactful to see if she calls me tonight. It sounds as though she and Philip had to cope with one devil of a firefight. Let's give her a couple of hours. Incidentally, while you were all out Fred, from the basement, came up. He has cracked what was on those ashes from General Sterndale's safe.'

'So what was on them?' Monica prodded him.

'Telephone numbers. And remnants of a thicker material of a pale green colour. Maggie Mayfield – I told you I met her at Brown's earlier today. Was it today? Of course it was. The past few hours have seemed like a week. She told me he showed her the real bonds he once kept in faded green folders, the old concertina type. Fred said he was sure the remnants show traces of pale green concertina-type folders.'

'And the telephone numbers?' Marler enquired.

'Obviously relics of old telephone directories – they would pack out the folders, make them look as though they still had the bonds inside. Clearly the bearer bonds were not any longer in the safe.'

'Three hundred milllion smackers.' Newman whistled. 'That ain't hay, as they say in educated circles.'

'But it might go a long way to financing whatever project Brazil is working on.' Tweed pointed out. 'If he is the man Sterndale loaned the bonds to.' He sat up. 'I've just remembered, in an earlier call Beck said Carson Craig was flying to Geneva earlier this evening.'

'Just the gentleman to direct a massacre,' Newman commented.

The phone rang. As Monica picked it up Tweed raised his eyebrows.

'Something tells me this is going to be a long night. And that I'll be glad Butler and Nield are waiting and raring to go downstairs.'

'It's Keith Kent on the line,' Monica called out.

'Getting anywhere, Keith?' Tweed asked quickly.

'I'm speaking from a phone at the airport, Geneva, so it's safe to talk.' Kent's cultured voice paused. 'I think I've hit pay dirt. I called a man in Zurich who knows what's going on there. A bank, private, called the Zurcher Kredit, nearly went bust. A large number of bearer bonds had gone missing. Guess who was a consultant, a non-executive director on its board? Leopold Brazil. What happened to the chairman will intrigue you.'