Precipice

'Difficult. She had a scarf over her head, another one round the lower half of her face. She walked very slowly from the underground garage when she'd parked her car. The garage is just beyond the eastern end of the Bellevue Palace. My chap guessed she was in her fifties, maybe sixties. By her walk.'

'Unless she's very cunning.' said Tweed.

'What does that mean?'

'Nothing. Just a random thought. Any more?'

'Yes. Carson Craig, Brazil's deputy, arrived before the woman. He went inside the villa with an ugly-looking thug, a small lean man. Tell you more when I know more.'

'Take down this number…' Tweed gave him the phone number of the Schweizerhof in Zurich. 'I'll be there tomorrow evening.'

'Going on your travels again. So you're launching a big offensive?'

'Not necessarily. Keep me informed of developments.'

'Don't go yet.' Franklin said quickly. 'One more item. My chap watching Brazil's villa said that soon after Craig and Co. had arrived a team of ten motorcyclists came purring along Kochergasse. They parked their machines in the garage and then came out and walked into the villa. They were dressed all in black leather and wore their helmets. In Geneva last night there was a battle in the Old City between similar motorcyclists and someone else – don't know who. The locals, scared out of their wits, have nicknamed them the Leather Bombers. It appears they've now turned up in Berne.'

'That's very interesting. Thank you, Bill…'

As Tweed told the others what Franklin had said, Marler, standing against a wall, was twiddling a king-size between his fingers, not lighting it. He was frowning.

'That last bit of news from Franklin gives me an idea.' he said slowly. 'You'll need protection, Tweed, when we get to Zurich.'

'Yes, you will,' Newman said vehemently. 'I still think this could be a trap.'

'I don't agree.' Tweed replied. 'I'm getting the measure of Leopold Brazil. Despite what villainies he may have been responsible for I think he has his own peculiar code of honour. Now, I'm going to have a doze for thirty minutes. Unless the phone rings to remind us it's there.'

He had taken off his jacket and tie, loosened his shirt collar, when Pete Nield came in.

'Wrong moment?' he said, looking at Tweed.

'No. What is it?'

'I haven't had a chance to tell you what I found out while I was on my own in Dorset. Buchanan is going berserk down there. He's got it into his head the key to the four murders is the missing Marchat and he's turning Dorset upside-down to find him.'

'Thanks for the information. I wish him luck.' Tweed commented, 'Marchat is somewhere in Switzerland.' He shut his eyes and fell asleep.

***

It was snowing as they left Geneva early in the morning with Philip behind the wheel of a hired Audi he'd collected from the airport. Paula, sitting by his side, was thinking I told you so, but refrained from saying anything.

They were light flakes, drifting down, creating a weird luminosity as the moon faded for another day. To her left Paula gazed at the high white outline of the distant Jura Mountains, the old villages across the fields with snow piled on their rooftops.

'The scenery is beautiful.' she remarked. 'Incidentally, and just for the record, do you think we are being followed?'

'No sign of pursuers so far.'

'What time do you think we'll reach Berne?'

'In time for breakfast at the Bellevue Palace. I have been wondering what Archie had in mind when he mentioned Berne.'

'He's probably after another piece Tweed can fit into the jigsaw he's building up.'

'I've also been wondering where The Motorman is now.'

'Don't go and spoil the journey. I'm enjoying it.'

Which was true. Paula, an expert driver, loved being driven by someone who could really handle a car and she assessed Philip as a superb driver. She'd just had the thought when they skidded. Philip went with the skid, pulled out of it before they hit the barrier.

'This light snowfall is masking the ice.' he commented.

'You did all the right things.' she replied. 'And it was clever of you to ask the receptionist at the hotel when we were leaving the best route to Basle.'

'Well, if anyone enquires where we've gone they'll waste a lot of time searching for us.'

'I guessed that was the idea. You know, I have a feeling our trip to Berne will prove to be very uneventful.'

'Famous last words..?'

Tweed woke up, stretched his arms, stood up, put on his jacket after buttoning his shirt and straightening his tie in a mirror Monica held up for him. He felt as fresh as a daisy.

'You did have a deep sleep.' Monica told him. 'Thirty minutes. Cord Dillon phoned back from CIA HQ at Langley and you never batted an eyelid.'

'What did he say?'

'As far as they can tell – subject to double-checking -Rogue One, Brazil's satellite, is describing an orbit which takes it over Asia, Europe, London, the Atlantic, Washington, San Diego, and across the Pacific. He said the orbit seems to vary spasmodically, which doesn't make sense. He is also furious because he says the main orbit seems to pass over the Pentagon. He'll come back with more later.'

'Curious.'

Tweed went over to a globe of the world standing on a corner table, used his finger to follow the orbit Cord had detailed. The phone rang as he was studying the globe.

'Professor Grogarty.' Monica called out.

'He's been quick. Or maybe he has a query.'

'Tweed?' Grogarty gave a hoarse chuckle. 'I've cracked it – with the aid of the microscope I invented. A sticky one, this. The photos show your satellite is a travelling telephone exchange. Most ingenious. Thousands of numbers, but I recognized one.'

'Which one?'

'The top secret one at the Pentagon – linked, I know, to their computers.'

'You know that number?' Tweed asked sceptically.

'Of course I do, man. They're always asking me questions so I need their number to call them when I've worked out the answer.' He chuckled again. 'I spotted another – yoursl What's the orbit of the damned thing?'

Tweed told him, adding that Rogue One appeared to vary its course.

'That's Irina Krivitsky. Remember I told you one of the names on the list you showed me was a top Russian? She specializes in the control and manoeuvre of satellites by laser. Well, it has a laser mechanism embedded into it. But somewhere there has to be a ground station on Earth and another laser system to activate the one in the satellite. I've never seen anything like this bag of tricks.'

'Would it need a team to produce it?'

'Definitely. The kind of team made up by the missing scientists on your list. They could do it. And it's very advanced, is this little baby rotating over our heads. I've sent the courier back to you with the photos.'

'Can't thank you enough…'

'Yes, you can. Send me a bottle of Chateau d'Yquem.'

Tweed put down his phone, thought for a minute, and then asked Monica a question.

'I suppose my personal phone number isn't linked up with that rubbish upstairs?'

Monica looked embarrassed. She got up and beckoned for Tweed to look behind her desk at the lower part of the wall.

'I was going to tell you, but we've been so busy. No, the truth is I didn't know how to tell you. I thought you'd blame me.'

'Blame you for what?'

'While you were in Dorset Howard came in with some men and said they were installing a cable to link your phone number with that crazy junk they've got upstairs. I protested, but Howard overrode me.'

'Did he now? Well, I certainly don't blame you. Howard obviously chose a time while I was away to pull that trick. He knows my number – the private one -is the most secure in the building.'

Tweed examined the thick grey cable which almost merged with the grey skirting board and disappeared through a well-concealed hole into the hall outside.