Precipice

As he turned round, the visitor moved swiftly. One powerful arm locked itself round Sava's neck. The other fell on his victim's left shoulder, holding him still. The visitor's arm performed a certain movement. Sava sagged in his arms, his neck broken. He was lowered to the floor on his back, a corpse in seconds. Whoever found him would see his neck turned at a grotesque angle, his eyes open, seeing nothing any more.

The visitor removed his thick motoring gloves, exposing hands wearing surgical gloves. He swiftly fiddled with the security on the door, opened it a short distance, peered out. No one about. He pulled the door almost shut behind him after putting on his motoring gloves and shuffled off down the street. He didn't want too long to elapse before the body was discovered. After all, he was entitled to his fee.

24

'I'm asking you, Craig, why did you want those descriptions I gave you of Paula Grey, Bob Newman, and Philip Cardon – to say nothing of Bill Franklin?' demanded Eve.

She was in her own room at the villa in Berne, had met Craig on the stairs, and, flashing him an inviting smile, had asked him into her room. Craig, misunderstanding her completely – as she had intended he should – had gone into her room like a lamb to the slaughter.

Now she was raving and ranting at him. He was completely thrown off balance. That a mere woman should talk to him like that was beyond his comprehension. He glared at her and attempted to quell her verbally.

'What the hell do you mean, addressing me in that tone?'

'You haven't answered by question, you piece of rubbish!' she shouted at him, standing with her hands on her hips.

'And I'm bloody well not answering your question.'

'You bloody well are,' she stormed. 'I heard you on the phone in your office last night, giving those descriptions to someone on the line. Before you rushed off to catch a plane from Belp. Does Mr Brazil know who you were phoning? That you did make that call?'

Craig's aggressiveness faded like ice melting under a strong sun. He was appalled and his expression gave him away. Eve understood the expression and knew she had him just where she wanted him. With his back up against a wall.

'That was confidential,' he said, almost bleated. 'I have duties to perform and the boss gives me wide latitude…'

'So Brazil does not know about that phone call,' she hissed at him triumphantly. 'Who the devil were you calling?'

Inwardly Craig was fearful. He had never suspected what a hellcat this woman could be. Obviously she had listened at his door, had quietly opened it a fraction while he was making the call on his private line. It was impossible for him to reveal who he had called.

He wiped his sweating palms on his trousers, gave her an oily smile. She waited, her expression ugly, her hands still on her hips. She was enjoying herself – to see this thug who had always ignored her, crawling to her. She was controlling the situation now.

'I'm sure you have expensive tastes.' he began. 'So maybe a little personal bonus just between us would be a help.'

'Don't like the word little.'

He took out his wallet, peeled off two thousand-franc notes and held them out.

Tut them on the table.' she ordered.

He did so, hating her for the humiliation she was imposing on him, treating him like a servant. Glancing at the money, she cocked her index finger, beckoned. He began to move towards her.

'Stay where you are!' she screamed at him. 'Are you so stupid? Don't you realize I was beckoning for you to get out your wallet again?'

'It's not enough?'

'Not nearly. You're loaded.'

He sucked in his breath, brought out his wallet again, extracted three more thousand-franc notes, laid them on the table. Five thousand altogether. This was blackmail on a big scale. Eve spoke again.

'Leave them there and get the hell out of here…'

Mopping his sweating brow, Craig hurried back to his own office. He had hardly closed the door when the phone started ringing. He swore foully, sat behind his desk, picked up the phone.

'Craig here. So who is it?' he asked viciously.

'Someone you expected to call you.' a thin reedy voice said in English.

'Do you mind holding on a moment, please, while I secure the door …'

His tone had changed to one of businesslike geniality. He jumped up, ran to the door, locked and bolted it. He should have done that last time before Eve had opened it and eavesdropped on him, the little cow.

'Yes, I'm here.' he said, resuming the conversation.

'This is your private line?'

'Yes, don't worry…'

'I never worry, I double-check.' the reedy voice went on. 'The job is done. Mr Rico Sava is no longer with us.'

'I see.'

'So please make the necessary transfer of funds to my numbered account. I do prefer prompt payment.'

The connection was broken and Craig was sweating again. Something about the reedy voice always disturbed him. He had no idea of the identity of The Motorman and paying him was a headache. Craig had control over a large amount of funds – much of it going to pay his team of motorcyclists. But Jose conducted an audit at regular intervals, checking expenses on the orders of Brazil.

Craig also had no idea of how to contact The Motorman. He knew that he – or a member of his staff -would later in the morning get another call giving a phone number where Mr Brown could be reached. The number was always an answerphone which gave another phone number.

Craig went to a cabinet, poured himself a large Scotch, drank half of it, sat down again behind his desk. He had thought for a long time that Brazil was too soft in the methods he employed. On the quiet, Craig tried to rectify that.

Several months before he had contacted a friend who had buddies in the underworld. He had wanted a really tough assassin. Just in case. Eventually he'd been given the name, The Motorman, and a number where he might reach him. The Motorman had called him back a week later, had told Craig what a complete job on a target would cost. That had been the start of Craig's secret contact with the assassin.

There was an insistent tapping on the door. When he unlocked and unbolted it Jose was standing outside. 'Mr Brazil wishes to see you urgently…'

'Craig, I'm going to meet Mr Tweed later this afternoon at the Hotel Schweizerhof in Zurich. Just in case you wish to get in touch with me. Jose will drive me there. We shall leave shortly so I can call on a friend in Zurich before I meet Tweed.'

'You need protection.' was Craig's instant reaction.

'No. No protection. I trust Tweed. I met him once, briefly, at a dinner in London.'

'You need protection.' Craig repeated. 'I will fix it up immediately…'

He stopped speaking, pulled up abruptly. Brazil had hammered his clenched fist on his desk.

'I said no protection. Are you deaf? You can go now.'

Philip drove into Berne some time after the snow had stopped falling but the city was deep in snow. Paula pointed to a building.

'Look at that. Icicles hanging like a railed fence from the gutters. It's cold and I'm hungry.'

'Well, we're in Kochergasse and there is the Bellevue Palace. We'll park in that underground garage and order an English breakfast.'

'Good. My tummy's rumbling…'

They walked back to the large hotel and entered the lobby. The first person they saw was Archie, sitting at a table close to a window with a tray of coffee on the table.

'I don't believe it.' Paula said, going up to him. 'How could we run into you here?'

'Because.' Archie whispered to them, 'from where I am sitting I can observe Brazil's villa. That old stone place set back from the street.'

'Then we'll have breakfast here.' said Philip. 'Just so long as that's all right with you.'

'Be my guests.' Archie said, his dead cigarette clenched in the corner of his mouth. He summoned a waiter. 'What do you want?'