Precipice

When news of the missing bonds had leaked out Zurich had been shaken to its foundations. The city had been on the verge of panic with talk of a consortium of all the major banks being formed to rescue Zurcher, followed by the realization that its branches all held more than sufficient funds to remain solvent.

Brazil had been a consultant to this bank, a non-executive director. Although how he had gained the latter position was beyond Kent – Swiss law was firm that only citizens of Swiss birth could be any kind of director of a bank.

'I'll have to postpone my visit while he's inside.' Kent said to himself.

A taxi pulled up in front of Kent's car, a very old lady clambered out slowly. The driver appeared round the front of the vehicle, carrying a huge case with both his hands. His passenger gave him some money. The driver looked at the money, made a contemptuous gesture, got back behind the wheel, and drove off. The old lady gazed round with a bewildered expression. Kent jumped out, spoke to her in German.

'You are worried about something?'

'My suitcase. It is heavy. I told the driver I live on the third floor of this building. How am I going to get my bag up to my apartment?'

'Third floor? Easy. Follow me at your own pace. No need to hurry. ..'

He lifted the bag, which felt as though it was full of blocks of cement. Slim as he was, Kent ran up the steps, mounted the darkened staircase beyond without a pause. He had to wait ages for the old lady to appear, a key in her hand. She unlocked a door and Kent followed her inside with the immense suitcase. He dumped it on a divan she gestured to. The interior of the apartment smelt musty, was crammed with old-fashioned furniture. The old lady sank into a chair, gazed at him without warmth.

'You'd better go now,' she said.

'I'm on my way. You're all right?'

'Just go. Now…'

He ran back down the gloomy stone staircase, wondering whether he'd got a ticket for parking without putting coins in the meter. The street was deserted -except for the parked limo. The chauffeur, a dark-skinned man, was polishing the windscreen. What had impressed Kent was the fact that, instead of waiting for the chauffeur to open the car door, the normal procedure for men who ranked themselves among the elite, Brazil had got out of the car himself.

Getting back inside his own car, Kent flexed the hand which had carried the bag. It didn't even ache. Kent was not only strong, he was very fit. He drove off, following a devious route through the city due to its one-way system. He eventually parked in the underground garage of Globus, the great department store near the top of Bahnhofstrasse.

Feeling the need to stretch his legs after the drive from Geneva, he walked up to Bahnhofplatz, the large square in front of the main station. Descending the escalator into Shopville, he walked across it, ascended another escalator into the main station.

He bought himself a carton of coffee from a stall, took it outside to drink it. Here there was traffic, nonstop, plus Zurich's large blue trams rumbling along in all directions. Across the square was the Hotel Schweizerhof.

He was drinking more coffee when he stopped and again stared. A taxi had pulled up in front of the Schweizerhof. Tweed and Newman stepped out.

The experience which greeted Tweed's arrival at the hotel was hardly the peace and quiet he had anticipated before meeting Brazil. As he walked into the lobby with Newman, a tall man in a dark suit with greying hair, grey eyes, a neat grey moustache, and a face with a grim expression jumped up, came forward. Arthur Beck of the Federal Police.

'Tweed, I have to talk to you now. You, too, Newman. I have reserved a room where we will be quiet. This way.'

'I hope you're paying for the room,' Tweed said quizzically.

'No charge to the police.' Beck snapped as they entered an elevator and he pressed the button.

'We should have registered.' Tweed remarked.

The concierge knows you well.'

'Damn it!' snapped Newman, irked by Beck's abrupt manner. 'We've had no lunch and I'm hungry.'

'That will have to wait.'

Beck had a key in his hand. Leaving the lift he went to a door, unlocked it, waited until they had walked past him inside.

'You may sit. Perhaps you'd better.'

'I was going to anyway.' Tweed observed after taking off his coat and settling in an armchair. He looked at Newman. 'Make yourself at home. Nice of Arthur to arrange all these comforts for us.'

Beck took a dining chair from under a table, placed it in front of Tweed and Newman, who had also occupied an armchair. He straddled his long legs over the seat, perched his elbows on the top of the back, gazed at them, and said nothing.

Tweed and Newman, who knew this police tactic, refrained from saying a word. Eventually Beck spoke, his eyes on Tweed.

'You had some of your team in Berne this morning?'

'Not to my knowledge.' Tweed answered truthfully. 'Why?'

'You know a thug called Marco? Handy with a knife.'

'No.'

'I had an anonymous call from a man at my HQ in Berne. He informed me that he was walking down an alley off the Munstergasse when he came across a man sprawled in the snow. The man reached for a knife so the caller kicked him in the head. The victim was Marco. Am I ringing any bells?'

'Did you hear a bell ringing?' Tweed asked Newman.

'Look.' Beck said aggressively, 'Marco is all right. He was discharged after we took him to out-patients. But I don't appreciate violence on my doorstep.'

'Move your doorstep, then.' Newman joked.

'There's nothing funny about the present situation.' Beck snapped. 'Switzerland is supposed to be a peaceful country. We have a murderous shoot-out last night in Geneva. Six bodies in the morgue now. Plus another strange murder just reported – also from Geneva.'

'What strange murder is that?' Tweed asked.

'An unsavoury arms dealer was killed in Geneva also. A man called Rico Sava.' He paused. 'He had his neck broken.'

'The Motorman?' Tweed asked quietly.

'It has all his trademarks. That makes seven corpses. Now this thug, Marco, in Berne.' He smiled. 'Now I've done it.'

'Done what?' Newman demanded.

'Given you both a dressing down, covered myself. Just in case someone influential – a friend of Brazil's -asks me about you.'

Beck's whole manner had changed. He stood up, swivelled his chair round, sat in his normal manner.

'There's a development you ought to know about. I can't prove they're employed by Leopold Brazil, but I know they are.'

'Who?' asked Tweed quietly.

'A whole army of tough-looking thugs disguised as skiers came into Geneva from France. They broke up into groups and boarded several different expresses heading east towards the Valais. God knows what there is for them in that canton. The season is almost over – the slopes are dangerous and there's the risk of avalanches. Yet they've flooded in like a small invasion.'

Beck stood up, extended his hand. He shook hands warmly with both Tweed and Newman.

'Why not go and have a good lunch? At least Zurich is quiet. Incidentally, I'll be based for the next few days at Zurich Police HQ. You know where it is – close to this hotel, overlooking the River Limmat.' He paused. 'Have a care. We now know The Motorman is back.'

26

Tweed and Newman had finished an excellent lunch in the comfortable surroundings of the dining room on the first floor of the Schweizerhof. As always, whenever he visited the city, Tweed had spoiled himself by ordering escalope Zurichoise.

'Let's go for a walk,' Newman suggested. 'A quiet stroll will be welcome after the earlier part of our encounter with Beck.'

'He has his problems,' Tweed replied as he turned down a side-street off Bahnhofplatz. 'Which doesn't help us. Every time we've been here before he's been able to give us his full backing. We'll just have to cope on our own.'