Precipice

He had an almost irresistible desire to stop watching, but continued to stare through the lenses. He saw them pass under the cascade, then saw the overhang collapse, realized that had that happened seconds earlier it would have hurled both vehicles over the precipice.

'Christ,' he said aloud.

Few people had heard Tweed swear. No one had heard him use sacrilegious language.

He lowered the glasses. His arms and wrists were aching with the tension. The helicopter was coming closer. His team was safe now. They'd make it the rest of the way down the mountain. Time to get under cover. He went into the canteen where a nice Swiss girl was on duty.

'I could do with a cup of coffee.' he said. 'Very strong. Please.'

'You look exhausted,' she said in French, the language he had used. 'Shall I put a drop of cognac in the coffee?'

'Yes, I think you'd better. Then I'll go and sit in the room set aside for me. A helicopter is landing. You don't know I'm here.'

'But you are not here,' she said, and gave him a lovely smile as she handed him the cup and saucer.

Inside the room, he locked the door, sagged onto a couch, sipped at the drink. He rarely touched alcohol but he found its warmth comforting as it settled in his stomach. He got up, closed the curtains over the window, so no one could see inside, sagged again on the couch.

He heard the helicopter landing a few minutes later. It's a good job I haven't a gun, he was thinking. I'd go out and shoot the swine.

He sipped more of his coffee and cognac, wondered why now he was so warm. He was still wearing his overcoat. He took it off, sat down again. Outside he could hear the whine of a jet's engines starting up. Brazil doesn't waste much time, he mused. I suppose that's why he's got where he has. Well, he won't stay on top of his pinnacle much longer if I have anything to do with it. The phone in the room rang. He snatched up the receiver to stop the noise.

'Tweed?' Beck again.

'Speaking. The chopper with Brazil on board has landed. I can hear his jet starting up.'

'Radar will track him all the way to Zurich. I'll have men at Kloten to follow him wherever he goes in this city.'

'Are you going to arrest him?'

'For what? I have no evidence.'

'Of course. Just wanted to check.'

'I'm really phoning to say Inspector Leon Vincenau will be arriving shortly on an express from Geneva. He's of medium height, and fat. He'll show you identification. I've instructed him to give you full cooperation. He thinks he travelled with one of your team recently from Geneva on the early morning express.'

That would be Philip Cardon.'

'Keep in touch. Thank you for all you're doing…'

Tweed put down the phone, surprised that Beck had thanked him. Then it struck Tweed that Beck regarded Brazil as an enemy – but because of Beck's official position he could never have attempted what Newman's team had achieved.

Hearing the jet's engines building up power, Tweed risked pulling the curtains aside slightly, peered through the crack. The white jet stood at the end of the tarmac, ready for take-off. Igor the wolfhound was leaping delightedly up the staircase, vanished inside, followed by Brazil.

There was a pause, presumably while Brazil settled himself in, then the mobile staircase was removed. The engines climbed into a powerful nonstop roar, the jet sped ever faster down the runway, lifted off, headed upwards into the clear blue sky.

Tweed watched it as it flew towards the mountain peaks at what seemed a dangerously low altitude. He went on watching – in the vague hope the machine would smash into one of the fearsome jagged peaks. It cleared them, flew out of sight.

'Well, at least I know where you're going to, my friend.'

Tweed later heard the two four-wheel-drives approaching, went out to meet them. A small portly man wearing a dark business suit hurried up to him.

'Mr Tweed? I am Inspector Leon Vincenau from Geneva. I have been instructed by my chief, Arthur Beck, to give you every assistance.'

'Thank you. Excuse me, my team has arrived.'

Paula dived out of the back of her vehicle, ran across to Tweed, and flung her arms round him. He hugged her.

'Am I glad to see you!' she said, standing back. 'Harry Butler has a bullet in his thigh. I treated it, dressed it as best I could…'

'Pardon me.' It was Vincenau who had heard what she had said. 'You have a wounded man? With the bullet in him? Then he must be rushed to hospital in Sion. I will make all the arrangements. I must use a phone.'

'Take me to Harry.' Tweed stared. 'Look, he's trying to get out by himself.'

Paula ran to the vehicle Harry was laboriously clambering out of. Newman, who had left the vehicle after telling him to stay where he was, also swung round, running back. Paula got there first, with Tweed and Newman close behind her.

'You damned fool.' Paula admonished him. 'Always have been, always will be.' Butler said with a grin. Tweed took one arm, Paula the other as they helped him towards the canteen. Butler kept telling them all this was unnecessary but they ignored him. When they had him settled on a couch in a private room, he grimaced, then looked at them.

'All this stupid fuss. Anyone would think I'd been shot.'

Vincenau put down the phone, told Tweed an ambulance was on the way. Paula said she would go with him. Tweed called Beck, told him what had happened. Beck asked to speak to Vincenau when they had finished talking.

'I'll get the name of the hospital he's being taken to in Sion. I'll call the chief administrator, tell him if Butler is fit to board the jet after treatment I'll have an ambulance standing by at Kloten to rush him to a clinic here. Put Leon on, if you would…'

As they waited for the ambulance Tweed studied the faces of the people in his team. They all showed signs of strain – except for Marler who stood leaning against one of the walls, smoking a king-size. Marler was indestructible. Butler, he saw thankfully, had fallen asleep.

'What's the next move?' asked Newman, his face drawn with fatigue.

'We stay here, give you all a rest.' Tweed said firmly.

'Brazil's got away…'

'I know. Forget about him. For the moment. Beck will be tracking him. At the present Brazil is on his way back to Zurich.'

'Can he arrest him?'

'No. I asked Beck that same question. No evidence.'

'No evidence!' Newman repeated.

Sagged in a chair, he recalled what he had seen on the battlefield in the mountains. Bodies lying all over the snow, all looking very dead. Some crumpled in pathetic attitudes as though only asleep. Certainly they were thugs, men who lived by the gun, but they lay there, doubtless for ever, because of a man called Brazil, who was probably now drinking coffee in a comfortable chair aboard his luxurious jet. Reliving the horror, Newman felt sick in his stomach, but nothing showed in his face. It was all part of the job.

The ambulance arrived, took a still protesting Butler with Paula accompanying him to the hospital in Sion. By then Newman had drunk several cups of strong coffee, was feeling more like a human being.

He proceeded to give Tweed a concise report of everything that had happened. Tweed listened, watching Newman for signs of returning fatigue. At one stage he deliberately turned to Nield to ask him to enlarge on a point. Nield immediately caught on that Tweed thought Newman had talked enough and completed the story. He used his little finger to smooth down his neat moustache when he had finished.

'So the ground station is totally destroyed?' Tweed asked.

'A complete write-off,' said Marler, entering the conversation for the first time. 'Flattened under so many tons of rock I don't think the Swiss will ever bother to try and unearth it.'

'And the cabins the scientists occupied?'