-Tweed – was a pushover, he'd decided. At that moment his eyes met Tweed's. The Englishman gazed back at him with a penetrating stare and Jason hastily glanced away. The eyes worried him – but no one shot with their eyes.
Jason glanced towards the exit leading to the street and decided he'd make the distance in seconds. After putting a couple of bullets into Tweed – which would guarantee his next destination would be the local cemetery.
Accompanied by Newman, Barton Ives walked in from the hotel. Tweed's admiration of the FBI man increased as he looked at his appearance. Ives was wearing one of those deep medical collars of foam material used to support the head and restrict its movements. With his jaw tilted up and a dark beret concealing his trim black hair his appearance was transformed. He sat next to Tweed and spoke in an urgent whisper.
The sooner we can talk with each other alone the better. What I've got to tell you concerns the present occupant of the White House…'
'Later,' Tweed whispered back. 'Arrangements are being changed. I've had second thoughts. You'll travel with me by train to Switzerland and Newman will come with us. Don't look at that rough character facing me at a table opposite…'
At that moment Butler and Nield walked into the Brasserie by the short cut from the hotel. Tweed watched the two men as they suddenly paused.
'Don't much like the look of that chap sitting by himself and facing Tweed,' Nield commented.
'Reminds me of a pit-bull terrier,' replied Butler, who didn't know much about dogs.
'He must be roasting in that heavy windcheater. Funny he hasn't taken it off.'
'Maybe that bulge under his left armpit is the reason. I could swear he's carrying a gun,' Butler remarked. 'And he's a Yank – the sort Norton would employ. Look at the way he shovels food into his mouth with a fork. No table manners. I think he's trouble.'
'I wouldn't dispute that,' agreed Nield. 'I think maybe we ought to keep a close eye on Brother Pit-Bull. Let's outflank him. Rattle him. With a bit of luck he'll push off outside and we can follow him …'
As Tweed watched, the two men separated. Jason had already noticed their arrival, the pause while they stared in his direction. He began to feel less confident.
Nield made a lot of noise as he pulled out a wooden chair from a table behind Jason, scraping it across the tiled floor. Butler chose a more distant table, at a diagonal angle to the American's thick neck. To see either of the new arrivals Jason had to twist round in his seat in two different directions – making it obvious what he was doing.
Tweed had surreptitiously watched the manoeuvre of Butler and Nield with a mixed feeling of amusement and relief. The arrival of Barton Ives, despite his effective disguise, worried him. It was a very public place. Ives spoke to him from behind the menu he was studying.
'I had spotted him. A professional gunman. A Norton recruit would be my guess. Cold as ice. Except he's now hot and bothered, as I believe you Brits say. Literally -sweat is running off his forehead. Those two guys who came in are yours? Thought so. I like their tactics …'
Jason had decided – rightly so – that it would be suicide to draw his Luger. He called for the bill, paid the waiter, left half his beer in the glass, stood up and walked casually to the exit leading to the street. Outside rush hour had vanished like water down a plug-hole and the pavement was deserted now night had fallen.
'After you, sir…'
Jason paused at the open door, a door held open by Nield who had reached it first the moment Jason began to move. The American suffered a rare moment of indecision. If he said he'd changed his mind and started back into the restaurant, where would that get him? The only alternative was to proceed on into the deserted street – a course of action Jason felt uneasy about.
'OK, buddy…'
He stared at Nield who was smiling pleasantly while holding the door open with his left hand. Jason walked out.
Nield followed him immediately, moving as silently as a cat close up behind his quarry. Jason felt something hard and cylindrical pushed hard against his spine. He froze.
'This is a Walther 7.65-mm. automatic and the magazine holds eight rounds,' Nield informed him in a conversational tone. 'I'm prepared to pull the trigger until the mag is emptied. Turn slowly to your right, walk twelve paces, again slowly, then stop. Start counting now.'
'This a friggin' hold-up?' Jason blustered.
'Don't ask questions. Just do what I told you to…'
As Jason began counting paces Butler appeared alongside him, keeping in step. The American glanced sideways and didn't like the expression on Butler's face. After twelve paces he stopped. Nield pressed the Walther harder into his spine to remind him of its presence. There was no one else about as Butler stood in front of Jason, reached inside his windcheater with his gloved hand, hauled out a Luger.
'You said something about a hold-up,' Butler remarked. 'Is that the trade you practise?'
'I need protection…' Jason began.
'Shut up!' snapped Nield.
Near where they stood two chairs were propped against a wall. In more clement weather tables and chairs were spread out on the pavement for customers to sit at while they enjoyed a drink. Shoving the Luger behind his belt inside his jacket, Butler moved swiftly. He arranged the chairs together so they could be sat on. He went back to where Jason stood with a puzzled expression.
'Turn round and face my partner,' Butler ordered.
As the American turned away from him Butler brought down the barrel of the Luger on Jason's skull. The American was sagging when both Butler and Nield grabbed hold of his inert body, dragged him to the chairs, sat him down, arranged him so he leaned against the back of them.
Nield produced a half bottle of wine he'd brought from the Brasserie. Uncorking it, he spilt a liberal amount down Jason's chin and over his windcheater. Butler had checked his neck pulse, which beat steadily, before they walked back inside the Brasserie. He had also shoved the Luger back inside the shoulder holster.
The one thing both men omitted to notice was a Renault parked in the shadows, apparently empty.
Marvin Mencken, his seat pushed as far back as it would go, had concealed himself when he saw the three men emerging from the Brasserie. In a state of shock, he instinctively hid himself. Once again an apparently foolproof plan had gone wrong. Mencken had told Jason he'd wait outside to pick him up, drive the hell out of Colmar once he'd killed Tweed.
His expression was malevolent and evil as he climbed out of the Renault he had commandeered from one of his surviving teams. In return, he had given them the Land-Rover with a shattered windscreen. Listening, he heard only silence. At this hour even the streets were clear of traffic.
Bending over Jason, he checked the carotid artery, felt its steady beat. His expression became matter-of-fact as he pulled on a pair of gloves. Like Butler, he reached inside Jason's windcheater, hauled out the Luger. Unlike Butler, who had used only enough force to render Jason unconscious for some time, Mencken checked again to make sure he was alone.
He then raised the barrel of the Luger high above his shoulder, brought it down on Jason's skull with such vicious force it rebounded off the skull. Again Mencken checked the carotid artery. Nothing. Jason was dead meat. He'd failed in his task – and there was the added chance the police would find the corpse. Thrusting the Luger back inside the holster, Mencken was about to topple the sagging corpse on to the pavement when he heard a car approaching. He dived back inside the Renault, dipped his head out of sight. The car moved on into the night. Mencken straightened up, adjusted his seat, started the engine and drove off. Bound for this Ouchy dump on the shores of Lake Geneva.
'Do let me in on the secret,' Gaunt's voice boomed out as he joined Tweed's table unasked. 'What's our next port of call on this Cook's tour? Ouchy and points south? Eve is dying of curiosity.'
'Eve is doing nothing of the sort,' Eve Amberg rapped back at Gaunt, obviously well tanked up on alcohol. 'You're the one devoured with curiosity.' She looked at Tweed. 'Then he pretends I'm the one after all sorts of strange and weird information.'
Paula pricked up her ears. Eve sounded convincing. Why would Gaunt adopt this devious ploy?
'I've ordered the largest omelette in the world,' Gaunt went on as his bulk sagged into a chair at the table. 'I
