Precipice

platform, rolled down the steps, exploded with a deafening crack. Stun grenade, she said to herself. He was a rotten shot.

The machine drove on past her and then she saw a small army of headlights speeding up the road towards her. No time to run for Les Armures. No guarantee the men screaming towards her would be equally rotten shots.

The second motorcyclist saw her in his headlight, lifted his arm. By now Paula had grabbed a pair of sunglasses out of her shoulder bag, had put them on to neutralize the headlights. She raised the Browning and pressed the trigger. The motorcyclist froze in his saddle, still holding what he'd been about to hurl at her. His machine went out of control and as he fell the grenade exploded with a different sort of crack. Shrapnel peppered the buildings on either side but she guessed most of its deadly contents had blown into the still body now lying motionless in the road.

Another motorcyclist appeared, followed by others. At the same moment a powerful arc light came on from the last side-street she had explored to her left. She was spotlit like a star on stage in a musical. It had become a bloody nightmare.

She stood with her shoulders pressed hard against the wall behind her. There was nowhere to run. She'd glanced at Les Armures, seen a waiter dropping a grille over the inside of the door. Gritting her teeth, she had one idea – to bring down as many of them as she could. Her nerve was colder than the ice on the roads. She took aim at the next oncoming motorcyclist, who again had one hand lifted, holding something. She was aiming at his headlight. It suddenly went out. His machine skidded on ice, threw him like a bomb against a stone wall as the machine slithered, fell, its wheels still spinning. It was the searchlight from the side-street, illuminating her, which bothered Paula most.

A shadowy figure appeared to her right on the platform. She swung round her Browning.

'It's Philip.' a voice yelled.

His arrival had distracted her for vital seconds. A new motorcyclist appeared, hurled something which landed at her feet. A grenade. Philip dived forward, grabbed it, lobbed it at the searchlight. She heard it explode, the sound of shrapnel flying against the nearby buildings. That would have killed her. But it was the searchlight which died. The lamp's glare vanished, its light faded into nothing. She thought she heard a shriek from the same direction. The man who had switched on the searchlight. Another motorcyclist was approaching.

'I'll take him.' Philip said. 'Give them some of their own medicine…'

He took the pin out of the grenade he'd grabbed from his canvas bag, counted, hurled the missile. It dropped into the lap of the approaching motorcyclist, detonated with a roar. The explosion lifted the rider off his machine, then he dropped into the street, a crumpled corpse riddled with shrapnel. The machine toppled over sideways in the middle of the narrow street.

'That's blocked it for the rest of them coming.' said Philip.

He quickly hauled the searchlight out of his bag, set it up between the cannons, switched it on. Its powerful beam shone a long way down the street. Paula saw the front rider throw up a hand over his goggles, stop his machine so suddenly that the one coming up behind him smashed straight into it. The street was a chaos of ruined metal. In the distance, at the extremity of the beam, they saw more motorcyclists stopping, then turning, heading away.

Time to go.' said Philip.

'Time to check whether Archie is inside Les Armures…'

The waiter who had reserved Paula a table recognized her, lifted the grille, opened the door. Paula had slipped a full magazine into the Browning as they walked across the platform. Inside the restaurant there was now dead silence. Customers sat like waxwork figures. No one was eating as they entered. Philip spoke quickly.

'A gang was trying to kill someone. Don't know who.' he continued in French.

He was gambling on the assumption that no one would have had the nerve to look out of the window.

'Has my guest arrived?' Paula asked briskly.

'He's over there.' the waiter replied. He swallowed. 'Are you all right?'

'Fine.' She handed him a banknote. 'But after that we won't feel like eating. We'll just collect our friend…'

Archie was sitting at the corner table with a kir royale and a glass of water in front of him. He had a dead, half-smoked cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Paula bent down to whisper.

'Time to go. We'll have dinner sent up to my hotel room.'

'OK.'

That was all Archie said. Most people would have wasted time asking 'What has happened? It sounded terrible out there…'or some such enquiry. Not Archie.

He stood up, took the cigarette out of his mouth, put it in his pocket, his hands swathed in surgical gloves. The waiter brought his coat and he slipped it on and wrapped a scarf round his face so his small moustache wasn't visible. All in seconds. Paula realized he was disguising his normal appearance.

'Down this alley.' Paula said as they went outside. 'It leads to the footbridge over the Rhone. The police will be arriving any moment …'

With Paula leading, Archie following, and Philip bringing up the rear they slithered, slipped, slid their way down over icy cobbles. Since Paula had first arrived the ice had become a diabolical sheen.

She kept moving, shivering as the cold penetrated her clothing. Crossing the footbridge over the Rhone they all clung on to the rail to keep themselves upright. As they reached the hotel entrance they heard an endless screaming of police sirens. With lights flashing, car after car crossed the Pont du Rhone to their right, heading for the Old City.

They entered the hotel and went up to her room, which was really a suite, with living room, bedroom, and bathroom. Paula, hands frozen, took off her coat and flung it on a chair.

'I'll be with you in a few minutes,' she said and fled into the bedroom, leaving the door half closed. Then she broke down.

Philip heard her, told Archie to sit down and make himself at home. He pushed the bedroom door open, shut it behind him. Paula was sitting crouched in an armchair, shaking, shuddering, crying uncontrollably.

He went into the bathroom, found a glass, filled it with water, took a flannel, held it under the warm-water tap, put it on a towel, and went back to her as she looked up at him through fingers over her face.

'Use this warm flannel.' he said firmly. 'Then dry yourself with the towel. Then have a drink.'

'What is it? I could do with a brandy.'

'No, you couldn't. Spirits are the last thing you need when you're in a state of delayed shock. Come on.'

'Thank you, Philip. You are kind.'

She applied the flannel, used the towel to dry herself, then started to gulp down the water.

'Not so fast,' he told her. 'Sip it first.'

'I will…'

She drank all the water, took a deep breath, stood up, walked over to a wall mirror.

'I look a mess.'

'You look great. I'm not kidding.'

'What's Archie doing?' she asked.

'Smoking a cigarette.'

'He's doing what! I thought he didn't smoke.'

'He doesn't. He lit one, took a couple of puffs to get it going, then left it in the ashtray. I think he'll stub it out when it's half-smoked, then stick it in the corner of his mouth.'

'Philip, that's ridiculous…'

She began to laugh, a high-pitched laugh, couldn't stop. He walked over, slapped her on the face hard. She blinked, stared at him, but she had stopped laughing.

'You were hysterical,' he said quietly.

'That's the first time a man has done that to me and I haven't fought back. Philip, I haven't said thank you - you saved my life.'

'We're a team.'

She came forward and buried her face in his chest. He put his arms round her, held her tightly as she cried again, quiet tears. Eventually she pulled gently away from him, used a handkerchief to dab her eyes. When she