to work out what to do next.
'We could explore the Col de Roc where Brazil has his villa, on the mountains on the other side of the valley,' Paula suggested.
'We could, but we'd be pushing our luck.'
'What do you mean? I think it's a good idea. Now we've got into the swing of driving up these mountain roads.'
'We would be pushing our luck,' Philip persisted. 'On the map the road up to his villa looks at least as grim as the one up to the Kellerhorn.'
'Any other objections?' she said, piqued.
The trouble was, Philip knew, that when Paula had enjoyed a good meal she was fired up again with energy, with get-up-and-go. He didn't like to throw too much cold water on her courage.
'Not an objection, a worry. Thanks to your swift action we got out of that one alive at the alcove. I'm sure Brazil's villa will be equally well guarded.'
'So we proceed with caution.' she said and smiled.
'All right, I surrender.'
Grinning, he raised both hands high in the air. Paula frowned, leaned over the table.
'You've got at least an equal say in this decision, Philip. I feel I've been rather pushy. What were we going to do if we'd stayed in Sion?'
'Wait until after dark, then go to see Marchat. Did you notice the old part, huddled under that great hulk of a rock with the old building on top?'
'No, I didn't?'
'That's where the old houses are. The original Sion. I saw them. They're built of wood with shutters over the windows and shingle roofs. Just like those houses we saw inside the perimeter running round the fake weather station.'
'You think it really is a fake?' she queried.
'I'm certain of it. You may have security round a weather station, but you don't have thugs armed with machine-pistols to go after intruders to kill them. That is the ground station.'
'We could drive up the Col de Roc, then get back in time to go and see Marchat,' she speculated.
'All right. Let's do that. But first I need another cup of coffee.'
Philip didn't say so but he still felt this was a perilous undertaking. And they could find themselves descending a diabolical mountain road after dark. He couldn't rid himself of a premonition that exploring the Col de Roc was going to be a disaster.
'Just going to the loo,' Newman said to Franklin.
He had seen Marler passing their compartment, glancing in and looking away as he continued back to the front of the express. And in less than half an hour they were due to arrive in Sion.
He found Marler sitting in a first-class compartment by himself, smoking a king-size.
'That was Bill Franklin, wasn't it?' Marler asked before Newman could say anything. 'I remember him from when I met him in Tweed's office and didn't give him my name.'
'That was Bill Franklin.' Newman agreed as he sat opposite Marler.
He explained tersely how Franklin had come to be aboard, that he was carrying a Heckler amp; Koch submachine gun.
'Is he?' Marler remarked. 'With that he could wipe out a whole posse of Leather Bombers with just one burst.'
'Where are Butler and Nield?'
'I have a plan I've worked out for when we get to Sion – so I'll explain it…'
He did so and when he'd finished he glanced out of the window, saw an airfield with a runway cleared completely of snow.
'I'd better get back. Give Butler and Nield their orders quickly. You saw the airfield? Good. I must move -we are coming into Sion.'
36
The jet without any markings along its fuselage was airborne, had left Zurich behind some time ago. Brazil sat in his comfortable swivel armchair, staring at the illuminated screen above the entrance to the crew cabin.
Clear figures gave the mileage they had come, the mileage still to cover to Sion, the present time, the estimated time of arrival at Sion airfield. He glanced at it frequently and occasionally swivelled round to look at the seat behind him.
Craig sat in it with Igor alongside him, his forepaws resting in Craig's lap. Brazil was amused by Craig's obvious discomfort. The hound saw him looking, made a motion to move towards him, and Brazil lifted a warning finger. Igor subsided.
'One thing worries me.' Brazil told Craig. 'We haven't yet dealt with Anton Marchat. He's a loose end.'
'Not any more. I've made certain arrangements. Anton Marchat won't be in the land of the living much longer.'
'You really are most efficient.'
'I do my job. Including looking after this poodle.'
'I wouldn't advise you to treat him as a poodle.'
'A bang on his nose with the barrel of a gun and you'd see him run like hell, yelping.'
'If you were still alive to hear him yelping. Anyone would think you don't like Igor.'
'I don't.'
Brazil turned away to check the illuminated screen. Behind him Craig grinned to himself. Brazil didn't know everything. Prior to leaving Zurich Craig had phoned The Motorman. Brazil would have been furious had he known what he had done. He mistrusted hired help.
'Craig here,' he had said when he made the call.
'You have another commission for me?' the thin reedy voice had enquired.
'Two targets this time. First, man called Anton Marchat. Marchat,' he had repeated. 'He probably lives in Sion, but I'm not sure.'
'He does live in Sion. Assume the job is done. And the second target?'
'Man called Archie. Don't know his second name. But I hear on my grapevine he's a dangerous nuisance. Can't give you any more info.'
'I don't need any more. I know Archie.'
'You do?' Craig hadn't been able to keep the surprise out of his voice.
'Again, consider it done.'
'You're very reliable.'
'I have to maintain my reputation.' the reedy voice had replied smoothly.
'So that's it. I'm in a hurry…'
'Not too much in a hurry. As usual, I will expect the normal fee to be paid in cash into my numbered account. You won't forget, will you, Mr Craig? If you did then I have been known to do a job for free – when clients have omitted to pay their debts,' The Motorman concluded.
Aboard the jet, Craig had replayed the conversation in his mind with satisfaction. Except he had remembered he was sweating at The Motorman's last comment.
Keith Kent, expensively dressed, walked into the Zurcher Kredit Bank in Sion. He had travelled on the same train as Newman, had left it at almost the last moment.
As he had done in Zurich, Kent looked along the counter behind the grilles, weighing up the three tellers. One man looked pompous, the type that was easily deflated. Kent walked up to him.
'I have to pay in a certain amount to the main account of Mr Leopold Brazil. Is this the right branch?'
'We never give out information about clients.' the teller informed him smugly.
'No, of course not. I haven't the transfer with me but I can get it in an hour.'
