'In the pink of condition. Paula is sizzling. I'll give you the details.'
Tweed listened. More than any man he had ever met Newman could compress a complex situation into as few words as possible. He presumed it was his training and experience as a foreign correspondent.
'So,' Newman concluded, 'the earliest we can launch an assault on the ground station is tomorrow. That will be done. If you want to contact me I'm at the Hotel Elite. Telephone number…'
'Could you leave someone there I could talk to in your absence?'
'No.' Newman's tone was hard. 'I'll need the whole team for the job we have to do.'
'Understood.' Tweed took a deep breath. 'Bob, it is essential that ground station is destroyed, even if it means taking heavy casualties.'
'Message understood…'
Monica, who had heard, was staring in horror as Tweed put down the phone. She bit her lip, then came out with her comment.
'I've never in all my experience with you heard you send an order like that.'
'What do you think we're playing at – a game of Scrabble?' Tweed rasped.
'Sorry.'
'Then get me the PM on the phone. No, I'll get him myself.'
He brushed aside the private secretary who answered the call, who tried to extract from him why he wanted to see the PM.
'I said I wanted to speak to the PM. Put him on the line now or your job is at stake.'
'I beg your pardon, sir.'
'I said your job is at stake,' Tweed growled.
'I'll only be a minute.'
In less than a minute the Prime Minister was on the line.
'Tweed here, PM… Yes, I know what has happened. I shall be at Downing Street in fifteen minutes from now. I will expect to see you the moment I arrive.'
He put the phone down before there was any reply. Getting up from behind his desk, he put on his coat.
'Shall I get someone to drive you there?' Monica asked.
'I'm perfectly capable of driving myself there. And I'll be quicker.'
Tweed returned two hours later, entering his office with a brisk step. He hung up his coat, sat behind his desk.
'Would you like some more coffee?' Monica asked tentatively.
'Monica, I would love some more coffee. I think the situation calls for two cups, please.'
'How did you get on with the PM?' she asked while she was pouring it.
'What's happened has shaken him to the core, rattled his cage. As I thought, he was in a mood to listen to me without interruption or argument. This is very good coffee. Thank you.'
'He took a decision?'
'Between the two of us I took the decisions for him -at risk of my sounding dictatorial. The Rapid Reaction Force is being despatched to strategic airfields in Germany. The first flights take off this evening.'
'The German Chancellor stuck to his guns, then.'
'Not at first,' Tweed said grimly. 'After my last call at Downing Street he'd consulted his cabinet in Bonn. The weak willies had expressed concern. Wanted to consult NATO. I told the PM he must call Bonn again.'
'What happened?'
'While the PM made the call I listened in on another extension. I practically stood over the PM, dictating his conversation by scribbling notes on a pad and pushing them under his nose. Key communications in Germany have been wrecked, and there are more bodies. I think that factor persuaded the Chancellor. He agreed to receive the Rapid Reaction Force – even went so far as to thank the PM for his cooperation. When I left Downing Street the PM looked exhausted.'
'I'm not surprised – with you standing over him,' Monica commented tartly.
'Now, try and get Newman on the phone at that number he gave me.'
While Monica was trying to get through Tweed sat with his hands clasped in his lap. Then, restless, he got up and poured himself a third cup of coffee from the percolator. He had drunk half the cup when Monica signalled to him.
'Bob?' He paused. 'Operator, this is a very bad line.' He waited – for the hotel phone operator either to reply or for the sound of the click of a switch. He heardnothing. 'We are alone.' he went on. 'This call is just to let you know I shall be flying to Sion airfield soon in a jet. By courtesy of Mr Brazil – although he doesn't know I've borrowed one of his jets. The one with Brazil flashed all over the outside of the fuselage.'
'I can't recommend that. This is a danger zone.' Newman warned.
'Did I ask for your recommendation? Do I have to remind you who is in charge of this operation? I'm only telling you so you don't shoot up a jet with Brazil's name on it.'
'I'll try to avoid that happening.' said Newman, who had recovered his good humour.
Tweed had hardly put down the phone before he made a new request to Monica.
'Please call Jim Corcoran, security chief at Heathrow. Tell him to warn the aircrew of the jet that I will be flying to Sion. Tell Jim that I'll give him one hour's notice before I want the machine airborne – with me inside it.'
'He won't like it. That doesn't give him much time.'
'Tell him. By now he'll have heard the news of Brazil's strike at world communications. That will make him pull out all the stops.'
'Anything else?' Monica enquired. 'Before I make this call?'
'Yes, in case I forget. Later, phone Arthur Beck in Zurich and tell him what I'm doing. But only after I am airborne, on my way.'
'I don't think he'll like that either.'
'I'm not in the business of being popular. I'm in the business of destroying Brazil.'
39
Marler, following Brazil's limo up the mountain, braked as he reached the large plateau, saw the fence, the villa, its roof festooned with aerials, the empty limo parked at the foot of a flight of steps. He was exposed with nowhere to hide and he had no idea how many guards Brazil might have at his disposal.
He saw a narrow track descending below the edge of the plateau, released the brake, continued down the track – out of sight of the villa. He drove on down the track, stopped suddenly. The track ended – at a sheer rim dropping into the glacier.
I should have brought my Armalite rifle, he thought.
He got out, approached the rim cautiously. The view down into the glacier just below was one of the most spectacular sights he had ever seen. The long sea of sheer ice glittered in the sunlight, refracting various colours.
He frowned, blinked, closed his eyes, opened them again. Yes, he had been right – the glacier was on the move. Very slowly, like some incredible animal stalking its prey. Crevasses, which looked bottomless, were appearing as the ice broke apart. It reminded him of a graveyard for dinosaurs – because the glacier was as ancient as the prehistoric beasts which no longer roamed the earth.
There was something sinister, doom-laden, about its almost imperceptible, implacable movement. He found it hypnotic, jerked his eyes away from this phenomenon of the might of nature. With his canvas satchel over his shoulder, he followed the edge of the rim which climbed upwards. To his right was a gradual snowbound slope, slanting down from the top of the plateau. He had to find some way of approaching the villa unseen. He had already made up his mind he must destroy the aerials on top of the villa, the key, he suspected, to Brazil's communication with the outside world. There would be no telephone inside the place – even Swiss engineers would balk at laying phone lines up the mountain and radio telephones could be intercepted. He stopped suddenly. A figure had appeared.
