Marler was close to the first sign of vegetation he had seen. A fossilized tree, bare of all foliage, twisted and gnarled, its thick trunk bent over, a few branches extended towards the sky as though in supplication. He moved in front of the trunk, looked up.
Marco, the sunlight on his face, wore dark glasses, his slim body swathed in a fur coat. Marler stared. Something twitched at the back of his mind. The Reeperbahn, the notorious district in Hamburg. He had strolled inside it once at night. Outside a club he had seen the picture of a knife-thrower. He had paid the entrance fee, had joined the audience inside.
The knife-thrower was entertaining the audience by throwing knives at figures of men painted on sheets. Each knife had dived into the chest of the figures – and the figures he was throwing them at appeared without warning and from all directions. The knife-thrower was Marco, the man who now stood looking down at him.
The white face grinned, a deathlike grin. Marco opened his coat, revealed a belt round his waist holding at least a dozen long wide-bladed knives. He held up his hands, cupped them over his mouth, shouted in French.
'You should not have come, my friend. Say your prayers.'
He had a knife in his hand in a second, raised his hand above his head, hurtled it through the ice-cold air. Marler, still in front of the tree trunk, ducked. He heard a swish, glanced at the tree trunk. The knife had landed, was twanging just where his chest had been.
Marler recognized Marco had the tactical advantage -he had the high ground. Something would have to be done about that. He was too far away for a certain shot with a Walther. Marler slipped behind the tree trunk, was no longer an easy target.
As he had hoped, Marco advanced down the slope, coming closer, moving sideways so he could see behind the tree trunk. Still not close enough for a Walther. He had to encourage Marco to use up his collection of knives.
He peered quickly round the tree, dodged back instantly. A second very close swish. The knife was embedded in the edge of the tree trunk, where the side of Marler's head had been. Marler calculated Marco would expect him to peer round the other side of the tree. He peered round the same side as he had before.
Poised on the slope, Marco had to change the direction of his throw. The third knife thudded into the side of the trunk Marler had peered round. Too close for comfort. Then silence. Marco was trying a new tactic, Marler felt sure. He felt inside his canvas satchel, brought out what his fingers had grasped. He had risked taking off his glove. Marco was wearing gloves on both hands.
Marler ran out into the open along the rim. He had been right. Marco had run silently down the slope so he could target Marler behind the tree. Caught off balance by his enemy's sudden move, Marco, close to the rim, raised his hand, holding another knife. Marler threw the stun grenade. It landed at Marco's feet.
The knife was never thrown. Marco flung both hands up, dropped the knife, staggered forward. He seemed to pause at the edge of the rim, then stumbled forward. Marler watched his body spinning as it fell toward the glacier. It was not a long drop and Marco, still vaguely conscious, tried to clamber upright on the ice. He lost balance for the second time. Marler continued watching as the knife-thrower vanished, sliding down inside a crevasse. The ice began to close over it.
Looking up as he hurried up the slope, Marler saw that the villa had been in view during the last deadly duel. It couldn't be helped. He must move quickly.
Inside the villa Brazil had observed Marco's attempt to wipe out the intruder, had seen Marco's grim end as he disappeared down the crevasse. He hurried to the door of his transmitter room, opened the door, called out.
'Elvira, we have an intruder. Marco is dead. The intruder is approaching the villa. Deal with him.'
'I am not leaving the villa. Your meal is ready.'
'You were trained to use a machine-pistol,' Brazil raged.
'You said Marco is dead. The man who can kill Marco is good. I am not leaving the villa.' the squat woman said obstinately. 'Your meal is ready.'
'Then put the wretched thing on the stove and keep it warm,' Brazil shouted at her.
He'd have to get Luigi to fly back some of the guards from the Kellerhorn. He had a helicopter pilot, a local hired for his knowledge of the area, not one of his own men. He hurried to the transmitter room, shut the door, composing the message he would send in his head.
'Marco is dead,' Elvira repeated like a litany as she waddled back to her kitchen.
Taking the risk that more guards would appear, Marler ran up the slope, paused. No one in sight anywhere. Most odd. He ran again until he was within a few feet of the perimeter fence.
He extracted something else from his satchel, something protected with great care. All the way up the mountain he had worried that he might encounter a rocky patch which would shake the vehicle. The drive up had been smooth all the way. He would be very relieved to get rid of what he was carrying in his gloved hand.
He stopped for a moment, estimating the distance. They hadn't built the fence far enough away from the villa. Holding his right arm high up, behind his shoulder, he hurled the stick of dynamite.
It sailed through the air, landed exactly where he had aimed, exploded with a roar amid the network of aerials. The masts were shattered, fragments flying up into the air, larger pieces toppling over on top of each other. Where they had stood on top of the flat roof there was now a scrap heap of tortured, twisted, destroyed metal. Marler turned and ran back to his four-wheel-drive.
Sitting in front of the transmitter inside the villa, Brazil shuddered under the impact of the explosion. Plaster from the ceiling showered down into the room, but the roof held firm. It had been built of reinforced concrete to withstand the huge weight of winter's snow and ice.
Compressing his lips, Brazil, wearing the headphones, attempted to tap out the message. Nothing. The transmitter was dead. He now had no means of communicating with Luigi. Cursing, he went to the kitchen, which also served as a dining room.
The table was laid and the moment he appeared Elvira carried a steaming dish of pasta and mince meat to the table in front of where he sat. She glared at him. Brazil sat down, looking at the pilot who was reading a magazine in a corner.
'Have you plenty of fuel?' he asked.
'Well tanked up,' the pilot replied. 'It was only a short flight here.'
'Then, when I have eaten, you could fly me across to the buildings on the Kellerhorn?'
'Easily. It would be safer if we landed there before it is dark.'
'Eat!' Elvira commanded. 'The stomach must be fed. I heard a bang,' she said placidly.
'Never mind about the bang.'
'Marco is dead.' she said.
'For God's sake don't say that again.' Brazil shouted, slamming down his cutlery.
Marler drove back down the mountain road in a happier frame of mind than when he had ascended it. He had been only too glad to get rid of the dynamite. And it had done the job. Which meant Brazil could not summon more of his thugs to meet him, coming up as he drove down.
He was still puzzled by the lack of more guards, but Marler never wasted time or energy on mysteries he couldn't solve. Now he was concentrating on reaching Sion before night fell, although at the moment the valley way below the abyss was aglow in the dusk.
With a sigh of relief he reached the bottom, drove on into Sion. He parked his vehicle, walked the rest of the way to the Hotel Elite to report to Newman on the day's work.
'Excellent news.' Newman commented in his room. Marler had reported while Philip and Paula also listened.
'Mind you.' Marler warned, 'I'm sure Brazil is now on the Kellerhorn. I had just reached the valley when I heard – then saw – a helicopter flying from the direction of that villa towards the Kellerhorn. There was a chopper on a helipad outside the villa when I arrived.'
'So we assume Brazil has now taken personal control of the ground station. Ready to activate something far more terrible. Let's pray he's inside the place when we go in and attack tomorrow.'
'It's been pretty terrible so far.' Paula interjected. 'I've been listening to the radio. All normal BBC programmes on the World Service have been suspended. They're continually broadcasting more news of smashed communications systems all over the world. To say nothing of the people who have been killed. Even, in a few cases, businessmen working from their homes with all their computer equipment linked to the information
