Tweed endured one of the most agonizing experiences of his career. Standing outside the canteen in the bitter cold, he had witnessed the cataclysmic events high up on the Kellerhorn through a pair of field glasses.
If only I could have been up there with them, was his recurring thought.
He had not been able to pick out individual figures, but he had seen the enormous collapse of the mountain as it turned into a rolling avalanche. He guessed that Newman's rocket launcher had triggered this off. He felt thankful he had brought the weapon, but fearful for the survival of his team.
His vigil had been interrupted by phone calls from Beck.
'How is it going, Tweed?'
'The ground station has been destroyed. A huge avalanche.'
'A natural one, of course,' Beck had replied quickly. 'We do get them at this time of the year. There have been a number of small ones in the Valais already.'
'This is a monster.'
'I understand. Tweed, Brazil's pilot has filed a flight plan by radio, a flight plan for the jet to take off soon for Zurich.'
'I'd better let him go.'
'Please do,' Beck had urged. 'We shall track his movements nonstop …'
That had been the third call. Tweed had rushed outside with his glasses again. Even without his glasses he could see an immense cloud of dust rising above the Kellerhorn. Then he saw the helicopter. He decided to stay under cover when it landed. Brazil was escaping, leaving behind his own men to face the music. Some music, Tweed thought, then he caught sight of vehicles moving down the mountain road.
Fearfully, he focused his binoculars on the two four-wheel-drive vehicles. He thought he could see Newman driving the first one and Marler behind the wheel of the one close behind. Then, appalled, he saw the avalanche cascading over the precipice, the two vehicles approaching it.
He held the glasses very steady, glued to his eyes. He was counting how many people were in the vehicles. Six. He heaved a sigh of relief. He thought he saw Paula in the rear of the first vehicle. Then his relief turned to chronic anxiety. They were close to the hideous cascade.
He had an almost irresistible desire to stop watching, but continued to stare through the lenses. He saw them pass under the cascade, then saw the overhang collapse, realized that had that happened seconds earlier it would have hurled both vehicles over the precipice.
'Christ,' he said aloud.
Few people had heard Tweed swear. No one had heard him use sacrilegious language.
He lowered the glasses. His arms and wrists were aching with the tension. The helicopter was coming closer. His team was safe now. They'd make it the rest of the way down the mountain. Time to get under cover. He went into the canteen where a nice Swiss girl was on duty.
'I could do with a cup of coffee.' he said. 'Very strong. Please.'
'You look exhausted,' she said in French, the language he had used. 'Shall I put a drop of cognac in the coffee?'
'Yes, I think you'd better. Then I'll go and sit in the room set aside for me. A helicopter is landing. You don't know I'm here.'
'But you are not here,' she said, and gave him a lovely smile as she handed him the cup and saucer.
Inside the room, he locked the door, sagged onto a couch, sipped at the drink. He rarely touched alcohol but he found its warmth comforting as it settled in his stomach. He got up, closed the curtains over the window, so no one could see inside, sagged again on the couch.
He heard the helicopter landing a few minutes later. It's a good job I haven't a gun, he was thinking. I'd go out and shoot the swine.
He sipped more of his coffee and cognac, wondered why now he was so warm. He was still wearing his overcoat. He took it off, sat down again. Outside he could hear the whine of a jet's engines starting up. Brazil doesn't waste much time, he mused. I suppose that's why he's got where he has. Well, he won't stay on top of his pinnacle much longer if I have anything to do with it. The phone in the room rang. He snatched up the receiver to stop the noise.
'Tweed?' Beck again.
'Speaking. The chopper with Brazil on board has landed. I can hear his jet starting up.'
'Radar will track him all the way to Zurich. I'll have men at Kloten to follow him wherever he goes in this city.'
'Are you going to arrest him?'
'For what? I have no evidence.'
'Of course. Just wanted to check.'
'I'm really phoning to say Inspector Leon Vincenau will be arriving shortly on an express from Geneva. He's of medium height, and fat. He'll show you identification. I've instructed him to give you full cooperation. He thinks he travelled with one of your team recently from Geneva on the early morning express.'
That would be Philip Cardon.'
'Keep in touch. Thank you for all you're doing…'
Tweed put down the phone, surprised that Beck had thanked him. Then it struck Tweed that Beck regarded Brazil as an enemy – but because of Beck's official position he could never have attempted what Newman's team had achieved.
Hearing the jet's engines building up power, Tweed risked pulling the curtains aside slightly, peered through the crack. The white jet stood at the end of the tarmac, ready for take-off. Igor the wolfhound was leaping delightedly up the staircase, vanished inside, followed by Brazil.
There was a pause, presumably while Brazil settled himself in, then the mobile staircase was removed. The engines climbed into a powerful nonstop roar, the jet sped ever faster down the runway, lifted off, headed upwards into the clear blue sky.
Tweed watched it as it flew towards the mountain peaks at what seemed a dangerously low altitude. He went on watching – in the vague hope the machine would smash into one of the fearsome jagged peaks. It cleared them, flew out of sight.
'Well, at least I know where you're going to, my friend.'
Tweed later heard the two four-wheel-drives approaching, went out to meet them. A small portly man wearing a dark business suit hurried up to him.
'Mr Tweed? I am Inspector Leon Vincenau from Geneva. I have been instructed by my chief, Arthur Beck, to give you every assistance.'
'Thank you. Excuse me, my team has arrived.'
Paula dived out of the back of her vehicle, ran across to Tweed, and flung her arms round him. He hugged her.
'Am I glad to see you!' she said, standing back. 'Harry Butler has a bullet in his thigh. I treated it, dressed it as best I could…'
'Pardon me.' It was Vincenau who had heard what she had said. 'You have a wounded man? With the bullet in him? Then he must be rushed to hospital in Sion. I will make all the arrangements. I must use a phone.'
'Take me to Harry.' Tweed stared. 'Look, he's trying to get out by himself.'
Paula ran to the vehicle Harry was laboriously clambering out of. Newman, who had left the vehicle after telling him to stay where he was, also swung round, running back. Paula got there first, with Tweed and Newman close behind her.
'You damned fool.' Paula admonished him. 'Always have been, always will be.' Butler said with a grin. Tweed took one arm, Paula the other as they helped him towards the canteen. Butler kept telling them all this was unnecessary but they ignored him. When they had him settled on a couch in a private room, he grimaced, then looked at them.
'All this stupid fuss. Anyone would think I'd been shot.'
Vincenau put down the phone, told Tweed an ambulance was on the way. Paula said she would go with him. Tweed called Beck, told him what had happened. Beck asked to speak to Vincenau when they had finished talking.
