'I'll get the name of the hospital he's being taken to in Sion. I'll call the chief administrator, tell him if Butler is fit to board the jet after treatment I'll have an ambulance standing by at Kloten to rush him to a clinic here. Put Leon on, if you would…'
As they waited for the ambulance Tweed studied the faces of the people in his team. They all showed signs of strain – except for Marler who stood leaning against one of the walls, smoking a king-size. Marler was indestructible. Butler, he saw thankfully, had fallen asleep.
'What's the next move?' asked Newman, his face drawn with fatigue.
'We stay here, give you all a rest.' Tweed said firmly.
'Brazil's got away…'
'I know. Forget about him. For the moment. Beck will be tracking him. At the present Brazil is on his way back to Zurich.'
'Can he arrest him?'
'No. I asked Beck that same question. No evidence.'
'No evidence!' Newman repeated.
Sagged in a chair, he recalled what he had seen on the battlefield in the mountains. Bodies lying all over the snow, all looking very dead. Some crumpled in pathetic attitudes as though only asleep. Certainly they were thugs, men who lived by the gun, but they lay there, doubtless for ever, because of a man called Brazil, who was probably now drinking coffee in a comfortable chair aboard his luxurious jet. Reliving the horror, Newman felt sick in his stomach, but nothing showed in his face. It was all part of the job.
The ambulance arrived, took a still protesting Butler with Paula accompanying him to the hospital in Sion. By then Newman had drunk several cups of strong coffee, was feeling more like a human being.
He proceeded to give Tweed a concise report of everything that had happened. Tweed listened, watching Newman for signs of returning fatigue. At one stage he deliberately turned to Nield to ask him to enlarge on a point. Nield immediately caught on that Tweed thought Newman had talked enough and completed the story. He used his little finger to smooth down his neat moustache when he had finished.
'So the ground station is totally destroyed?' Tweed asked.
'A complete write-off,' said Marler, entering the conversation for the first time. 'Flattened under so many tons of rock I don't think the Swiss will ever bother to try and unearth it.'
'And the cabins the scientists occupied?'
'Another write-off. For the same reason.'
'That doesn't disturb you? The thought of all those high-flying scientists perishing with their wives?'
'Not really,' Marler responded. 'After all, they created the system which caused world chaos – and knew what they were doing. And, I'm sure, were being paid huge fortunes to work for Brazil. World could be a quieter place without them.'
'An interesting point of view.' Tweed mused.
'I'm glad we're staying on in Sion,' Newman said, standing up and putting his coat on.
'Where are you off to?' Tweed snapped.
'To the Hotel Elite to get some sleep. It was your suggestion. I need to be fresh for tonight. I think now we should all stay at the Elite. They'll have a decent room for you, Tweed. And you're looking a bit flaked out, if you don't mind my saying so.'
'I do mind!' Tweed reared up. 'I've just been sitting on my backside while everyone else was up on the Keller-horn.'
'Worrying yourself sick as you watched through those binoculars I see beside you. And, talking of sleep – when did you last get some?'
A blank look came on Tweed's face. He realized he could not remember the answer to that question.
'I thought so,' said Newman, reading his expression. I recommend a meal for you as soon as we get back – if you can face one. Then straight to bed for you, Mr Tweed.'
'And I had a strange idea I was in charge of this outfit.' Tweed said ruefully.
'We all dwell under our illusions.' commented Marler, poker-faced.
'Anyone else care to comment on the state of my health?' Tweed enquired, looking round.
'Yes.' said Philip, who had sat quietly so far, not saying anything. 'You look terrible.'
'You're taking after Paula.' Tweed replied.
'I'm leaving for the Elite now.' Newman said with a return of his normal vigour. 'I'll take Philip and Pete Nield with me. Marler can bring you later when you've rested here a bit longer. You do look terrible!'
'Bob!' Tweed called out as Philip, putting on his coat opened the door, disappeared. Newman paused at the open door. 'Why did you say earlier.' Tweed went on, 'that you needed to be fresh for tonight?'
'Because The Motorman is in Sion. I want to kill him before he kills someone else…'
Tweed blinked, trying to keep his eyes open. He stood up, hurried to the open door.
'Bob.' he shouted. 'I know who The Motorman is.'
His words were lost as Philip, behind the wheel, started the engine of the four-wheel-drive and Newman dived into the seat beside him.
45
Darkness had fallen on Sion when Philip, wakened by his alarm, compelled himself to get up, stumbled across to the bathroom, turned on the cold water tap, and sluiced his face, hands, and arms. It seemed very quiet in his room as he dressed quickly for bitter weather. He still hated silence when he was alone – it brought back memories of Jean.
He decided it wasn't worth putting on the radio, which had become his friend. He left his room, went downstairs and out into the Siberian night. He was going to visit the Marchats – he felt it was the least he could do, to tell them what had happened. After all, the information they had given him had helped the success of the operation on the Kellerhorn.
The night seemed even colder than it had been when with Paula he had visited the Marchats. Frequently, he stopped suddenly, looking back down a dark tunnel of a street, anxious in case he led The Motorman to two more possible victims. He heard nothing, saw nothing. The heavy silence of a windless night pressed down on him. The moon was obscured by clouds.
His feet made no sound on the hard rocklike snow as he finally turned the corner leading to the colony of old houses. In his hand he held his Walther, a precaution he had taken the moment he left the Elite he had moved to.
Again no lights showed in the ancient house where the Marchats lived, set back from the houses on either side. No light shed even a gleam from the closed shutters. Taking one last look behind him, standing close to another house's wall, he walked up to the heavy front door. Stopped.
The door was open a few inches. No chain across it. By now Philip's eyes had become well accustomed to seeing in the dark. The cold had penetrated his coat earlier, but now he was chilled to the bone. Chilled with dread.
He eased the door open inch by inch in case it creaked. It didn't. Karin Marchat kept the hinges well oiled. He stepped inside, a torch in his left hand, listened, listened for the breathing of another human being. Not another sound, except his own suppressed breathing.
Crouching down, to make a smaller target, he switched on the torch. The beam shone on Anton Marchat, lying at the foot of his favourite rocking-chair, his neck twisted at a grotesque angle, his eyes staring into eternity. Philip, who hardly ever used foul language, swore foully to himself. He advanced into the room.
The door to what he presumed was the kitchen was open. Again no light. He approached it cautiously, saw nothing he would bump into, switched off his torch which made him a perfect target. Reaching the open door, he listened again for another man's breathing. Heard nothing.
He stood to one side of the open door, switched on his torch. It nearly jumped in his hand. Karin was lying with the upper half of her body sprawled over the working surface, her head inside the enamel sink full of water, her head twisted in a weird way beneath the water, which gave the angle of her neck an even more grotesque
