Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“You still think you’ll be able to find your way over to the helicopter?” Lynch asked.

“I might not but Hugh’s great at memorizing routes.”

Alain said something to Lynch in French. Lynch shook his hand and Alain left the room. Moments later the front door banged shut.

“He’s a good man,” Lynch said. “Very reliable. And he doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“Perfect,” Fiona replied softly.

“Something wrong?” Lynch asked, putting an arm around her shoulder. “You seemed to be in another world just now.”

“I guess I’m just tired. It’s a real bitch running the show now that Sean’s in custody.”

“I can believe that. But it’ll all be over after tonight.”

“It will be if we don’t get McGuire,” Fiona replied with a sigh. “The Army Council will crucify us. But even if we do tag him, what’s to say the Army Council won’t want us to carry out another operation? We’re on a run. Why pull us in now?”

“They’ll call you back after this,” Lynch said.

“How can you be so sure?” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I’m not,” Lynch replied quickly. “But why push you to the limit when Sean’s due out at the weekend?”

“Which brings us back to McGuire. We have to get him, Dom.”

“You will,” Lynch said, squeezing her arm. “Hey, I almost forgot. I’ve got something for you.” He took a Glock 17 automatic pistol and a silencer from the top drawer of the sideboard. “Recognize it?”

“It’s Sean’s,” Fiona said in surprise, taking it from Lynch. “He told me he’d lost it.”

“He left it behind the last time he was here,” Lynch replied. “I know he’d want you to have it.”

She slipped it into the pocket of her windcheater. The front door opened and Mullen and Kerrigan came inside, their windcheaters flecked with snow.

“God, it’s cold outside,” Mullen said, rubbing his gloved hands together. “We’re set, Fiona.”

“Great,” Fiona replied. “Then let’s say our goodbyes and get the show on the road.”

Mullen and Kerrigan shook hands with Lynch.

“You two go on out to the car,” Fiona said to them. “There’s something I need to talk to Dom about. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Sure,” Mullen replied. “But don’t shilly-shally. We’re already running late.”

“I told you, it’ll only take a minute.”

Lynch waited until Mullen and Kerrigan had gone before looking at her. “What is it, girl?”

“Can we go to your study?”

“Sure, come on.” Lynch led the way down the hall and opened the study door for her. Closing it behind them, he moved to a window before turning back to her. “Well, what …?” He trailed off when he saw the silenced automatic in her hand.

“I heard everything you said to Liam earlier,” she announced, holding his stare. “You were going to call the Army Council and tell them I wasn’t fit to run the cell, weren’t you?”

“Fiona, it’s not what you think,” Lynch said anxiously, his eyes riveted on the automatic in her hand. “I was only concerned about you. You and Sean are like family to me. I’d never hurt you, you know that.”

“Family aren’t supposed to betray each other, are they?” she replied coldly.

“Fiona, listen … listen to me,” Lynch stammered. “Put the gun down, girl. We can talk about this.”

“The time for talk’s over,” she said, squeezing the trigger.

The bullet took Lynch in the forehead. He was dead before he hit the floor. She left the study, closing the door behind her, then made for the kitchen where Ingrid was busy loading the washing machine. She looked up and smiled as Fiona entered the room.

“I’ve just come to say goodbye,” Fiona said, returning the smile.

“Then do it properly,” Ingrid replied, arms outstretched.

“I will,” Fiona said and as they embraced she pressed the tip of the silencer against the back of Ingrid’s head and pulled the trigger. She caught Ingrid’s limp body as it fell and eased it onto the floor. Wiping her fingerprints off the automatic she tossed it into the bin. She then walked calmly down the hall, zipped up her windcheater, opened the front door, and went out into the cold night air.

Two police cars were waiting for the plane when it touched down at Lausanne’s La Blécherette Airport.

Eastman and Marsh got into the first car. Graham and Sabrina shared the second. The sirens were switched on and the cars headed for Les Paccots, a ski resort thirty kilometers from Lausanne.

When the two police cars finally pulled up behind a mobile police van close to Les Paccots the four of them were ushered inside. Half a dozen policemen, all wearing white Gortex overalls, were seated at two long tables on either side of the van, poring over charts and reports.

“We’re looking for Captain Bastian,” Eastman said to the man.

“ Capitaine Bastian?” The man pointed to the figure at the end of one of the far tables. “ La-has .”

“Over there,” Sabrina translated.

Eastman crossed to the man. “Captain Bastian?”

“ Oui ?” the man snapped without looking up from the map he was studying.

“I’m Inspector Keith Eastman, Scotland Yard. I believe Commissioner Mansdorf told you to expect us?”

“Of course,” Bastian replied with a quick grin. He pulled off the white peaked cap he was wearing and got to his feet. He was a sturdy man in his mid-thirties with short cropped brown hair and a craggy, weather-beaten face.

Eastman introduced him to the others and was glad when Bastian didn’t extend his hand in greeting.

“Please, sit down,” Bastian said hesitantly in a thick accent. “You understand, my English is not good.”

“It’s a lot better than our French,” Graham assured him as he sat down. “So where exactly is McGuire? All we’ve got is an address. And that doesn’t mean anything to us.”

“I will show you on here,” Bastian said, gesturing to the map on the table beside him and stabbing his finger at a point where a group of lines intersected each other.

“Where is it in relation to us?” Marsh asked.

“We are here,” Bastian replied, pointing to an “X” marked on the map.

“So we’re not far from the chalet?” Eastman asked.

“Not far, no,” Bastian agreed. “About three kilometer.”

“A couple of miles,” Graham said. “How long has the chalet been under observation?”

“Since this afternoon.”

“What about the man in the chalet with him?” Eastman asked. “Do you have any information about him?”

“A little,” Bastian replied. “We have taken a photograph of him when he go to the shop this afternoon. We then send the picture to Interpol. They say he has long criminal record. A friend of the IRA.”

“Is he Swiss?” Sabrina asked.

Bastian shook his head. “He is from France. Paris.” Graham and Eastman exchanged glances.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Graham asked.

“The man Roche told you about in the pub?” Eastman nodded and turned back to Bastian. “Is this man a builder?”

Bastian nodded slowly. “He is a builder. But how do you know?”

“One of McGuire’s friends in London told us about him,” Graham explained. “But he didn’t give us a name.”

“I have his name,” Bastian said, taking a battered notebook from his overall pocket. He leafed through it then held up his index finger when he found the entry. “Marcel Bertranne. You want his address?”

“Not at the moment,” Eastman replied. “How many men have you got watching the chalet?”

“Always four men. They change every hour. You understand it is very cold on the mountain.”