Алистер Маклин - Red Alert

He saw what Vlok had meant about overtaking being virtually impossible. The single lane on each side of the road was narrow, restricting visibility. To the left was a sheer drop of two hundred feet, to the right a towering rock face He followed the police car around a sharp bend in the road and groaned in dismay at the pantechnicon twenty yards ahead of them. The pantechnicon disappeared around another bend. He glanced anxiously at the clock. He had six minutes left. He wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead and turned the car into the bend. The police car was already sitting on the pantechnicon’s tail, waiting for an opportunity to pass. It swayed out from behind the truck but the policeman couldn’t risk overtaking on one of the blind corners.

Graham bit his lip nervously. They would never reach the lake at this rate. He knew he would have to take the initiative. He had no choice.

He gritted his teeth and pulled out from behind the police car. He passed it. Another bend loomed ahead. The police car dropped back, giving him the chance to tuck in behind the pantechnicon. Graham knew it would only waste more time. He had to get past. The Quattro and the pantechnicon turned into the bend together. The pantechnicon driver saw the lorry first and desperately tried to wave Graham back. Then Graham saw the lorry. He looked behind him. He wouldn’t be able to drop back behind the pantechnicon, the distance was too great. It left him with no option. Evasive action. He swung the wheel sharply to the right, missing the lorry by inches. The lorry swerved to the left, clipping the side of the pantechnicon. The Quattro struck the mountain side-on and a protrusion of rock ripped a jagged gash in both doors before Graham managed to swing the car back on to the road. He glanced in his rearview mirror. Both the lorry and the pantechnicon had stopped. The police car didn’t stop.

Graham looked at the clock. Three minutes. And still no sign of the lake. He had already decided to send the car over the edge of the road if he hadn’t seen the lake within the next minute. Avalanche or not, he wasn’t going to kill himself for some terrorist’s bomb. He was already contemplating where to ditch the car when he saw the signpost LOTTERSEE-EINGANG 2 km. It was still going to be tight. Then he saw the lake to his left. Its tranquillity reminded him of Lake Champlain. But it was only a fraction of the size.

The road descended rapidly. He followed another signpost on to a dirt road which led him to the lake. He couldn’t drive the car into the water, there was no guarantee that the boot would be submerged before the bomb detonated. He scanned his surroundings. A wooden jetty fifty yards away. It would be perfect. He spun the wheel violently and drove to the jetty. It was deserted. The whole area seemed to be deserted.

The police car appeared in his rearview mirror. He mounted the jetty carefully, fearful that the wooden boards wouldn’t hold the car’s weight. They held firm. He checked the time. A minute left.

He decided against jumping from the car before it left the jetty, not with so much at stake. He would bail out when it hit the water. It would take several seconds to sink, giving him enough time to swim away.

He pressed the accelerator and the car shot forward. He braced himself as the car launched off the jetty. Then it hit the water, nose first.

He immediately unbuckled his seatbelt and pulled on the door handle. The door wouldn’t open. The car dipped forward and the cold, murky water flooded in. He tugged desperately at the handle then hit the door with his shoulder. It was jammed. The lock had been damaged when the door had been raked against the mountain. Within seconds the inside of the car was flooded. His only chance was the passenger door. He reached for the handle. The car bucked forward, knocking him against the windscreen. He felt as if his lungs would burst. If only he could get to the passenger door…

Whitlock knew something was wrong when he saw Graham struggling with the door handle before the front of the Quattro disappeared. He leapt out of the police car, discarded his jacket and his Browning, and ran to the end of the jetty. He dived into the water just as the last part of the Quattro slid under the water. He took a deep breath and dived. He could see where it had come to rest on its wheels. As he got closer he saw Graham struggling frantically with the passenger door. Whitlock grabbed the handle with both hands and, anchoring his right foot against the back door, he slowly eased it open. Graham pushed desperately from his side until the gap was big enough for him to squeeze through. They immediately propelled themselves upwards to the surface where they paused, coughing and spluttering, to catch their breath before swimming quickly to the jetty. Vlok and the policeman hauled them out of the water. Graham slumped down on to the wooden planks and exhaled deeply. It had been close.

Whitlock crouched beside Graham and put a hand lightly on his shoulder.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah,’ Graham replied, then put an arm around Whitlock’s shoulders.

‘I don’t know how much longer I’d have lasted out there if you hadn’t showed up when you did. Thanks, buddy.’

Whitlock shrugged it off, then stood up and helped Graham to his feet.

‘What we need now is a hot shower and a change of clothing before we catch pneumonia.’ He looked up at the policeman. ‘Any chance of a lift back to our hotel?’

‘You bet,’ the policeman replied with a grin.

Rust sat behind his desk. In front of him was a folder containing the latest developments of Strike Force Nine’s operation in Paris. He had read it four times already but his mind refused to take any of it in. All he could think about was the vial. He looked at his watch: 3.30 p.m. An hour-and-a-half had elapsed since the cylinder had been taken away for examination. It could be another thirty minutes before the results were known. Perhaps longer. The waiting was killing him. He took a sip of coffee. It was cold. He spat it back into the cup and was about to make himself a fresh one when he heard a knock at the door.

He looked at the television monitor on his desk. It was Scheffer. He activated the door.

Philpott was on the telephone when Graham and Whitlock entered the office. He gestured for them to take a seat.

‘Thanks for letting me know, Jacques,’ he said finally then replaced the receiver and turned to face them.

‘The results have just come through. The vial contained water.’

‘I can’t say I’m surprised, sir,’ Whitlock replied. ‘As you said, it would have been too easy.’

‘Has Vlok told you what happened with the car?’ Graham asked.

‘Yes. I’ve notified the bomb squad. It’s in their hands now.’ Philpott looked at the desk clock. ‘There’s less than ninety minutes left before the deadline. I want you to rejoin your teams and continue the search for the vial.’

‘And what if we do find another one?’ Graham asked. ‘There won’t be time to send it to Zürich for analysis.’

‘I’ve asked Jacques to have a carbon-steel-plated Magnox flask sent down here from Zürich. It’s similar to the containers that are used for the disposal of highly toxic nuclear waste, only much smaller. The helicopter should get here within the next thirty minutes. Then if the vial is found, it can be sealed inside the flask, rendering it harmless.’

‘But what if it’s another red herring?’ Graham asked.

‘Let’s find it first,’ Philpott replied evasively, then bleeped Paluzzi and Marco to determine their positions so that Whitlock and Graham could rejoin them.

The telephone remained silent for the next twenty minutes. Then it rang twice in the space of five minutes. The first call was from Emile, the helicopter pilot, to say that he had arrived at the Offenbach Centre with the Magnox flask. Philpott told him to remain with the helicopter on the helipad.