Colin Forbes - Precipice

'That suspect submarine you asked us to track – the one you thought sent a signal to a mansion in Dorset – it has arrived at Murmansk, the only ice-free Russian port in the West at the moment.'

'So it was a Russian sub.' Tweed had replied.

'It sure was. Latest type of silent nuclear-powered vessel. The kind that worries us. Moves like a torpedo.'

'Where did you track it from?' Tweed had asked.

'From our air base near Keflavik in Iceland. Thinking it wasn't observed, it sailed for long distances on the surface.' Dillon had reported. 'So we have pictures of it.'

'When you said it sent a signal to the Dorset mansion on the coast.' Tweed had corrected, 'it received signals and, I think, simply acknowledged them. Philip Cardon, one of my best men, happened to be on the clifftop when he saw a light flashing from Grenville Grange. That's the mansion which is owned by Brazil. He must have had one of his men waiting inside to contact the sub at an agreed time.'

'Brazil again.' Dillon had said grimly.

'Yes. And your tracking the sub is important. It gives us a direct link between Brazil and General Marov. I've heard Marov now controls the whole military machine.'

'General?' Dillon had queried.

'Yes. He's kept that fact quiet. Thanks for calling -have to go now.' Tweed had ended the conversation.

Aboard the jet Tweed once again marvelled at the element chance played in life. It had been pure chance that Philip should have been on the clifftop with Eve Warner when the signal flashes had been exchanged. Philip had told Tweed, emphasizing he could have been imagining the incident. Privately, Tweed had dismissed Philip's doubts, remembering other times when Philip had been right.

As the jet flew on through the moonlit night Tweed turned his thoughts to the situation in Sion. He tried to put himself into Brazil's shoes, inside his head. He had an idea which might be the key to the coming assault, but was unsure whether to intrude on Newman's territory.

'We'll be landing soon, sir.'

Tweed jerked himself into the present, realized the copilot was standing beside him. He thanked him.

'One thing.' the co-pilot went on, 'to get on the right path for landing we'll pass pretty close to the peaks of the Bernese Oberland. Don't worry about what you'll see out of the window.'

'Should have brought my camera,' Tweed joked.

Less than a minute later the co-pilot returned, handed Tweed a small camera with a flash. He showed Tweed how it worked. Tweed listened patiently, although he was familiar with the model. The co-pilot walked briskly back to the crew cabin.

The jet began to slant, to descend in a curve. Outside the window Tweed looked down on savage snowbound peaks, which appeared to be within inches of the fuselage. One jagged summit loomed towards him like a gigantic knife. He raised the camera, took several shots.

Then the floor of the Valais came into view, rushed up to meet them as the pilot was forced to descend at a steep angle. They not only had the moonlight, they also had a flare path glowing to show them the way in. Tweed was reminded of old films he'd seen on the TV of wartime in the 1940s. This was the moment when he tensed. The moment before the wheels safely touched the ground. He peered out as far as he could along the window. Almost down. No sign of a runway.

The Swiss pilot landed the jet so smoothly the wheels seemed to kiss the concrete. The moment it had stopped the exit door was opened and Tweed was escorted to the mobile staircase which had been run up to the machine. Newman stood waiting for him, hands on his hips.

'Isn't there somewhere we can hide this jet so there's no risk of Brazil seeing it?' Tweed asked as Newman took him into a canteen.

'Stop trying to run the show.' Newman clapped his hand on the shoulder of the man he was so glad to see. 'We've thought of that. Meld and Butler are already on board, bringing out the cargo of weaponry. And, before you ask, we do have transport to take it away from the airfield at once.'

'Good,' said Tweed as he paced up and down the well-heated canteen to stretch his legs.

'And.' Newman went on with a grin, 'the jet will then be parked inside a small hangar, the doors will be closed and locked. All thought of – and arranged – by Beck who is in constant touch with the airfield controller. Now, sit down and drink your coffee.'

'Don't you have to leave?'

'And, there you go again. It will be dark for a couple of hours yet. The coffee here is good, isn't it?'

'Almost as good as Monica's,' replied Tweed, who had sat at a table with Newman. 'Very welcome, too. How is Paula?'

'Raving at me when last I saw her. She wanted to come and meet you. I practically had to sock her to make her stay in bed. She needs the sleep. She's OK.'

'And Philip and the others?'

'Everyone is OK. Including Marler, who has never slept so much in my experience. But he did have a tiring day. Do not ask me why.'

'Bob' – Tweed paused, his manner suddenly brisk, in full control – 'I have one idea I'd like to put to you. Before I do, I emphasize you are in command of this operation. If you don't like the idea, which is only a suggestion, throw it into the wastepaper basket.'

'Go ahead.'

'I tried to think myself into Brazil's position, bearing in mind what has happened. I think he'll be on cloud nine. Almost ecstatic about what he's achieved. I am sure he has something much worse planned in the very near future. Maybe today. Bob, I don't think he'll anticipate an attack on the ground station in his present mood.'

'What an intriguing observation,' Newman said thoughtfully.

'That being so,' Tweed continued, 'his army of thugs won't have been put on the alert. So what we need is one thing – a five-minute massive onslaught out of the blue. Then run.'

'My God, I think you've hit the nail on the head.'

'It's only a suggestion.' Tweed warned.

'It's one I like. Like a lot.'

Newman stood up, put on his coat and a glove on his left hand. He shook Tweed's with his right hand.

'It was worth your coming for that one idea alone. I must get back and finalize the battle plan. You'll wait here? Good. There's a small bedroom with loo and washbasin beyond that door. The staff, when I told them you were coming, have been cleaning it up. It looked OK to me before they started. See you…'

Paula was woken by a nightmare. The Motorman, a faceless hunchback, had been strangling Karin Marchat, his huge hands squeezing her throat. Behind him Paula hammered at his skull with the butt of her Browning. It seemed to have no effect. Karin was gurgling horribly. Using all her strength Paula brought the gun down on the back of the creature's head, time and time and time again. Then she woke up.

'Why the hell didn't I shoot him,' she said aloud.

'What was that?'

Newman was gently shaking her awake. He put on the bedside light, after warning her what he was doing. She stared at him, gave a gasp of relief.

'Don't bother about me. I just had a nightmare.'

'Good job I woke you, then.'

'You didn't wake me,' she snapped. 'I woke myself up.' She sat up in bed, pulled on her dressing gown. 'Is it time to go already?'

'No, and I apologize for disturbing your sleep. There's been a change of plan. I have to tell everyone. Won't be time later – we have to start so early. I've had to wake up everyone. And you didn't lock your door.'

'Sorry. I was so tired. In your room?'

'Would five minutes from now be too quick?'

'Not if you push off now…'

Paula could dress very quickly. After slopping cold water on her face, she put on leggings, both sweaters over two layers of underclothes, and her short, fur-lined coat, grabbed her shoulder bag with the Browning inside, and went to Newman's room. When he opened the door and she walked in she saw everyone had arrived.