Colin Forbes - The Power

The two Americans had misjudged placing the plunger mechanism. Butler stared in awe as a fissure zig-zagged across the plateau, as half the plateau crumbled away, taking the mechanism with it. The roar was deafening. Clouds of rock dust appeared from under the snow. Choking, both men ran for the shallow slope, Marler gripping his Armalite and tear-gas pistol.

The crash and rumble of the avalanche continued as they ran, slithered down the long slope to where the convoy was stationary, waiting for them. Cardon greeted them as they arrived on the road, calling out to Butler.

'We manhandled your machine into the back of the Espace. Paula helped me. We had only seconds.'

'I'll get it out, then,' Butler decided. Take up my old position at the head of the convoy.'

'Congratulations, both of you,' Tweed said tersely when he had jumped down to meet them. 'Marler, get back into the station wagon. Tell Newman to get moving. I want us out of the mountains before dark. And again, everyone keep a sharp lookout for more welcomes from the enemy.'

'I'll go ahead of Newman as before,' repeated Butler.

With Garden's help he had been hauling his machine out of the back of the Espace. Amberg was twisted round in his seat, staring fixedly. Butler gave him a brief wave, whispered to Cardon.

'The Swiss looks stiff as a poker. Obviously not used to these day trips…'

Mounted on his machine, he started it and sped off as Gaunt came striding down from his BMW.

'What the devil was all that about?' he barked.

'Avalanche,' Tweed told him. 'You get them in this part of the world in winter. Get back to your car. We're on our way…'

Soon the convoy was driving down an even more murderous series of spiral twists and turns which went on and on. Dusk was descending and great stands of fir trees closed in on either side, immense branches weighed down with thick coatings of frozen snow. Paula shivered at the sight of them – it reminded her of films of Siberia she had seen. The forest moved in to the edges of the road, creating tunnels which she found claustrophobic. Inside the Espace the temperature was dropping despite the fact that Tweed had the heaters turned full on.

They emerged from the tunnels as they reached lower levels and lights inside houses appeared as they passed hamlets tucked into bends and located inside ravines. Their headlights swept over small houses with red-tiled rooves showing in patches close to chimneys: heat from a stove inside had temporarily melted a little snow. First-floor balconies looked as though they'd soon sag under the accumulated snow they supported.

They passed through the small town of Munster, bumping over cobbled streets, slowing down as they approached the outskirts of Colmar. They had just passed a petrol station with a small cafe attached when a motorcyclist drew alongside the Espace out of nowhere. Eve, who had remained calm and quiet during the drama of the falling cliff, raised her rifle. Paula was already aiming her Browning as Tweed slowed down, saw them.

'Put down those weapons, for God's sake, both of you!' he shouted.

He stopped the Espace as the motorcyclist, a Union Jack whipping from its aerial, pulled up. Tweed left the engine running and looked over his shoulder before he opened the door.

'Paula, keep him covered with your gun, but don't fire unless he produces a weapon.'

He opened the door and the. tall motorcyclist stood in the road, the machine leant against him, both hands raised above his head.

'You're Tweed. I've been waiting here hours for you. I'm Barton Ives, Special Agent FBI…'

'How did you know I would be coming this way?' demanded Tweed.

'Cord Dillon said you had to pass this spot when you came down from the mountains. That was in the afternoon. I have papers…'

'Be very careful what you take out of your pocket,' warned Paula as the stranger reached inside his leather jacket.

He slowly produced a folder, handed it up to Tweed, who examined it by the courtesy light. With the front door open the temperature inside the Espace dropped even further.

Newman appeared behind the stranger. He pressed the tip of his Smith amp; Wesson into his back.

'This is a gun,' he warned.

'Yeah. I guessed it was. You guys are wise to take all precautions. But aren't we exposed, standing out here?'

'Not really,' Newman told him.

Marler had left the station wagon, was now positioned at the side of the cafe next to the petrol station. He had loosened the belt round his fur-lined windcheater so he could thrust the tear-gas, belt inside it. He was holding the Armalite, his eyes scanning the whole area. Butler, who had returned on his motorcycle, had taken up a position on the opposite side of the road.

Tweed had examined the folder, which seemed genuine, had compared the photograph with Ives' appearance. The American had removed his helmet, had pulled down the scarf from his face. What convinced Tweed of the man's identity was that he fitted the descriptions Dillon had given him. At long last he was meeting the real Barton Ives.

'Get in,' Tweed ordered, 'sit next to me, keep your hands in your lap. There are people behind you with guns and itching trigger fingers. Bob, put his machine in the back of the Espace…'

Tweed's careful check had taken no more than a minute. He signalled to Marler and Butler that they were moving on. He waited until Newman had returned to the station wagon and Ives whispered to him.

'I need to be alone with you. I've one helluva story to tell you. My guess is you've no idea what you're up against. Doubt if you'll believe a word I say. It's all incredible, but true.'

'Not now,' Tweed replied. 'We're in a hurry to leave France to cross the border into Switzerland – travelling non-stop this evening. Norton hasn't given up yet – of that I'm sure.'

'You can bet on it,' agreed Ives.

Paula was impressed with the FBI agent's appearance and manner. In his late thirties, she estimated, he was tall, had thick dark hair, his strong-featured face with a firm jaw was clean-shaven. Despite his long ordeal of staying under cover, moving constantly from place to place in fear of his life, he showed no signs of strain. His voice was quiet, controlled, almost matter-of-fact.

'We're going to have to hurry to do that,' Ives observed. To reach Switzerland tonight.'

'It's just a matter of organization,' Tweed commented as he continued to drive the Espace close to the station wagon.

The rendezvous point where they had picked up Barton Ives had been well chosen. An oasis of quiet, there had been no one else about. Now, only minutes later, they were caught up in Colmar's rush-hour traffic. The convoy had closed up and Gaunt's BMW was on Tweed's tail, a little too close for his liking, but that was Gaunt.

'How shall we manage it?' Paula called out.

'I'll go out the way we came in. By train to Basle. I want you to come with me, and you too, Eve. Philip,' he called over his shoulder to Cardon, 'you'll also be with us as bodyguard, together with Butler and Nield. Ives, you come with us aboard the train.'

Tweed had no intention of letting the elusive American out of his sight after waiting so long to contact him.

'Anything you say,' Ives agreed cheerfully.

'What about the Espace, the station wagon and the weapons?' asked Paula, her mind racing ahead to the next problem.

'I'm changing tactics from the way we came in,' Tweed said with a surge of vigour in his voice which made Paula feel tired. He glanced briefly back at her at a red traffic light and his eyes gleamed with purpose and drive. This, Paula thought, is where we really take off.

They were nosing their way closer to the Bristol as Tweed explained further.

'I'm assuming our friend, the Swiss police chief, Beck, will be on the alert at the frontier. The French frontier control will still be on the look-out for terrorists entering France – not the other way round. If Newman and Marler meet trouble Bob will immediately ask to be put in contact with Beck.'