The Power (74 page)

At the summit Butler pointed out to Marler several
places where holes had been drilled in the unstable cliff,
explosives inserted. Dynamite, he thought. Marler took up
a position at the brink, looked down. It was lucky he had
never suffered from vertigo. The drop beyond the road was dizzying. From this point he could see the movement of the
convoy and - more important still - the position further
back where Pete Nield sat astride his motorcycle, calmly
waiting for the arrival of the juggernaut. Live bait. He'd
have to time it to a fraction of a second.

The driver of the Nestl
é
truck was chewing gum. Whatever
he was doing - driving, talking, waiting to kill a target - he
was always chewing gum. The truck swayed a little despite
its great weight as the front wheels passed over ice, but the
vehicle held on to the surface as though glued to it.

He had had the heaters turned up full blast for quite a
while, the windows of the cab firmly closed, and the atmosphere inside was a nauseating mixture of sweat, oil and heat. The driver was unaware of this. He was about to
open the window briefly to spit out gum, prior to inserting a
fresh stick in his thin-lipped mouth, when he rounded a corner and saw Nield seated on his machine, a stream of exhaust like steam ejecting from the pipe.

The driver grinned wolfishly again, rammed his foot
down on the accelerator. Nield took off like a bird, keeping
close to the wall of rock as he appeared to fly across the
snow. Chewing Gum was startled, annoyed at the lightning
take-off, He rammed his foot down further.

'You're the salad, pal,' he said to himself. 'Then we can get on with the main course.'

He was particularly looking forward to tipping the
Espace over the edge. That was going to give him a real
kick. He burned rubber as Nield disappeared round the
corner of the massive cliff overhanging the road. This was
fun, Chewing Gum thought.

The corner was sharper than he'd anticipated. He
braked to take it. That was when he heard a rumbling sound. He frowned, glanced up, then stared in horror.
Above him as he leaned forward, gazing up through the
windscreen, he saw a vast black curtain descending on
him. Huge boulders crashed on to the road ahead of him and bounced off the edge.

He was no longer chewing gum. His teeth were
clamped together in sheer fright. Something hit the top of
his cab, denting the roof. A small boulder rolled off and down into the white hell below. The windscreen was
suddenly blotted out as shale fell, piled up on the hood.
He was driving blind.

'Jesus! No ... o .. .!'

He screamed. The wheel no longer responded to the
frantic turn of his clawed hands. A sound like thunder roared out as thousands of tons of granite fell on the juggernaut like a giant sledgehammer. He felt the truck
tipping over towards the brink. Through the side window
he saw the chasm coming up to meet him. The juggernaut
was pushed off the road, began turning like an immense
cartwheel as it dropped into the depths. Chewing Gum's head, his mind, was spinning out of control. The truck
gathered speed, plunged on down into the three-hundred-
foot ravine. It hit ice-covered rocks, burst into flames
which sizzled as the snow quenched them and the jug
gernaut died.

46

On the summit of the cliff Marler and Butler had
operated again as a skilled team. Butler had waited by the
plunger while Marler ran further along the brink away
from the convoy. He had stopped at a point where he
could look down on the winding road and see it clearly.

Holding his right arm upright, Marler watched the roof
of Newman's station wagon pass below him, followed by
the grey Espace and Gaunt's BMW. He had waited until
he saw Nield on his motorcycle, speeding past. The
moment Nield wag well clear of the cliff he had dropped
his hand and run like hell away from the brink to the
centre of the plateau. That was the moment when Butler
pressed down on the plunger with all his strength.

His job accomplished, he began running back to join
Marler. Butler felt the ground trembling under his feet
and wondered whether he was going to make it. Reaching
the scatter of boulders where Marler waited he looked
back and sucked in his breath.

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, bump
ing 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 after
noon. 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 & 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 café 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 gen
uine, had compared the photograph with Ives' appear
ance. 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.