“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.”
“Yeah,” Graham agreed. “Has McGuire left the chalet since your men started watching it?”
“He did not leave, no.”
“So how do you know he’s even in there?” Marsh asked the obvious question.
“He often go to the window. My men see him then.”
“And your men haven’t reported anything suspicious since they’ve been up there?” Eastman asked.
“Suspicious?” Bastian replied with a frown. “I do not understand.”
“Haven’t you been told that there’s an IRA cell out to kill him?” Eastman asked.
“I was told that he is hiding from the IRA. But the Commissaire told me that they do not know he is here in Switzerland.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Graham replied, then asked Sabrina to explain to Bastian in French what they knew about the Provo unit.
“I did not know this,” Bastian said when Sabrina had finished talking. Then, opening the safe in the corner of the room, he handed each of them a Heckler & Koch MP53 machine-pistol and a twenty-five-round magazine.
“So how do we get to the chalet?” Graham asked.
“There is a cable car not far from here. It is the only way up the mountain. You will all put on the white ski suits before you go. Then you will not be seen in the snow.”
“More to the point, will we be able to see in the snow?” Graham said after the ski suits were brought for them.
“It’s definitely getting worse out there,” Marsh agreed.
Bastian looked at Graham. “We can wait until the storm has gone.”
“No,” Graham retorted as he put on his ski suit. “If the IRA cell’s already in the area then you can be damn sure they won’t be put off by these conditions. That’s why it’s essential we get to McGuire first.”
“You think they’re already in Switzerland, don’t you?” Eastman said to Graham.
“I think there’s a good possibility of it, yes,” Graham replied, slipping a pair of goggles over his eyes.
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“So do I,” Graham said.
“The skis and ski boots are outside,” Bastian announced once they had finished dressing.
“Then let’s go,” Sabrina said and followed Bastian to the door.
One of Bastian’s men was on hand when the cable car docked at the first of the funicular’s four landing stages. He opened the door and they gratefully piled out onto the concrete platform.
“Now I understand why the Pope kisses the ground when he gets off an airplane,” Marsh said, shaking his head slowly to himself.
Sabrina smiled. “It was a bit rough out there, I agree.”
“Now there’s an understatement for you,” Marsh replied. “We took a right buffeting out there. It’s a miracle the cable car wasn’t blown away.”
“Just be glad we don’t have to go any further,” Eastman told him.
“I am, guy.”
Bastian had a brief word with his colleague before turning back to the others. “You are ready?”
“We’re ready,” Graham told him.
“Good. There is a rope outside that will lead us down the mountain to where my men are waiting for us. You understand?”
“Yeah,” Graham told him. “How far are your men from here?”
Bastian consulted again with his colleague before answering. “About three hundred meters.”
“And the chalet?” Eastman asked.
“It is also there. But my men cannot be seen. They are hidden in the trees.” Bastian tapped the harness attached to his white overall. “You fasten this to the rope. Then you will not get lost.”
“After you,” Eastman said.
Bastian led the way down the steps to the door at the foot of the platform. They snapped on their skis then Bastian braced himself and pulled open the door. The wind burst through the doorway like an unwelcome intruder and whistled eerily around the interior of the station. Bastian stepped out into the snow, guided only by the light above the doorway. He pulled a flashlight from one of his pockets and switched it on. The rope had been looped through a pole beside the door and secured firmly by a figure-of-eight knot. He attached his harness to the rope then looked around at Graham and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Graham stepped out into the night. After each of them had secured themselves to the rope, Bastian switched off the torch. He couldn’t risk it being seen from the chalet. They would have to move in complete darkness. Slowly, and arduously, they made their way down the slope to where Bastian’s men were staked out below. In one gloved hand they held their ski poles, using the other to grip the rope tightly. They repeatedly stumbled into each other in the darkness, their heads bowed against the driving snow that lashed against them. At one point Marsh lost his balance, but was saved by the harness which ensured he didn’t stumble away from the rope. But, like the others, he was comforted in the knowledge that they were being led by a competent guide. Bastian obviously knew his way around the slopes, even in these treacherous conditions.
It seemed to take forever for them finally to reach the edge of the small grove of trees though, in reality, less than ten minutes had passed. Bastian tugged twice on the rope, the prearranged signal for them to stop. He stood for a moment, listening, as a message was relayed to him via the small transmitter which was tucked firmly into his ear under the thick padded hood. Satisfied, he tugged three times on the rope. The signal to continue. Seconds later the group noticed through the falling snow the flickering light marking a snow cave. The entrance had been purposely built facing away from the clearing which housed the chalet, allowing one of the men to guide them in with a powerful flashlight. Once they had all scrambled inside the cave a block of snow, which acted as a door, was replaced to keep out the snow. Bastian pulled back his hood then sat down and spoke to the two men at some length.
Sabrina listened in on the conversation, mentally recording anything that needed to be passed on to the others, so that when Bastian turned to brief them she was able to tell him that she could give them the gist of what had been said. Bastian gave her a grateful smile then reached for the thermos flask and poured himself a coffee.
“The spotlight’s been mounted on the edge of the clearing,” Sabrina explained. “So once we’re in position at the chalet, they’ll switch it on, hoping McGuire will panic and try to escape. We’ll then be on hand to grab him the moment he opens the door.”