“I want to know who you’re working for!”
“Not … me.” Locke gasped. His eyes searched frantically for the cork to offer as proof. “The cork, the wai—”
Peale hit him again, under the chin this time, and Chris slipped toward oblivion.
“We’ll take him down to the office. We’ll get the information out of him there no matter what it takes,” Peale ranted as two men hoisted Locke up again.
He tried to stand on his feet but balance eluded him. “It wasn’t me,” he muttered, fighting for words and wondering if any of them could hear him. “Find the waiter. It was the waiter….”
“What is he saying?” Peale asked.
“Can’t make it out,” the man on Locke’s right replied.
“We’ll have plenty of time to hear him once we get him out of here,” said Peale. “An eternity. You two take him to the office. The rest of us will take care of the boss.” The final words were spoken with true regret, spoken bitterly by a man not used to failure.
Someone was going to pay for this, Chris knew, and it was probably going to be him. Peale was the kind of man who took things personally.
Locke found his feet finally but didn’t show it, just let himself be dragged along, hoping he might surprise the men holding him when he chose his moment of escape. Pressed close against them, he could feel their pistols beneath their jackets, reminding him that breaking free of his captors was not enough; he also had to disable them.
The two men continued to drag him along when they reached the main floor of the restaurant, oblivious to the stares of the Hauser’s few customers. Chris met the eyes of the thick-haired man seated at the bar again and could have sworn there was more in them than just surprise and shock. Then he was outside, yanked down the path back toward the tram. He had to act fast. Once on the way down the mountain in the enclosed compartment, his slim advantage would be gone.
Think!
No, he reminded himself, thinking slows you down. The training, remember the training….
React! Respond! Seize the moment and make it work for you!
They reached the wooden loading platform and started to move for the next available car. A single man was at the controls.
Then Locke was in motion. He wasn’t sure what triggered the action, probably the sight of the tram car swaying toward him. He shoved the man on his right forward into its path so that the steel frame struck him square in the back of the head and drove him into the wall. In the same instant Chris pushed hard against the man on his left, jamming his hand against the holster beneath his jacket to make drawing the gun impossible.
The man shook off his shock and went for a countermove. Locke felt a fist blast his stomach. Then the man went for his pistol, tying up both his hands and giving Chris time to recoup. He grabbed for the man’s face and shoved him viciously backward until his head smashed against the platform’s frame. The man tried futilely to pull away, but Locke slammed him backward again and blood smudged up on the dark wood. Chris slammed him one last time and let his body slide to the floor. Then he leaned over and yanked the man’s pistol from its holster. Holding it tight, he swung quickly around.
The other man was still slumped against the far wall, his head partially supported and eyes closed. The tram controller had grabbed a red telephone and was pushing a series of buttons. Locke rushed across the floor and tore it from his hands, holding the revolver up to his head.
“Is this the only way you can communicate with the base of the mountain?”
The man, face smeared with grease, hesitated, then nodded.
“Is there any way you can stop the mechanism from up here?”
The man nodded. “Emergency switch. O-o-over there,” he said, pointing to a steel fuse box on the wall over the first of the downed men.
Locke ripped the receiver right out of the phone box. Then he hurried to the emergency switch and found three wires running to it. Two yanks and they had come free. His eyes darted back to the path leading from the restaurant. Peale and the others could appear at any time. He had to get out of there.
After stealing one last glance at the engineer, Locke pulled himself into the next tram car as it swung by, then settled himself in and closed the door behind him. As the car began to descend the mountain, Chris watched out the rear window. The engineer rushed up the path toward the restaurant. Peale and his men had not yet appeared on the platform, which passed out of sight as the car dipped sharply and continued its descent.
Locke started to breathe easier, trying to collect his thoughts. He had escaped, but was no less vulnerable, for all of Felderberg’s allies would be after him. His meeting with the financier had been fruitful, yet would he live to share his information with Burgess or anyone else?
Someone in Austria was behind everything and somehow they were connected with the Sanii Corporation in Schaan. Then there was the Dwarf, an information broker in Florence — the man who might be able to add the final pieces to this puzzle. Chris would have to find him somehow, but first there was Schaan to investigate as soon as he was off this mountain and out of Vaduz.
He was halfway down the mountain. Squinting his eyes, he thought he could make out figures on the platform above moving about, perhaps climbing into another car. No matter. At least fifteen yards separated one car from the next and Locke had a headstart of fifteen cars, maybe twenty. And with no way to stop the tram from there or call down to the mountain’s base, he should be home free. He fingered the pistol wedged in his belt, happy he wouldn’t have to use it.
He would call the contact number in Falmouth and, in order not to stay in one place for any extended period, he would tell the girl to have Burgess standing by for a second call in thirty minutes. That would be the professional way to handle matters. The burly Englishman would approve.
The tram car squeaked past a connecting station and ground to a halt.
Locke felt a flash of fear. He could only hope this was some standard procedure, and that it would be only a brief pause.
But the tram did not start up again. All the cars remained at a dead stop swaying in the wind. Locke glanced back up the mountain.
Three figures were descending on foot, following the grass directly beneath the tram line. Obviously there had been another mechanism to stop the trams from the platform above or a means to contact workmen at the base platform. Chris was trapped! A sitting duck waiting for three armed men to come and finish him. He gazed beneath him; a fifty-foot drop at the very least. It was hopeless.
Then it came into his mind — his means of escape. It was a drill he had practiced dozens of times on a wire suspended between trees or over water at the Academy. He didn’t have the proper equipment, but he had a … belt. Yes, that was it!
Chris unfastened his leather belt and yanked it from the loops. He stuck it between his teeth. Wasting no time, he opened the door to the stalled car and pushed himself forward, swinging the car toward the connecting station pole. Once, twice, three times … Finally he grabbed hold of the wood and pulled himself onto the pole from the car. His feet dangled in midair, then came to rest on a pair of spikes driven into the pole. He looked behind him.
The men had drawn to within a hundred yards. One stopped to raise and aim his gun. Chris wasn’t sure which came next, the sharp crack or the explosion of wood chips not a foot from his head. There was no more time to waste.
He pulled the belt from his mouth and strung it across the heavy cable just above him, grabbing each end with a tight hand around the leather. He bent his knees to provide a cannonball effect, then pushed off.