Terminal. Part 10

'Understood...' Nagy replied hoa.r.s.ely, feeling his damaged throat when Graf removed the hand and the rifle, still aiming the muzz1e point-blank. 'I'll do what you say...'

'You might be tempted to change your mind - when you think things over,' Graf went on in the same casual tone which Nagy found so disturbing. Christ! The swine had almost murdered him. 'Don't,' Graf warned. 'One of my a.s.sociates will always be close to you. You won't see him. He'll simply be there. He's impetuous. Very rough. Any hint you're going independent and he'll chop you. You do understand, Nagy, I hope?'

'I understand ...'

It was the contemptuous affront to his dignity dignity which roused Nagy. He had been savagely a.s.saulted in a lavatory. Graf, who would never have understood his victim's reaction, had added one further insult to intimidate the little man. Prior to leaving him in the lavatory he had stuffed a tablet of toilet soap inside Nagy's mouth. which roused Nagy. He had been savagely a.s.saulted in a lavatory. Graf, who would never have understood his victim's reaction, had added one further insult to intimidate the little man. Prior to leaving him in the lavatory he had stuffed a tablet of toilet soap inside Nagy's mouth.

Seated inside the second-cla.s.s coach as the express left Lausanne and swung north away from the lake towards Fribourg, Nagy could still taste the soap. He was going to pay back these new employers, whoever they might be. Obstinately, he was determined about that.

The snow lay deeper on the fields - the express was climbing as it sped north. Newman was still silent, deep in thought as the train stopped at Fribourg and then proceeded on the last lap to Berne. When he stood up to lift their bags down from the rack as they pulled into Berne station Kobler had already left the coach and was waiting by the exit door. He was almost the first pa.s.senger to step down off the express.

One coach behind, Julius Nagy hurried off the train, his hat crumpled inside his coat, the coat folded over his arm. He was no longer immediately recognizable. His eyes gleamed with deep resentment as he followed Emil Graf along the platform. In his right hand he held the small Voigtlander camera he always carried.

Ahead of Graf walked Kobler, very erect and brisk, briefcase in right hand. He ran down the steps with Graf trotting behind. Outside the station where a 450 SEL Mercedes was waiting for him with a chauffeur he paused, turning up his collar against the cold. Graf caught up with him and looked around as though searching for a taxi.

'He's tamed,' he reported to Kobler. 'He's ours... 'You're sure?'

'Certain. Scared s.h.i.+tless...'

Only one person noticed the brief exchange. Nagy raised his small camera and clicked it once as Kobler turned his head to catch what Graf said. Kobler walked to the Mercedes where the chauffeur held the rear door open. Nagy's camera clicked again. He then used the piece of paper Graf had stuffed in his pocket to write down the registration number. He had faded back inside the station when Graf turned round and the Mercedes was driven off.

The two plain clothes men watching the platform exit for the Zurich express missed spotting Lee Foley. The American walked past them wearing a very British-looking check overcoat he had bought in London. His distinctive white hair was concealed beneath a peaked golfing cap pulled well down. The horn-rimmed gla.s.ses he wore (with plain gla.s.s lenses) gave him a professorial appearance.

Foley walked out of the station among a crowd of pa.s.sengers who had come off the same train. Ignoring the taxi rank, his case in his left hand, he continued walking down the narrow Neuenga.s.se. Pausing to glance into a shop window in an arcade, he used the plate gla.s.s as a mirror to check the street.

Satisfied that no one was following, he resumed the short walk to the Savoy Hotel and turned inside the entrance quickly. The lobby and a sitting area were all of apiece. The girl at the reception counter looked up and Foley was already filling in the obligatory registration form in triplicate - one copy for the police who would collect it later.

'You have a room. I reserved it by phone from Geneva.' 'Room 230. It's a double...'

The girl looked round for a companion. Foley showed his pa.s.sport and then pocketed it. He picked up his bag.

'I'll get a porter...'

'Don't bother. That's the elevator?' He went up inside the cage, found his room, dumped his bag on the bed and sat by the phone, waiting for the call.

Arthur Beck sat behind his desk eating the last of the English-style ham sandwiches his secretary had prepared for him. As far as Beck was concerned, the Earl of Sandwich was one of the great historical figures Britain had produced. He had acquired this liking during a stint spent with Scotland Yard in London. He was drinking coffee when the phone rang. His caller spoke in German.

'Leupin here, sir. Reporting from the station. Newman came in on the thirteen fifty-eight express from Geneva. He was accompanied by a woman American I would guess from her clothes. Marbot tailed them to the Bellevue Palace where they booked in ten minutes ago.'

'What about Lee Foley?'

'No sign of anyone answering his description. We both watched the pa.s.sengers arriving off the train..

'Thank you, Leupin. Continue watching all trains from Geneva.'

'Marbot is on his way back here...'

Beck put down the receiver and ate the last sandwich while he thought. He had been right about one thing - that Newman would turn up in Berne. What bothered him was the earlier call from Chief Inspector Tripet. Newman, apparently, had shown no reaction to the casual reference to Terminal Terminal. Was it possible that the Englishman was working on an entirely different story?

Of one thing Beck was convinced - knowing Newman the way he did. The foreign correspondent wasn't visiting Berne just for a holiday. Newman was a workaholic: he never stopped looking for a fresh story.

But what really worried Beck was the non-appearance of Foley. Or should he say disappearance disappearance? If Lee Foley had slipped past the net Beck had a dangerous wolf stalking the streets of his city. He decided to call New York.

Lee Foley picked up the receiver on the second ring. Holding the phone to his ear he waited. The voice which spoke at the other end sounded impatient.

'Is that Mr Lee Foley?'

'Speaking. I'm in position. Listen, the first move is yours. You need to visit the place in question. Find out what the situation is. Could you please report back to me as soon as you can? No, please listen. Check out the security at the place in question. Any small item may be vital. When I'm armed with facts I can go into action. If it comes to it, I'll raise h.e.l.l. I do have a talent for that, as you well know ...'

Foley broke the connection and wandered over to the window of his bedroom which looked down a small alley. That was the place an experienced watcher would choose to observe the Savoy. The alley was empty.

Newman put down the phone as Nancy came into the small hallway, shut the door and entered the bedroom. She had a pensive look.

'Bob, who were you calling?'

'Your beloved Room Service for a large bottle of mineral water. You know my thirst, especially at night. They must be busy - I'll call again in a minute. Incidentally, you never showed me that Gucci perfume you rushed out to buy just before we left the Hotel des Bergues.'

'Voila!' She produced the bottle from her handbag. 'You should have noticed I was wearing it on the express. Isn't this a lovely room?'

They had been allocated Room 428. A bathroom led off the entrance hall. There was a separate toilet. But the room itself was the cherry on the cake. Very large with a couple of comfortable armchairs, a desk in front of the s.p.a.cious windows where Newman could work. Two generous single beds had been placed alongside each other to form a double. Nancy bounced her backside on one of the beds.

'Bob, this is marvellous. We could live here for weeks...' 'Maybe we will. Come and look at the view. The porter made a big fuss about it and rightly so.'

They stood with his arm wrapped round her and she made cooing noises of sheer delight. Newman opened the first set of windows and then the outer ones a foot beyond. Chill air floated into the room which had the temperature of a sauna bath.

'That hill beyond the river with the snow is the Bantiger,' he explained. 'If this overcast clears over there to the left you'll get the most fantastic panorama of the Bernese Oberland range. Now,' he became businesslike, 'this afternoon I'm hiring a car from Hertz next door. We're driving to the Berne Clinic at Thun...'

'Just like that?' Her professional instincts surfaced. 'We should phone for an appointment to see Jesse...'

'We do nothing of the sort. We arrive unannounced. You're not only a relative, you're a doctor. With me accompanying you we can bulldoze our way in, maybe catch them on the hop..

'You really think that's a good idea?'

'It's what we're going to do. After a quick lunch...'

'Bob, they have three three separate restaurants. One gorgeous room overlooking the terrace down there. The Grill Room. And the coffee shop...' separate restaurants. One gorgeous room overlooking the terrace down there. The Grill Room. And the coffee shop...'

'The coffee shop. It will be quick. We have to move before our arrival is reported. Don't forget that b.l.o.o.d.y newspaper article.'

'Let me just fix myself.' She left him and sat down in front of the dressing table. 'Did you notice that Englishman who was registering while you waited? I was sitting on a sofa and I saw him look back and stare at you.'

'He'd probably seen my picture in that paper...'

Newman spoke in an off-hand manner, dismissing the incident from her mind. But he knew the guest she was talking about. He even knew the man's name, but he had detected no significance in the guest until Nancy's remark.

He had waited patiently while the other Englishman filled in the registration form, ignoring the receptionist's attempt to do the job for him. A slim, erect man with a trim moustache, he wore a short camel-hair coat and would be in his early thirties.

'The porter will take your bag to your room, Mr Mason,' the receptionist had informed him, returning his pa.s.sport.

'Thank you,' Mason had replied, accepting the small hotel booklet with his pa.s.sport and turning away to where the porter waited.

Now he remembered Mason had glanced over his shoulder at Newman before leaving the counter. A swift, appraising glance. He frowned to himself and Nancy watched him as she combed her hair.

'That man at the reception desk. You know him?'

'Never seen him before in my life. Are you ready? It will have to he a very quick meal. I have to hire the car and it's a half hour's drive to Thun along the motorway.'

'How did you locate it so quickly?'

'By asking the concierge when you wandered off into that huge reception hall. They have a fas.h.i.+on show this afternoon...'

'And a medical congress reception in a few days' time.. 'So what?' he asked, catching a certain inflection in her tone.

'Nothing,' she answered. 'Let's go eat ...'

Mason sat on the bed in his room, dialling the number which would put him straight through to Tweed's extension. He never ceased to be impressed with how swiftly the continental phone system worked - providing you were in Sweden, Germany or Switzerland.

'Yes,' said Tweed's voice. 'Who is it?'

'Mason. How is the weather there? We have eight degrees here...'

'Nine in London...' That established not only their ident.i.ties, but also told Mason that Tweed was alone in his office - that Howard wasn't leaning over his shoulder, listening in.

'I've just booked in at the Bellevue Palace,' Mason said crisply. 'I stopped over in Zurich to gather a little information. Grange.' He said the name quickly.

'Do use the Queen's English,' Tweed complained. 'You stayed on stayed on in Zurich. Continue...' in Zurich. Continue...'

'I've built up a dossier on the subject in question. Not easy. Swiss doctors close down like a shutter falling when you mention his name. I found an American doctor working in Zurich who opened up. G.o.d, the subject carries some clout. He's a real power in the land. Right at the top of the tree. You'd like a quick run-down?'

'Not over the phone,' Tweed said quickly, aware the call had to be pa.s.sing through the hotel switchboard. 'I'm coming out there soon myself. Keep making discreet enquiries. Don't go near the British Emba.s.sy...'

'One more thing,' Mason added. 'Don't imagine it means anything. Robert Newman, the foreign correspondent, booked in here after me. He had his wife with him. I didn't know he was married...'

'He probably isn't. You know the bohemian life those correspondents lead...' Tweed sounded dreamy. 'Keep digging. And stay in Berne...'

Tweed put down the phone and looked at Monica who was sorting files. 'That was Mason calling from the Bellevue Palace. He has data on Professor Armand Grange of the Berne Clinic. Anything on the computer? Just supposing the d.a.m.ned thing is working...'

'It is working. I did check. Not a thing. I tried Medical and came up with zero. So then I tried Industrialists - because of his chemical works. Zero again. I even tried Bankers. Zero. The man is a shadow. I even wondered whether he really exists.'

'Well, at least that has decided me.' Tweed was polis.h.i.+ng his gla.s.ses again on the worn silk handkerchief. Monica watched him. He was always fingering the lenses. 'I'm going to Berne,' Tweed told her. 'It's just a question of timing. Book me on Swissair flights for Zurich non-stop. As I miss one flight, book me on the next one. When I do leave it will be at a moment's notice.'

'What are you waiting for?' Monica asked.

'A development. A blunder on the part of the opposition. It has to come. No one is foolproof. Not even a shadow ...'

Thirteen.

The coffee shop at the Bellevue Palace is a large gla.s.s box-like restaurant perched above the pavement on the side overlooking the Hertz car hire office. Newman gobbled down his steak as Nancy ate her grilled sole. Swallowing his coffee in two gulps, Newman wiped his mouth with a napkin and signed the bill.

'You're going to hire the car now?' Nancy asked. 'I'll dash up to the room and get my gloves. Meet you over there?' 'Do that.'

Newman waited at the exit until she had disappeared and then retraced his steps to one of the phone booths near the garderobe garderobe, the cloakroom where guests left their coats. It took him one minute to make the call and then he ran back to the exit, along the pavement and into the Hertz office. Slamming down his driving licence and pa.s.sport he told the girl what he wanted.

'They have a Citroen. Automatic,' he told Nancy when she came inside. 'This chap is going to take us to the car. It's on Level Three...'

In less than five minutes he was driving the car round the sharp curves up to street level. Nancy put on her wool-lined leather gloves, fastened her seat belt and relaxed. An expert driver, she still preferred to travel as a pa.s.senger.

The sky was a heavy pall hovering close to the city as they crossed one of the bridges and within a short time Newman was on the four-lane motorway which runs all the way to Lucerne via Thun. Inside forty minutes they should have arrived at the Berne Clinic.

Lee Foley paid a very generous sum in Swiss francs to borrow the red Porsche from his Berne contact. He needed a fast car although normally its conspicuousness would have worried him. But this was an emergency.

He drove just inside the speed limit through the suburbs of Berne, but as soon as he turned on to the motorway he pushed his foot down. The highway was quiet, very little other traffic in mid-afternoon. His cold blue eyes flickered from side to side as he increased speed.

'Watch it on that motorway,' his contact had informed him as he handed over the Porsche which he had brought to the Savoy. 'It's a favourite place for the police to set up speed-traps...'

Foley had driven away from the Savoy so fixed on getting to his destination in time that he for once omitted to check that no one was following him. So he completely missed noticing the helmeted figure who jumped on a scooter parked further along the pavement. The scooter was still with him, little more than a dot behind the Porsche, when he spotted the Citroen ahead.

He kept up his speed, pulling closer to the Citroen until he had a good view of the two occupants. Newman behind the wheel, his woman seated alongside him. Foley breathed a sigh of relief and reduced speed, widening the distance between the two vehicles. Behind him the scooter rider-going flat-out - also slowed down.

Foley drove under a large destination indicator board, one of several at regular intervals. The board carried the legend THUN - NORD.

Inside the Citroen the warmth from the heater had dispelled the bitter cold and Nancy removed her gloves. Her right hand played with the fingers of one glove in her lap. The motorway was in superb condition, its surface clear of snow. But as they left Berne behind, pa.s.sed the turn-off to Belp, the snow in the fields on both sides lay deeper. Here and there an occasional naked tree stretched gnarled branches towards the dark grey pall overhead. The atmosphere was sullen, unwelcoming. Newman glanced at her restless hand.

'Nervous? Now we're so close?'

'Yes, I am, Bob. I keep thinking about Jesse. And I'm not at all sure they're going to let us in, just dropping on them like this...'

'Leave me to do the talking when we arrive. You're a close relative. I'm a foreign correspondent. A lethal combination for a clinic which wants to preserve its reputation. There's no publicity like bad publicity...'

'What are you going to do?' She sounded worried.

'I'm going to get inside that clinic. Now, have one of your rare cigarettes, stop fiddling with that glove, here's the pack.'

They pa.s.sed under a fresh sign which indicated two different destinations. THUN - SUD, THUN - NORD. Newman signalled to the huge trailer truck coming up behind him and swung up the turn-off to Thun-Nord. Nancy lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Now they were crossing the motorway which was below them and from this extra elevation she had a view of grim, saw-toothed mountains to the south, mountains only dimly seen in a veil of mist so for a moment she wasn't sure whether she was watching a mirage.

'Those must be pretty high,' she observed.

'They rise to the far side of Thun, to the south and the east. One of them is the Stockhorn. Probably that big brute towering above the rest...'

They were climbing a gradual but continually-ascending slope up a hillside between more fields. An isolated farm here and there, a glimpse of neatly-stacked and huge bales of hay inside barns with steep roofs. The lowering sky created an ominous sense of desolation. Over to the east a great castle perched on a hilltop with turrets capped with what looked like witches' hats.

'That's the famous Thun Schloss,' Newman remarked. 'The town is below it, out of sight...'