Terminal

Eleven

Bruno Kobler came into Geneva from Berne by express train. He paused in the booking hall, an impressive-looking man who wore an expensive dark business suit and a camel-hair overcoat. Hatless, his brown hair was streaked with grey. Clean-shaven, he had a strong nose, cold blue eyes which Lee Foley would have recognized immediately. A killer.

His right hand gripped a brief-case and he waited patiently for the two men who had travelled separately on the train from Berne. Hugo Munz, a lean man of thirty-two wearing jeans and a windcheater, approached him first.

`Hugo,' said Kobler, 'you take Cointrin. Go there at once and watch out for Newman. You've studied the newspaper photo so you will spot him easily. I doubt if he's flying anywhere but if he is, follow. Report back to Thun.' He looked directly at Munz. 'Don't lose him. Please.'

He watched Hugo walking briskly towards where the cabs parked. A moment later the second man, Emil Graf, wandered casually up to him. Graf was a very different type from Munz. Thirty-eight years old, small and stockily-built, he wore a sheepskin. A slouch hat covered most of his blond hair. Thin-lipped, he spoke on equal terms to Kobler.

`We've arrived. What do I do?'

`You wait here,' Kobler told him pleasantly. 'You also watch out for Newman. If he leaves Geneva, my guess is he'll go by train. In case I miss him, hang on to his tail. When you have news, report back to Thun.'

He watched Graf wander back inside the station, his right hand holding the carry-all bag which contained a Swiss Army repeater rifle. Kobler had made his dispositions carefully. Graf was more reliable, less impetuous than Munz. Typically, Kobler had saved for himself the most tricky assignment. He walked out of the station, got inside the back of a cab and spoke in his brisk, confident voice to the driver.

`Hotel des Bergues…'

Inside the cab as it proceeded on the short journey to the hotel Kobler dismissed both men from his mind. A first-rate business executive he was now concentrating on what lay ahead. Kobler had come a long way. The only man his chief trusted implicitly, millions of francs passed through Kobler's hands in the course of a year.

A commanding personality, a man attractive to women of all ages who sensed his dynamic energy, he could walk into the Clinic, the laboratory and the chemical works on the shores of Lake Zurich and issue any instruction. He would be obeyed as though the order had been transmitted by his chief. He was paid four hundred thousand Swiss francs a year.

Unmarried, he dedicated his life to his work. He had a string of girl friends in different cities – chosen for two qualities. Their ability to feed him confidential information about the companies they worked for – and their skill in bed. Life was good. He wouldn't have exchanged his position for that of any other man he had ever met.

He had served his obligatory military service with the Army. He was an expert marksman and was classified to act as a sniper when they came from the north-east. Not if. When the Red Army moved. Still, very soon they would be ready for them – really ready. He jerked his mind into total awareness of his immediate surroundings as the cab pulled up outside the Hotel des Bergues.

`I don't know any Manfred Seidler – just assuming that's your real name,' Newman snapped back on the phone. He was sliding automatically into his role of foreign correspondent. Always put an unknown quantity on the defensive.

`Seidler is my real name,' the voice continued in German, `and if you want to know about a very special consignment brought over an eastern border for KB then we should arrange a meeting. The information will cost a lot of money…'

`I don't deal in riddles, Seidler. Be more specific.. `I'm talking about Terminal…'

The word hung in the air. Alone in the bedroom, Newman was aware of a feeling of constriction in his stomach. This had to be handled carefully.

`How much is a lot?' he asked in a bored tone.

`Ten thousand francs…'

`You're joking, of course. I don't pay out sums like that…'

`People are dying, Newman,' Seidler continued more vehemently, 'dying in Switzerland. Men – and women. Don't you care any more? This thing is horrific.'

`Where are you speaking from?' Newman enquired after a pause.

`We're not playing it that way, Newman..

`Well, tell me, are you inside Switzerland. I'm not crossing any frontiers. And I'm short of time.'

`Inside Switzerland. The price is negotiable. It's urgent that we meet quickly. I decide the place…'

Newman had made up his mind, thinking swiftly while he asked questions. He was now convinced that Seidler, for some reason, was desperately anxious to meet him. He broke a golden rule – never give advance notice of future movements.

`Seidler, I'm just about to leave for Berne. I'll be staying at the Bellevue Palace. Phone me there and we'll talk some more.'

`To give you time to check me out? Come off it…'

`I'm impressed with what you've said.' Newman's voice was tight and he let the irritation show. 'The Bellevue Palace or nothing. Unless you will give me a phone number?'

`The Bellevue Palace then…'

Seidler broke the connection and Newman slowly replaced the receiver. His caller had managed to disturb him on two counts. The 'eastern border' reference. Which eastern border? Newman didn't think he'd been talking about the Swiss frontier. That conferred on Terminal potential international dangers.

And then there had been the mention of 'KB', which Newman had deliberately not queried over the phone. KB. Klinik Bern? The talk about people dying he had dismissed as window-dressing to arouse his curiosity. Strangely enough, as he walked round the bedroom, smoking a cigarette, the words began to bother him more and more.

When the conversation opened, Newman had put Seidler in the category of a peddler of information – reporters were always being approached by these types – but later he had detected fear in Seidler's attitude, stark fear. There had been a hint of a terrible urgency – a man on the run.

`What have I walked into?' he wondered aloud.

`Tell me. Do…'

He swung round and Nancy was leaning with her back against the door she had opened and closed with extraordinary lack of noise. She moved like a cat – he'd found that out on more than one occasion.

`Seidler phoned while you were out,' he said.

`And he's worried you. What is going on, Bob?'

`He was trying to sell me a pup. Happens all the time.' He spoke in a light-hearted, dismissive tone. 'I'm glad you're back – we're catching the eleven fifty-six train to Berne. An express – non-stop…'

`I must dash out again.' She checked her watch. 'I saw some perfume. I'm packed. I have time. Be back in ten minutes…'

`You'll have to move. You're like a bloody grasshopper. In and out. Nancy, I don't want to miss that train…'

`So you can use the time settling up the bill. See you…'

`M. Kobler,' the concierge greeted the man who had just walked into the Hotel des Bergues. 'Good to see you again, sir.'

`You haven't seen me. Robert Newman is staying here.' `He's upstairs in his room. You wish me to call him?' `Not at the moment…'

Kobler glanced quickly inside the Pavillon before walking into the restaurant. He chose a table which gave him a good view through the glass-panelled door of the reception hall, ordered a pot of coffee, paid for it, and settled down to wait.

The cab he had travelled in from the station was parked outside. He had paid the driver a generous tip with instructions to wait for him. A titian-haired beauty wearing a short fur over her jeans tucked inside knee-length boots walked in and he stared at her.

Their eyes met and a flicker of interest showed in hers as she passed his table and chose a seat facing the reception hall. It was nice, Kobler reflected, to know that you hadn't lost your touch. She had, of course, in that long glance assessed his income group. Not a pro. Just a woman.

Half an hour later he saw a porter carrying luggage out of the reception hall, followed by an attractive woman, followed by Newman. He stood up, put on his coat and walked out of the revolving doors in time to see Newman's back disappearing inside the rear of a cab. He glanced along the pavement to his left and stiffened. Kobler missed one development as he climbed inside his own cab and told the driver to follow the cab ahead.

The titian-haired girl he had admired came out of the door leading direct on to the street. Running round the corner, she climbed on to the scooter she had left parked there, kicked the starter and followed Kobler's taxi.

Cornavin Gare, Geneva's main station, was quiet on a Tuesday in mid-February near lunchtime. Kobler paid off his cab and followed Newman and the expensively-dressed woman with him into the concourse. Standing to one side, he watched Emil Graf go into action, joining the ticket queue behind Newman. Only two people were ahead of the Englishman, so Emil, after purchasing his own tickets, soon came over to Kobler.

`He bought a one-way ticket to Berne, two tickets actually. I've bought tickets for both of us – in case you wish…'

`I do wish. Tickets to where?'

`Zurich. The eleven fifty-six goes through, of course.'

Kobler congratulated himself on his choice of Graf for the station. He took the ticket Graf handed him and put it inside his crocodile wallet.

`Why to Zurich, Emil – when Newman booked seats for Berne?'

`These foreign correspondents are tricky. His real destination could be Zurich..

`Excellent, Emil. You see that little man with the absurd Tyrolean hat, the one buying his own ticket? That's Nagy. He is scum. The police once threw him out of Berne. He followed Newman in a cab from the hotel.' Kobler checked his watch. `Your next job is Julius Nagy. Hang on to his tail. Wait your opportunity. Get him in the train lavatory – or some alley when he gets off. Find out who he is working for. Break a few arms, legs, if necessary. Scare the hell out of him Then put him on our payroll. Tell him to continue following Newman, to report all his movements and contacts to you.'

`It's done.'

Kobler picked up his brief-case and watched Graf trotting away with his holdall. The contents might come in useful to persuade Nagy where survival lay. Kobler checked the departure board and headed for the platform where the Zurich Express was due to leave in five minutes.

In the far corner of the station Lee Foley watched all these developments with interest from behind the newspaper he held in front of his face. He had left the Hotel des Bergues only five minutes ahead of Newman and Nancy, anticipating this would give him a ringside seat. After buying a one-way first-class ticket to Berne he had taken up his discreet viewing point where he could watch all the ticket windows. As Kobler disappeared he folded the paper, tucked it inside the pocket of his coat, picked up his bag and made his own way towards the same platform.

The passenger everyone – including Foley – missed noticing was a titian-haired girl. A porter carried her scooter inside the luggage van. She boarded the next coach and the express bound for Berne and Zurich glided out of the station.