Terminal

Twelve

Berne! A city unique not only in Switzerland but also in the whole of Western Europe. Its topography alone is weird. Wrapped inside a serpentine bend of the river Aare, it extends eastward as a long peninsula – its length stretching from the main station and the University to the distant Nydeggbrucke, the bridge where it finally crosses the Aare.

Its width is a quarter of its length. At many points you can walk across the peninsula, leaving the river behind, only to find in less than ten minutes, the far bend of the river barring your way.

Berne is a fortress. Built on a gigantic escarpment, it rears above the surrounding countryside. Below the Terrasse behind the Parliament building, the ground slopes steeply away. Below the Plattform at the side of the Munster the massive wall ramparts drop like a precipice one hundred and fifty feet to the Badgasse. Beyond, the noose of the Aare flows past from distant Lake Thun.

The escarpment is at its peak near Parliament and the station. As the parallel streets wind their way east they descend towards the Nydeggbrucke.

Berne is old, very old. The Munster goes back to 1421. And because it is centuries since it endured the curse of war, it has remained old. It is a city for human moles. The streets are lined with a labyrinth of huddled arcades like burrows. People can walk through these arcades in the worst of weathers, secure from snow and rain.

When night falls-even during heavily overcast days-there is a sinister aspect to the city. Few walk down the stone arcades of the Munstergasse, which continues east as the Junkerngasse until it reaches the Nydeggbrucke. All streets end at the bridge.

Backwards and forwards across its waist, a network of narrow alleys thread their way, alleys where you rarely meet another human being. And when the mist rolls in across the Aare, smoky coils drift down the arcades, increasing the atmosphere of menace.

Yet here in Berne are located – principally in buildings close to the Bellevue Palace – centres of power which do not always see eye to eye with the bankers. Swiss Military Intelligence, the Federal Police of which Arthur Beck is a key figure – are housed either next door to or within minutes' walk of one of the greatest hotels in Europe.

At the station a keen observer sees that Berne is where German Switzerland meets its French counterpart. The station is BahnhofGare. At the foot of the steps leading to pairs of platforms the left-hand platform is Voie, the right-hand Gleis. The express from Geneva arrived on time at precisely 1.58 pm.

During the journey from Geneva Newman, facing Nancy in her own window seat, had not moved. Gazing out of the window while the express sped from Geneva towards Lausanne he watched the fields covered in snow. The sun shone and frequently he had to turn away from the harshness of the sun glare.

`It's not non-stop as I thought,' he told Nancy. 'Lausanne, Fribourg and then Berne…'

`You look very serious, very concentrated. Too many things happened in Geneva?'

`Keep your voice down.' He leaned forward. 'Police headquarters for a start, then our friend on the phone. A lot to open the day…'

He was careful not to tell her he had seen Julius Nagy board the second-class coach immediately behind them. Who was Nagy really working for? The problem bothered him. At least they were heading for Berne. At the first opportunity he would go and talk to Arthur Beck. If anyone could – would – tell him what was going on, that man was Beck.

Several seats behind him Bruno Kobler sat facing Nancy, his brief-case perched on the seat beside him to keep it unoccupied. Kobler had also observed Nagy boarding the express. He hoped that Graf had accomplished his mission of persuading – forcing – the little creep to switch his allegiance.

Kobler was dressed so perfectly as the Swiss businessman that neither Newman nor Nancy had noticed him. But someone else had observed Kobler's interest in them, someone Kobler himself had overlooked.

Lee Foley had taken a seat in the non-smoking section of the coach, a section separated from the smokers by a door with a glass panel in the upper half. Twice, on the way to Lausanne, Foley had stood up and taken time extracting a magazine from the suitcase he had perched on the rack.

Foley was the only man who saw it all. Through the panel he observed Newman's grim expression as he stared out at the countryside. He also caught the fleeting glances of the Swiss business type behind the correspondent – glances always at Newman and the woman seated opposite. He would remember that hard face.

He observed more. At the far end of the smoking section Nagy appeared and looked inside. Only for a moment. A small, stocky man appeared beside him. Foley saw Nagy's startled expression. Both men disappeared inside the lavatory. Foley reacted at once.

Walking into the smoking section, staring straight ahead, he slid aside the end door, waited for it to shut automatically, and listened outside the lavatory. He heard choking noises. He reached out a hand to rattle the handle and then withdrew it. He could not afford to advertise his presence on the express. He went back to his own seat.

Inside the lavatory Graf had one hand round Nagy's throat as he extracted the Army rifle from the holdall with the other hand. Bending the little man back over the wash-basin, he put the rifle muzzle under his chin. Nagy's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets with stark terror.

`Now,' said Graf, 'you can end up being tossed off this train. People do fall off expresses. Or you can tell me – first time please, there will be no second chance – who you are working for. We know you're following Newman…'

`You can't get away with this,' Nagy gasped.

`I said first time…'

Nagy heard a click, guessed it was the safety catch coming off. He nearly filled his pants. The remote, glassy look on his attacker's face was almost more frightening than the rifle.

`Can't speak…' The vicious grip of the hand on his throat relaxed. A little. `Tripet,' he said. 'I am following Newman. For Tripet…'

`Who the hell is Tripet?' Graf asked quietly, his eyes never leaving Nagy's.

`Chief Inspector Tripet. Surete. Geneva. I've worked for him before. I'm his snout…'

Nagy, almost universally despised, a man you used, had guts. He was determined not to give away Pierre Jaccard of the Journal de Geneve. There was more money there. And Jaccard had always kept his word. In Nagy's world trust was credit beyond price.

`So,' Graf told him, 'you forget this Tripet. From now on you work for me. No, shut up and listen. You carry on doing what you're doing – following Newman. You call me at this number…' Graf tucked a folded piece of paper inside Nagy's coat pocket. 'Whoever answers,' give your name immediately, tell them about Newman's movements, who he meets, where he goes. You will be paid…' He tucked several folded banknotes in the same pocket. 'First, wherever Newman gets off, find out where he's staying, get a place to stay yourself. Report to the number at once where you're staying and the phone number…'

`Understood…' Nagy replied hoarsely, 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 associates 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 which roused Nagy. He had been savagely assaulted 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-class 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 passenger 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 shitless…'

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 glasses he wore (with plain glass lenses) gave him a professorial appearance.

Foley walked out of the station among a crowd of passengers who had come off the same train. Ignoring the taxi rank, his case in his left hand, he continued walking down the narrow Neuengasse. Pausing to glance into a shop window in an arcade, he used the plate glass 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 passport 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 passengers 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. 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? 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 hell. 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 spacious 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 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 bloody 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 passport.

`Thank you,' Mason had replied, accepting the small hotel booklet with his passport 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 fashion 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 identities, 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 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. God, 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 passing through the hotel switchboard. 'I'm coming out there soon myself. Keep making discreet enquiries. Don't go near the British Embassy…'

`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 damned 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 polishing his glasses 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…'