Terminal

Twenty

For the rest of the day Newman encouraged Nancy to explore Berne with him. Anything to get her outside the hotel. He had not forgotten her remark, You make me feel like a prisoner. He expected to be away for a long time in the evening, interviewing Dr Novak in Thun. He wanted to be sure she did stay inside the Bellevue Palace.

Their exploration was also therapy for himself. He needed to clear his mind of two tense interviews which had already taken place. The trip to the morgue with Arthur Beck, followed by their conversation in his office. And his encounter – it had seemed like that – with Rene Lachenal kept running through his mind. Why was the normally cool Lachenal worried? Something, Newman was convinced, was preying on the Intelligence man's mind.

It was bitterly cold as they wandered along the arcades, stopping while Nancy gazed in shop windows. He took her the full length of the main street, the cobbled Marktgasse with an ancient tower at either end, continued along the Kramgasse and the Gerechtigkeitsgasse.

They were walking down the centre of the peninsula towards its tip at the Nydegg bridge where the Aare swings in a huge hairpin bend and sweeps on parallel with its earlier course on the other side of the city. Gradually the streets began descending until the arcaded walks were elevated above the street below. Slim, pointy-nosed green trams rumbled past but otherwise there was little traffic.

They reached the approach to the Nydeggbrucke and Newman peered over a wall down at a huddle of weird old houses that fronted on a street at a lower level. Nancy stared down with him.

`They must have been here for centuries…'

`It's the Matte district. No wars, you see. So the past is preserved. Let's hope to God it continues that way – it would be a crime for this lovely old city to be touched…'

He vetoed her suggestion that they should visit Jesse. She didn't argue the point when he explained.

`It could scare off Novak from coming to meet me this evening. I sensed he was nervous enough about the whole idea as it is…'

`I wonder why?'

`I think he's a frightened man. Frightened but at the same time desperate to talk to someone he can trust.'

`There seem to be a lot of frightened men. Manfred Seidler is another. What do I do if he calls while you're out?'

`Tell him I'm sticking to the arrangement we made. If he'll call me tomorrow, I'll meet him tomorrow..

They had lunch at the Restaurant Zum Ausseren Stand inside the heated Zeughauspassage off the Marktgasse. First, they walked through the snack place which was full of people eating and watching the Winter Olympics at Sarajevo on a colour television set.

The restaurant was comfortably furnished with heavily- upholstered green arm chairs, the walls covered with posters of Yugoslavia. Again, Sarajevo. They had an excellent soup, a plate of superbly-cooked chicken and finished the meal with ice cream which Nancy pronounced 'Gorgeous. And even the coffee is first-rate.'

`It has to be good, if an American approves…'

He watched her glowing eyes and didn't want the evening to come. For almost the first time since they had landed in Geneva there was a carefree atmosphere. Cynically, he hoped it wasn't the prelude to something quite different.

Newman timed it so they arrived back at the Bellevue Palace at 6.15 pm. Dusk had crept in over the city. The lights had come on-in the streets and on the bridges. He wanted her to be alone for the shortest possible period. Following her into the entrance hall where people were circulating back and forth, he paused.

`I'm off to Thun,' he told her. 'I suggest a leisurely dinner, a good bottle of wine. Expect me when you see me – I've no idea how long this will take. The longer I'm away the more information I'll be getting…'

He stopped speaking, staring over her shoulder. Lee Foley had just stepped out of the lift. The American appeared not to have seen him, turning right and disappearing down the staircase in the direction of the bar. Nancy also had turned to see what he was looking at.

`Is something wrong, Bob?'

`No. I was just making up my mind about something. You'd better know now I'm meeting Novak at a hotel called the Freienhof in Thun…' He spelt it out for her. 'The phone number will be in the directory. Just in case you have to reach me urgently. I'm off now…'

`Take care…'

The tall thin man hurried across the Kochergasse to one of the phone booths near the Hertz car hire offices. He had been waiting inside the cafe opposite the Bellevue for ages, pretending to read the Berner Zeitung, ordering three separate pots of coffee and making each last while he watched both the main entrance and the way in to the coffee shop. He dialled a number and spoke rapidly when he heard the voice at the other end.

`Newman has just got back. He's gone inside the hotel with a woman. About two minutes ago. Hold on. I think he's come out again. By himself? Yes. He's walking towards me. Now he's crossed the street. He's heading for a silver Citroen parked by a meter. He's opening the door. I can't do a thing about it. He's driving off any second…'

`I can,' the voice replied. 'We have cars waiting for just such a development. I must go. And thank you…'

Driving down the N6 motorway to Thun, Newman felt tired. It had been a full day and it was only just starting. A lot of enjoyable walking round Berne, but still tiring.

He switched off the heater, lowered his window. Icy night air flooded in. He welcomed it. He had to be alert when he met Novak. The four-lane highway – two lanes in either direction separated by a central island – swept towards him in the beams of his headlights. He immediately began to feel better, sharper.

The red Porsche appeared from a slip road, headlights dipped as it followed him at a proper distance. He idly noticed it in his wing mirror. No attempt to overtake. Newman was driving close to the limit. The Porsche was behaving itself.

Bridge spans flashed past overhead. Occasional twin eyes of other headlights came towards him in the lanes heading back towards Berne. He checked his watch. As planned, he should arrive at the Freienhof before 7 pm. Ahead of Waldo Novak. He drove on. He would know about the Porsche when he reached Thun. If it was still with him…'

Behind the wheel of the Porsche, Lee Foley had two problems to concentrate on. The Citroen ahead. The black Audi behind his car. He had first noticed the Audi as two specks of light a long way back. It attracted his attention because the two specks swiftly became large headlamps. It was coming up like a bat out of hell.

Then it lost a lot of speed, began to cruise, keeping an interval of about a hundred yards between itself and his tail-lights. Foley swivelled his eyes alternately between the Citroen and the Audi in his rear-view mirror.

Why break all records – and the speed limit – and then go quiet? He came to a point where the normally level motorway reached- a gentle ascent at the very point where it curved. A car heading for Berne beyond the central island came over the brow of the rise. Headlights full on.

Foley blinked, looked quickly again in the rear-view mirror as the other vehicle's undipped lamps hit the Audi like a searchlight. Two men in the front. He thought there were two more in the back. Full house.

Turning off the motorway, Foley came into Thun behind the Citroen along the Bernstrasse, then turned down the Grabenstrasse as Newman continued along the Hauptgasse. He pulled in to a parking slot almost at once, switched off his motor and watched his rear-view mirror.

The Audi paused at the corner turn, as though its driver was unsure of his bearings. Two men got out of the rear of the car which then drove on quickly along the Hauptgasse, the route the Citroen had taken. Foley still waited, hands on the wheel.

One of the men – something about his manner, a man in his forties with a moustache, suggested he was in charge – let an object slip from his right hand. His reflexes were very good. He caught the object in mid-air before it hit the cobbles. An object which looked exactly like a walkie-talkie.

Foley smiled to himself as he climbed out of his car and locked it. He thought he knew their profession.

Unlike Berne, the town of Thun is as Germanic as it sounds. The river Aare, flowing in from Thunersee – Lake Thun, too far from the town to be seen – bisects it. The river also isolates the central section on an island linked to both banks by a series of bridges.

Arriving in Thun, as with Berne, is an excursion back to the Middle Ages. Ancient buildings hover at the water's edge. Old covered bridges, roofed with wood, span stretches of the Aare which, leaving Thun behind, flows on to distant Berne.

Driving along the Hauptgasse, Newman saw the red Porsche as it turned down the Grabenstrasse and decided his suspicions were groundless. He drove on, turned right on to the island over the Sinnebrucke and parked the Citroen in the Balliz. He then walked back through the quiet of the dark streets to the Freienhof Hotel which overlooks a stretch of the Aare. The first surprise was Waldo Novak had got there before him.

Taking off his coat and hanging it on a hook in the lobby, he studied the American who sat at a corner table in the public restaurant. Two empty glasses on the table told Newman that Novak had arrived early to tank up, to brace himself to face the Englishman, which suited Newman very nicely.

`Another Canadian Club,' Novak ordered from the waiter and then saw Newman.

`I'll have the same…'

`Don't forget – doubles,' Novak called out to the waiter's back. 'Okay, Newman, so you made it. Where do we go from here?'

`Why did you take that job at the Berne Clinic?' Newman enquired casually.

He sat waiting while Novak downed half his fresh glass and sipped at his own. The American wore a loud check sports jacket and grey flannel slacks. His face was flushed and he fiddled with the glass he had banged down on the table.

`For money. Why does anyone take any job?' he demanded.

`Sometimes because they're… dedicated is the word I'm seeking, I think.'

`Well, you found it – the word! Found anything else recently I should know about?'

`A couple of bodies.'

Novak stiffened. The high colour left his young-looking face. He gripped his glass so tightly, the knuckles whitened, that Newman thought he was going to crush it. Although the tables close to them were unoccupied he stared round the restaurant like a hunted man.

`What bodies?' he said eventually.

`First a little man called Julius Nagy. There's an ironclad link between him and Dr Kobler. Someone shoved Nagy off the Munster Plattform in Berne the other night. It's a drop of at least a hundred feet, probably more. He ended up on top of a car. Mashed potato.'

`You trying to frighten me?'

`Just keeping you informed of developments. Don't you want to know about the second body?'

`Go ahead, Newman. You're not scaring me…'

`An Englishman called Bernard Mason. He had been investigating Swiss clinics – which I'm sure we'll find was a cover for checking on the Berne Clinic. He ended up in the river – his body pounded to pulp by a sluice. It doesn't seem to be too healthy an occupation – taking an interest in the Berne Clinic. Waiter, another two doubles. We like reserves…'

`I don't think I want to talk to you, Newman.'

`You have someone else you can trust? What makes it worth your while to work for Professor Armand Grange?' `Two hundred thousand bucks a year..

He said it with an air of drunken bravado, to show Newman he counted for something, that even at his comparatively early age he was a winner. Newman discounted the enormous salary – Novak had to be exaggerating. Wildly. He paid the waiter for the fresh round of drinks and Novak grabbed for his glass, almost spilling it in the process.

`What kind of a boss is Grange to work for?' Newman enquired.

`I've come to a decision, Newman.' He made it sound like Napoleon about to issue orders for the battle of Austerlitz. `I'm not talking to you any more. So why don't you just piss off?'

That was the moment Newman knew he had lost him. It was also the moment Lee Foley chose to walk in and sit down in the chair facing Novak.

`I'm Lee Foley. You are Dr Waldo Novak of New York. You are at present assigned to the Berne Clinic. Correct?'

Bare-headed, Foley wore slacks and a windcheater. His blue eyes stared fixedly at the doctor. He had not even glanced in Newman's direction. There was something about Foley's manner which caused Novak to make a tremendous effort to sober up.

`So what if I am?' he asked with an attempt at truculence.

`We are worried about you, Novak.' Foley spoke in a calm, flat tone but his voice still had a gravelly timbre. 'The fact is, we are growing more worried about you day by day,' he added.

`Who the hell is "we"? Who the hell are you?'

`CIA…'

Foley flipped open a folder and pushed it across the table. Novak put down his glass without drinking. He picked up the folder and stared at it, looked at Foley, then back at the folder. Foley reached across and wrenched it out of his hand, slipped it back inside his breast pocket and the blue eyes held Novak's as he went on talking quietly.

`I'll tell you-what you're going to do. You're going to give Newman answers to any and all questions he may ask. Do I make myself clear?'

`And if I don't?'

`Nothing to drink, thank you,' Foley said, refusing Newman's offer, his eyes still holding Novak's. 'If you don't. I think you should know we are already considering withdrawing your passport. And I understand the Justice Department has gone further. Discussions are under way on the possibility of revoking your American citizenship…'

Foley still spoke in a cool, offhand manner. He glanced at Newman and said yes, he would have a drink, just some Perrier water. His throat was rather dry. It must be the low temperatures. He checked his watch.

`I'm short of time, Novak. And don't approach the American Embassy in Berne. That will only make matters worse for you. This comes direct from Washington. Make up your mind. Are you – or are you not – going to cooperate with Newman?'

`I'd like a little time to consider…'

`No time! Now! Yes. Or no.'

Foley drank his Perrier and stared away from Novak, gazing out of the window. Beyond a narrow road was an arm of the river. Beyond that old buildings whose lights reflected in the dark water. He finished his Perrier, checked his watch again and looked direct at Novak.

`And you haven't met me. I don't exist. That is, if you value your health. Now, which is it to be?'

`I'll cooperate. This will be kept confidential, I hope?'

Foley stood up without replying, a very big man, nodded to Newman and walked out into the night. Novak gestured to the waiter who brought two more glasses. Newman waited until he had downed more Canadian Club and left his own glass on the table.

`What do you want to know?' Novak asked in a tone of resignation.

`What is the nationality of the patients in the Berne Clinic? Mixed?'

`It's odd. No Swiss. They're all American – with a few from South America when they can afford it. Grange charges enormous fees. Most of them come to him as a result of his lecture tours in the States. He's into cellular rejuvenation in a big way. So, it's a two-way pull.'

`What does that mean?'

`Look, Newman…' Novak, ashen-faced from his encounter with Foley, turned to look at the Englishman. `… this isn't an ideal world we live in. There are a lot of American families reeking with money, often new money. Oil tycoons in Texas, men who have made millions in Silicon Valley out of the electronics boom. Others, too. Grange has a sharp eye for a set-up where the money is controlled by some elderly man or woman whose nearest and dearest are panting to take that control away. They send the head of the family to the Berne Clinic for this so-called cellular rejuvenation. That gets them out of the way. They apply for a court order to administer the estate. You get the picture?'

`Go on…'

Novak's voice changed and he mimicked a man making out a case to a judge. 'Your Honour, the business is in danger of going bankrupt unless we have the power to keep things running. The owner is in a Swiss Clinic. I don't like to use the word "senile" but…' He swallowed more of his drink. 'Now do you get the picture? Grange offers the patient, who is seriously ill, the hope of a new lease of life. He offers the dependants the chance to get their hands on a fortune. At a price. It's a brilliant formula based on a need. Professor Grange is a brilliant man. Has a hypnotic effect on people, especially women.'

`In what way – hypnotic?'

`He makes the relatives feel what they want to feel – that they're doing the right thing in exiling to Switzerland the manor woman who stands in their way. Loving care and the best attention.' Novak's voice changed. 'When all the bastards want to do is to get their hands on the money. Grange has worked out a perfect formula based on human nature.'

`There's nothing specifically criminal so far,' Newman commented.

`Criminal?'

Novak spilt some of his drink on the table. The watchful waiter, ready for a fresh order, appeared with a cloth and wiped the table. Novak, shaken, waited until they were alone.

`Who said anything about criminal activities?'

`Why is the Swiss Army guarding the Clinic?' Newman threw at him.

`That's a peculiar business I don't want to know about, I do my job and don't ask questions. This is Switzerland. The whole place is an armed camp. Did you know there is a military training base at Lerchenfeld? That's at the other side of the town. In Thun-Sud…'

`But you have seen men in Swiss Army uniform inside the Berne Clinic?' Newman persisted. 'Don't forget what Foley said.'

`I've been here a year. In all that time I've only seen men in some kind of uniform. Once inside the main gatehouse, once patrolling the grounds near the laboratory…'

`Ah, the laboratory. What goes on inside that place?'

`I have no idea. I've never been allowed there. But I have heard that's where the experiments with cellular rejuvenation are carried out. I gather the Swiss are very advanced with the technique of halting the onset of age.' Novak warmed to his theme, relaxing for the first time. 'The technique goes back before the war. In nineteen-thirty-eight Somerset Maugham, the writer, first underwent treatment. He was attended by the famous Dr Niehans who injected him with cells scraped from the foetus of unborn lambs. Timing was all-important. No more than an hour had to elapse between the slaughter of the pregnant ewe and the injection of the cells into the human patient. Niehans first ground up the cells obtained from the foetus and made them soluble in a saline solution. The solution was then injected into the patient's buttocks…'

`It all sounds a bit macabre,' Newman remarked. `Somerset Maugham lived to be ninety-one…'

`And Grange has a similar successful track record?'

`That is Grange's secret. His technique, apparently, is a great advance on Niehans'. I do know he keeps a variety of animals in that laboratory – but what I don't know. There's also another clinic which goes in for the same sort of treatment near Montreux. They call it Cellvital'

Newman quietly refilled his glass with Perrier from the bottle Foley had left. He found the information Novak had just given him interesting. It could explain Jesse Kennedy's reference to 'experiments' – an activity no more sinister than the fact that it was not yet accepted by the medical profession everywhere.

`You've told me the nationality of the patients,' he said after a short pause. 'You're American. What about the other doctors?'

`They're Swiss. Grange asked me to come during one of his American tours…'

`And you came for a very normal reason – the money?' `Like I told you, two hundred thousand dollars a year. I make a fortune – at my age..

So, Novak hadn't been clutching a figure out of the air to impress him, Newman reflected. He felt he still wasn't asking the right questions. He flicked Novak on the raw to get a reaction, posing the query casually.

`What do you do for that? Sign a few dummy death certificates?'

`You go to hell!'

I get the impression there may be some kind of hell up at that Clinic – and that you suspect more than you're telling. You live on the premises?'

`Yes.' Novak had gone sullen. 'That was part of my contract.'

`And the Swiss doctors?'

`They go -home. Look, Newman, I work very long hours for my money. I'm on call most of the year..

`Calm down. Have another drink. What about the staff – the guards, cleaners, receptionists. Where do they come from?'

`That's a bit odd,' Novak admitted. 'Grange won't employ anyone local – who lives in Thun. They also live on the premises. Most of them are from other parts of Switzerland. All except Willy Schaub. He goes to his home in Matte – that's a district of Berne near the Nydeggbrucke. Goes home every night.'

`What job has he got?' Newman asked, taking out his notebook.

`Head porter. He's been there forever, I gather. The odd job man. Turns his hand to anything. Very reliable…'

'I'll take his address…'

Novak hesitated until Newman simply said, 'Foley,' then he changed his mind. 'I do happen to know where he lives. Once I needed some drugs urgently and since I wa-sin Berne I picked them up from his house. Funny old shanty. Gberngasse 498. It's practically under the bridge. There's a covered staircase runs down from the end of the bridge into the Gerberngasse. He probably knows as much about the Clinic as anyone – except for Grange and Kobler…'

`Thank you, Novak, you've been very accommodating. One more thing before I go. I'll need to see you again. Will you be attending the medical reception at the Bellevue Palace?'

`The Professor has asked me to be there. Most unusual… `Why unusual?'

`It will be the first public function I've been to since I came out here.'

`So you'll be able to slip away for a short time. Then we can talk in my bedroom. I may have thought of some other questions. Why are you looking so dubious? Does Grange keep you on a collar and chain?'

`Of course not. I don't think we ought to be seen together much longer…'

`You could have been followed?' Newman asked quickly.

He looked round the restaurant which was filling up. They appeared, from snatches of conversation, to be farmers and local businessmen. The farmers were complaining about the bad weather, as though this was unique in history.

`No,' Novak replied. 'I took precautions. Drove around a bit before I parked my car. Then 1 walked the rest of the way here. Is that all?'

`That laboratory you've never been inside. It has a covered passage leading to it from the Clinic. You must have heard some gossip about the place.'

`Only about the atombunker. You probably know that the Swiss now have a regulation that any new building erected, including private houses, has to incorporate an atombunker. Well, the one under the laboratory is enormous, I gather. A huge door made of solid steel and six inches thick – the way it was described to me made it sound like the entrance to a bank vault in Zurich. It has to accommodate all the patients and the staff in case of emergency..

So that could explain something else innocently which Newman -had thought sinister – the covered passage to the laboratory also led to the atombunker. Despite all his questions, there was still nothing positively wrong on the surface about the Berne Clinic. It was an afterthought: he asked the question as he was slipping on his coat.

`You thought then that you might have been followed?'

`Not really. Kobler said he had been going to suggest I took the evening off. He urged me to spend the night out if I felt like it…' Novak paused and Newman waited, guessing that the American had made a mental connection. 'Funny thing,' Novak said slowly, tut the last time he did that was the night when Hannah Stuart died…'