Terminal

Twenty-Eight

`I brought half-a-dozen consignments of these gas masks over the border… smuggled them across the Austrian frontier from the Soviet depot inside Czechoslovakia.. I speak Czech fluently which helped…'

The words tumbled out of Seidler – like a man who has carried too much locked away in his mind for too long. After the macabre demonstration he had removed the mask and Nancy was now making coffee. She had broken the seal on one of the jars of instant coffee, found a saucepan inside a cupboard and had boiled a pan of water on the electric cooker. Pouring the water into each of three chunky mugs containing some of the coffee, she stirred and then handed them round.

`We need some internal central heating in this ice-box,' she observed. 'And I do wish that bloody chopper would go away…'

Newman heard a car approaching along the icy lakeside road from the direction of Le Pont. The shuttered windows made it impossible to see outside. He ran to the front door and heaved it open – just in time to see the tail-lights of the car vanishing towards Le Brassus. A red car. It was moving like a bat out of hell despite the icy surface. He closed the door again.

`Who employed you for this job, Seidler?'

`You'll write a big story – get it in the international press, expose them… otherwise I'm finished…' 'I'm giving you the scoop of a lifetime…'

Seidler was badly rattled, self-control gone, almost on the verge of hysteria as he rambled on in German. He wore an expensive camel-hair coat, a silk scarf, hand-made shoes. Newman drank some of the scalding coffee before he replied.

`Answer my question – I'll decide how to handle it later. Keep to the point. I think we have very little time left,' he warned in English for Nancy's benefit.

`That car which shot past worries you?' she asked.

'Everything worries me. That car, yes. Plus the Audi, the Saab and the Volvo which kept passing us on our way up here. And that military chopper up there. Add the carnage back at the station and we all have a great deal to worry about. So, Seidler, who employed you? One question at a time…'

`The Berne Clinic. Professor Grange – although mostly I dealt with that brute, Kobler. Grange used me because of my connections inside Czechoslovakia…'

'And how did you obtain these consignments? You can't just walk in and out of a Soviet military depot.'

For the first time a bleak smile appeared on Seidler's cadaverous face. He sat down gingerly on the arm of a large chair as though it might blow up under him. He gulped down some of his coffee, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

'You've heard of the honey-traps the Russian secret police use? They get a girl to compromise someone, take photos…'

I know all about honey-traps. I told you to keep to the point! Any moment now this house may become one of the most dangerous places in Switzerland…'

'This honey-trap worked in reverse. By pure chance. The brilliant Czech they use to operate the computer for stock control at the depot met an Austrian girl on holiday while he was in Prague. He's crazy over her. She's waiting for him in Munich – waiting for him to get out. For that you need money, a lot of it. I provided that money. He provided the gas masks and fiddled the computer…'

'Why does Grange want this supply of Soviet gas masks?'

'To defend Switzerland, of course – and to make another fortune. Seventy per cent of the Swiss population have atom- bunkers they can go to in case of nuclear war. Imagine how many gas masks it would take to equip the same number of people to protect them against Soviet chemical warfare.'

But why have them delivered to the Berne Clinic? The place isn't a factory. I still don't get it…'

'He tests the gas masks there…'

'He does what!'

'Bob,' Nancy interrupted, 'do we have to talk to him here? There's something about this place I don't like…'

The wind had started to rise in the Juras. The timbers of the ancient house began to creak and groan. The place seemed to tremble like a ship in a choppy sea. Newman guessed it was the low temperature – the wood was contracting. During their brief drive from Le Pont he had noticed in the glare of the headlights places on the verge of the road where the snow had melted. The sun must have shone down on the Vallee de Joux; hence the criss-cross of ski-tracks on the slopes. It was the extreme change in temperature which was affecting the old building – plus the onset of the wind.

`We have to talk here,' he said rapidly in English, hoping Seidler would miss his meaning. 'I told you, I think we have very little time. God knows what's waiting for us outside when we do leave…'

`Thank you. You are so reassuring…'

Newman's callousness was deliberate. He was preparing Nancy psychologically for the dash to the French frontier. He continued questioning Seidler.

`How does Grange test the gas masks?'

`He started using animals. I once saw an obscene sight – a chimpanzee escaped. It was wearing a gas mask, clawing at it to try and get it off its head…'

`And then?'

`He decided he had to progress to testing the masks on human beings. He uses the patients – they're terminal, anyway. I arrived late in the Lear jet from Vienna a few weeks ago with the previous consignment. A cock-up at Schwechat Airport outside Vienna. The driver of the van waiting for me at Belp was ill – food-poisoning, he said. I had to take over the wheel and drive to the Clinic well after dark. I saw a woman – one of the patients she must have been – running in the grounds wearing a gas mask and a bathrobe. She was trying to tear off the mask while she ran. They were firing canisters from something at her – the canisters burst in front of her…'

`So where do they get the gas from?' Newman demanded.

`How the hell do I know? I certainly never brought any gas out of Czechoslovakia. Luckily they didn't see the van – so I turned it round and arrived at the Clinic later. The Swiss Army is guarding that place…'

`How do you know that?'

`I've caught glimpses of men in Swiss uniform – inside that gatehouse and patrolling the grounds at a distance. We're in real trouble, Newman, the worst kind…'

`What goes on inside that laboratory – and inside the atombunker?'

`No idea. I've never been there…'

`I'm still not convinced. Give me your full name…' `Gustav Manfred Seidler…'

`And you brought these gas masks on the orders of Dr Bruno Kobler of the Berne Clinic?'

`I told you that. Yes. He takes his orders from Grange…' `Seidler, why did you do this?'

Tor money, a lot of money. One other thing, I have a girl-friend in…'

`That's enough!' Newman rapped out.

He walked over to a large arm-chair which stood with its tall back to Seidler who suddenly frowned and crossed the room to stare at the miniature tape-recorder Newman had placed there and turned on during Seidler's brief absence when they first arrived. The German grabbed for it but Newman grasped his arm and shoved him away. Seidler's expression was livid.

`You bastard!' Seidler exploded.

`Part of any self-respecting newspaper man's equipment,' Newman lied as he pressed a button and ran the tape to the end. 'Some take notes, but I thought that might inhibit you…'

`So that was what you bought today in that shop in the Marktgasse,' Nancy commented as she peered over the back of the armchair.

`I want you to find somewhere to hide this, Nancy…'

Newman had extracted the small tape and he handed her the machine. He next took the gas mask Seidler had left on a table and placed it on the working top in the kitchen under the glare of the spotlights which illuminated the galley. Standing back a few feet, he took from his pocket Nagy's small Voigtlander Vitoret 110 camera and attached one of the flash-bulbs he had purchased from the same shop. He took four pictures of the mask with flashes and then excused himself, asking Seidler to guide him to the lavatory.

`Through that door where I went when we arrived,' Seidler told him sullenly. 'You'll find it on your right when you get inside…'

Hidden in the lavatory, Newman pulled up his trouser legs and concealed the miniature tape inside the thick sock on his left foot. The film from the camera he shoved down inside his other sock. When he came out Seidler was putting the gas mask into one of the suitcases and-snapping the catches shut.

I'll keep this if you don't mind…'

`It's your property. Why the sudden desire for cleanliness, Nancy? We've got to get out of here fast before something unfortunate happens.'

She was crouched by the huge open fireplace filled with logs, using a dustpan and brush to sweep up the hearth. She stood up, put the pan and brush back inside a cupboard and rubbed her hands clean of dust.

`You wanted the tape-recorder hidden. It's underneath the logs,' she snapped.

`That's a good place. Thanks, Nancy.' Newman turned towards Seidler. 'You were saying something about a girlfriend – I didn't think you'd want her details on record…' am grateful…' Seidler swallowed and showed signs of emotion. If anything happens to me I would like her to know. She had nothing to do with Terminal. Will you take down her address and phone number? Erika Stahel…'

Newman wrote the details in his notebook with a wooden expression as though he had never heard of her. He went on writing and then froze for a second at Seidler's next words.

`She works for Dr Max Nagel, the big Basle banker. Nagel is the only man powerful enough to oppose Grange. He has just left Basle for Berne to attend some medical reception at the Bellevue Palace..

`The reception tomorrow?' Nancy asked sharply.

`I don't know when. Hadn't we better leave this place?'

`Immediately,' responded Newman. 'And prepare yourself for a rough ride. I'm driving like hell along the road to Le Brassus…'

`Why Le Brassus?' Seidler queried, picking up the suitcase containing the gas mask.

`Because we want to avoid Le Pont – after what happened at the station. God knows what could be waiting for us there.'

Nancy had washed up the pan, their mugs and replaced them where she had found them. She was carrying the opened jar of coffee which she said ought to be taken away. No trace of their visit remained when Seidler, still nervy and anxious to leave, opened the front door. There was a score of questions Newman would have liked to ask him but the priority was to move, to get over the border into France. Newman held the front door key Seidler had handed him. The first shot was fired as Newman locked the door while Seidler and Nancy were heading for the Citroen parked under the trees. In the cold silence of the night the report was a loud Crack!

`Run!' Newman yelled. 'Crouch down! Get into the car for Christ's sake!'

The second shot – Newman now realized it was a rifle – was fired in rapid succession. Stumbling down the icy steps, holding the second suitcase Seidler had left behind in his left hand, Newman saw the case Seidler had taken jerk out of his hand. The shot had passed through the case. Seidler picked it up and continued his shambling trot towards the car which Nancy had already reached, unlocked and opened the doors.

A third shot was fired, a fourth – neither came anywhere near them. That was when Newman realized there was a second rifleman – firing at the first. The night reverberated with a fusillade of shots.

The wind blew and there was a strange weather phenomenon Newman had never seen before. A wave of snow dust, as fine as salt particles, cruised a foot high across the lower slopes, swirling round his ankles as he reached the car. Seidler had dived into the rear seat, Nancy was in the front passenger seat. She had inserted one of the keys Newman had given her on their arrival while he studied the old house, in the ignition. He slid in behind the wheel, slammed the door, drove out from under the trees and a rifle shot grazed the bonnet.

`Oh, Jesus!' said Nancy. `What's happening?'

`It's weird – there are two of them. One firing at us, the other firing at the first marksman. Christ, how many people know we're up here?'

The sound of the shots faded as he drove as fast as he dare. In their headlights the road was gleaming like a skating rink. He passed through the main street of L'Abbaye and the village seemed deserted. Now for Le Brassus – and the French border. That was when he heard again the sound of the chopper coming closer.

Le Brassus VD – the road sign said – was a village of ancient villas, stark trees and gardens fronted with beech hedges half-buried under a coating of snow. Again deserted. They had left the lake behind. Newman pulled out of a skid and drove on.

`The second case I threw in the back,' he called out. 'It contains what, Seidler?'

`Old newspapers. Where are you taking me?'

`To safety. The French frontier is just ahead. If I have to, I'll crash the border to get through…'

`We're leaving Switzerland?' Nancy asked.

`You'll be safer in France, so will Seidler. And I may be able to operate more freely outside Switzerland. I plan to phone Beck, tell him we have Seidler's evidence, see if he'll raid the Berne Clinic…'

The sign came up in their headlights. Zoll – Douane. 2 km. They were within a couple of kilometres of escape. Newman pressed his foot down, at times gliding over the ice shining threateningly in the beams. He glanced at Nancy and she nodded her approval of the course he was taking. She had been badly shaken by the violence at Le Pont station, by the shooting outside the old house.

`Oh, God! No!' she exclaimed.

Something else was showing up in the headlights and Newman slowed down. The black Audi had been positioned at right-angles, acting as a road-block. To one side a second car, a Saab, was parked on the verge. Uniformed policemen stood waving torches frantically. Newman stopped the car, sagged behind the wheel. They were trapped.

The first sound he heard as he stepped out on to the slippery road was the roar of the chopper's rotors as it landed, a large, dark silhouette, in a nearby field. He told Nancy and Seidler to stay in the car and went to meet the nearest policeman.

`What the devil do you think you're doing?' he asked in French.

`Instructions, sir. Someone is coming..

The policeman gestured towards the field where the chopper had landed. A compact figure came out of the darkness, hatless and wearing an overcoat. Arthur Beck. Of course. The Federal police chief trod his way carefully across the road and peered inside the Citroen.

`You've no reason to stop us,' Newman snapped.

`You were thinking of leaving the country?' Beck enquired. `What concern is it of yours?'

`Every concern, my friend. You are a material witness in my investigation into the deaths of Julius Nagy and Bernard Mason…'

Another man had emerged from the helicopter and was walking towards Beck. A man of medium height, well-built, who walked with a deliberate tread. As he passed in front of the headlights of the Citroen Newman saw he was dressed in the uniform of a colonel in the Swiss Army. Under his peaked cap, beneath his thick eyebrows, motionless eyes stared at Newman. Clean-shaven, he had a strong nose, a thin-lipped mouth and he carried himself with an air of confidence verging on arrogance. Newman recognized him before Beck made his introduction.

`This is Colonel Victor Signer, president of the Zurcher Kredit Bank. He called on me just before I was leaving – he expressed a wish to accompany me. This is Robert Newman…'

No handshake. Signer half-smiled, not pleasantly, dipped his head in acknowledgement. The blank eyes, still studying Newman, reminded him of films he had seen of sharks, which was fanciful, he told himself. Of one thing he was sure. God had just arrived.

`I hear you have been causing us some trouble, Newman,' Signer remarked.

He spoke through his nose, like a man with adenoids and he looked at the ground as though addressing a subordinate.

`You are speaking personally?' Newman suggested.

`I didn't come here to fence with you…'

`Why did you come here, Signer?'

The eyes snapped up and there was a brief flicker of fury. He would be a bastard to serve under. Autocratic, callous, sarcastic. The original martinet. Newman understood now why Blanche disliked her stepfather so much. The colonel clasped his hands which, despite the cold, were clad in fine suede gloves. A very tough baby, Victor Signer. Beck intervened, as though afraid things were getting out of control.

`Newman, I have to ask you to return with me to Berne – together with your two companions..

Signer walked slowly round the Citroen and peered in at the rear seat. Seidler shrank back from his gaze, clutching his suitcase.

`Not Dr Kennedy,' Newman said firmly. 'You have no grounds for detaining her…'

`She witnessed the death of Mrs Laird. Until that case is resolved I must insist that she remains on Swiss territory.. `You bastard,' Newman whispered.

`And the man in the rear of the car. He wouldn't by chance be Manfred Seidler?' Beck opened the rear door. `Please step out Mr Seidler-we have been searching everywhere for you.'

`Grab his case,' Newman whispered again. 'Don't open it – and don't let Signer get his hands on it..

Seidler emerged shakily from the car, releasing the suitcase Beck reached for without protest. Signer wandered round the Citroen to join them, flexing his gloved hands. Then he stood waiting. He would be about five feet ten tall, Newman guessed, but the controlled force of his personality made him seem taller. This was a man who dealt in millions at his bank.

`I would like to see the contents of that suitcase,' he remarked.

`No! Colonel,' Beck replied. 'I am investigating three potential homicides, two positive ones. Not an hour ago a couple of men arriving at Le Pont station were murdered. This case may well contain evidence. It goes straight to our forensic people unopened. It is not a matter I care to debate…'

`As you wish…'

Signer half-smiled again and walked across to stand in front of the headlight beams of the Saab parked on the verge. He removed his left glove and clenched his hand. Beck, still holding on to the suitcase, gestured for Seidler to follow him. Newman sensed that something was wrong but couldn't immediately put his finger on it. Signer had given up too easily…'

`Seidler! Get away from those headlights!' he shouted.

Following Beck, Seidler was illuminated by the headlamps of the Citroen – illuminated like a target on a firing range at night. There was a loud report and Seidler leapt forward, vaulted clear off the ground and sprawled over the bonnet of the Audi. A second rifle report shattered the night. The sprawled body coughed, a convulsive movement, then flopped back over the bonnet. In the headlights a patch of dampness – blood – began to spread midway down the centre of Seidler's back. The second shot had fractured his spine. He was dead twice over.