Terminal

Thirty

Saturday, 18 February. Newman himself used Room Service to order breakfast the complete works. He did this from sympathy with Nancy's ordeal the previous day; also because he wanted to talk in privacy. And this was Confrontation Day.

Nancy climbed out of bed and pulled back the curtains. She stared at the view, slipping on her dressing-gown. Standing there, she crossed her arms, deep in thought as he came up behind her and grasped her round the waist.

`Look at it, Bob. Not a good omen?'

The mist had returned, a sea of dirty cotton wool, blotting out the Bantiger and rolling slowly along the straight stretch of the Aare to envelop the city. Soon it would be drifting into the arcades, creating an eerie silence.

`Come and have breakfast, an American breakfast,' Newman said, pulling her away from the window. 'Bacon, eggs, croissants, rolls – the lot. How did you sleep?' he asked as they faced each other across the table.

`I didn't – but I'm ravenous…'

`You ate nothing last night. What especially kept you awake?'

`Your conversation with Seidler inside that house. You translated some of it – but considerately not all. What you didn't realize was I know German rather well. It was my second language at high school. Then, a few weeks before I left St Thomas's – when we first met at Bewick's – I'd come back from Germany where I spent time with a German medical family. Do you really think they're using patients at the Clinic to test those gas masks, Bob?'

`I'm convinced we still don't know the whole story. I'm not sure Grange's ultimate purpose ends with the testing of those Soviet masks.' He continued quickly. 'Let's not talk about it until I've seen Grange, had a chance to weigh him up. Maybe we ought to take Jesse out of that place today. We could drive there immediately after breakfast if you agree…'

I don't think it will do any good. Jesse will refuse – and without his consent we've no authority to force the issue. I want to talk to Grange myself first. And I'm sure Grange will play it cool until the reception is over…'

`It's your decision. I'm not too happy about it,' Newman said and drank more coffee. 'You seem very confident about this reception. You wouldn't know something you haven't told me?'

`And what might that be, I'd like to know? You always want to do things your way,' she bridled.

`You're tired. Forget it!'

Tweed was on the warpath. After an early breakfast in the dining-room – he couldn't be fussed with Room Service – he left the hotel without delay to keep his appointment with Arthur Beck. He walked into the main entrance of the Taubenhalde, placed his passport on the receptionist's counter. At that moment Beck emerged from the lift.

`Let's go straight up,' he invited Tweed. 'Don't fill in a form…'

Anyone who knew Tweed well would have recognized the danger signs. There was an intent expression in the eyes behind his spectacles. He crossed the hall to the lift with a brisk stride and the look on his face was forbidding as he stared at Beck.

They travelled up to the tenth floor in silence, Beck unlocked the door with his key. In the hall beyond he took out a card and inserted it in the time clock before opening the door to his office. Tweed took off his coat and sat facing Beck across his desk.

`Welcome to Berne once more,' Beck began.

`I hope you will still think me welcome when we have ended this conversation,' Tweed warned. 'I have come here because we are very worried about the Berne Clinic – and the experiments which are being carried out there, possibly under military supervision…'

`I don't like your tone,' Beck replied stiffly.

I don't like the reason for my visit…'

`You are talking nonsense. Where have you picked up this nonsense about a Swiss clinic?'

`From various sources.' Tweed dropped his bomb. 'We know about Manfred Seidler. We have in London one of the gas masks he has supplied to the Berne Clinic. Our Ministry of Defence experts have examined it and confirmed it is the sophisticated type now issued to the Soviet chemical battalions…'

Beck stood up, his expression frozen. He stood behind the desk, his hands thrust inside his jacket pockets, studying his visitor who gazed back at him.

`Just supposing I found there was even one iota of truth in this extraordinary story, how would it concern you?'

`It concerns the President of the United States, the Prime Minister of Britain – both of whom are fighting to conclude a new treaty with Moscow, a treaty effectively banning the use of chemical warfare in Europe. You read the papers, don't you? Can you imagine the propaganda advantage Moscow would have if they could point to one single country in Western Europe – a country outside NATO at that – which was equipping its forces with chemical warfare units? It would give them just the excuse they need to continue building up their own resources in this diabolical field. That, Beck, is why I am here. That is why it concerns London. That is why I take such an interest in the Berne Clinic.'

`Quite a speech,' Beck commented. He sat down again. 'I take your point. May we speak in confidence? Good. Manfred Seidler was murdered last night in the Juras…'

`My God! He was a vital witness…'

`Agreed. It doesn't make my job any easier, Tweed. Can I ask you how you know so much?'

`An associate of Seidler's sold one of the gas masks from the latest consignment to someone at the British Embassy. Our agent followed Seidler to the airport outside Vienna -and saw him board a Swiss jet. I alerted our people here to watch your airports. We had a piece of luck at Belp. My man saw the consignment from Vienna being taken away in a van – that van carried the legend Klinik Bern on the outside. The van proceeded in the direction of the Clinic after leaving the airport at Belp.

`You have been very busy in our country.' Beck smiled, a smile of resignation. 'Under other circumstances I might be angry.' He pressed the switch on his intercom. 'Gisela, coffee for two, please. Black without sugar for my guest… just a moment.' He looked at his visitor. 'A little cognac in your coffee?'

`Not at this hour, thank you.'

`That is all, Gisela.' He switched off. 'Anything else you know, my friend?'

`We know,' Tweed continued in the same flat tone, 'you are under great pressure to drop your investigation – pressure from the Gold Club. I come here to help you resist the pressure at all costs. You are at full liberty to disclose what I have said – what I am going to say. As a last resort – I emphasize that – we might feel compelled to leak the news of what we believe is going on at the Berne Clinic…'

`To some foreign correspondent like Robert Newman?' Tweed looked surprised. 'He is investigating the same subject?'

`I don't know,' Beck admitted. 'He is here with his fiancee, an American. Her grandfather is a patient in the Clinic.'

`May I suggest how we should proceed?' Tweed requested with a hint of urgency.

`I am open to any suggestion. You seem to have established a network inside Switzerland. You may know more than me.'

`We put the Berne Clinic under total surveillance – round the clock. Specifically, smuggle a film unit into the area, choosing a strategic position where you can survey and photograph not only the Clinic but also the laboratory and their very extensive grounds. There is a dense forest behind the Clinic on high ground…'

`You have been out there?'

`I have studied a map.'

`I know the forest you mean and it would be the best point of vantage. The film unit will be inside a plain van with porthole windows which open – but I cannot send it to take up position until well after dark, late tonight. Otherwise it would be spotted…'

`By Military Intelligence?' Tweed interjected.

`You have been busy…'

Beck paused at a knock on the door, called out to Gisela to come in and played with a pencil while she served coffee. When she had gone Tweed leant forward to emphasize his words.

`Please use one of your sophisticated, infra-red cine cameras. The danger – the evidence to be obtained- probably is during the night. Hannah Stuart died after dark. So did Mrs Holly Laird…'

`I have kept all reference to Mrs Laird out of the papers,' Beck said sharply.

`Certain individuals inside Military Intelligence are as uneasy about this business as we are,' Tweed observed and sat back to drink his coffee.

`Who are you going to see?' Nancy asked as Newman put down the phone inside their bedroom. 'You didn't mention a name.'

`I'm stirring the pot to boiling point before that reception tonight – hoping to break someone's nerve. Then they may make a mistake. I'm on my way now to start the process. You wait here till I get back..

Two minutes later he walked out of the main entrance of the Bellevue. There was the smell of fog in the heavy air. The clammy damp of mist caressed his cheeks. He went straight inside the Bundeshaus Ost and was taken to Captain Lachenal's second-floor office. When the attendant closed the door and Lachenal, dark circles under his eyes, rose from behind his desk, Newman unbuttoned his coat but made no attempt to take it off.

`Manfred Seidler is dead,' was his opening shot.

`My God! I didn't know, I swear to you…'

`He was murdered up in the Juras. You were looking for him. I was there when a marksman blew off half his head-and so was Colonel Signer. Do you take orders from Signer?'

`Have you gone crazy? Of course not…'

`Maybe indirectly – through a complex chain of command whose ultimate origin even you don't know…'

`That's impossible. Bob, you don't know what you're saying…'

`That rifle with a sniper scope that was stolen from the Thun district was probably the murder weapon. Who are the marksmen in Thun? There can't be too many of them- and you hold a record of such things. Care to let me look at that record? Or are you going to try and cover up? We are talking about cold-blooded murder, Lachenal.'

`Two such rifles have been stolen – both from the Thun district,' Lachenal said quietly. 'We tried to keep the second theft quiet. It reflects on the Swiss Army…'

`So you will have consulted that record of marksmen very recently – probably still have it in this office,' Newman pounded on. 'May I see it? I might believe in you if you show it to me.'

`You are telling me the truth about Seidler?'

`You really didn't know? There's the phone. Call Beck and ask him…'

`There is a temporary hitch in liaison.'

Which, Newman thought, was a neat way of saying they were no longer speaking to each other. Lachenal looked worried sick, close to the end of his tether. Without another word he went over to a steel filing cabinet, produced a ring of keys, unlocked the cabinet, took out a red file and brought it back to his desk.

`This is classified information…'

`Since when did brutal assassination become classified?'

Lachenal rifled through the typed sheets inside the file. He stopped at a page near the end and Newman guessed it was arranged alphabetically by district. 'T' for `Thun'.

The Intelligence chief gestured for Newman to join him on his side of the desk. He used the flat of both hands to prevent Newman flipping over to another page. There were five marksmen in Thun, a high proportion, Newman guessed. Alongside one was an asterisk. He pointed to this name. Bruno Kobler.

`What's the asterisk for? Or is that top secret?'

`Expert with both rifle and handgun. A crack shot…'

`Get the link?' Newman queried. `Kobler, deputy to Professor Grange. And Grange's closest financial supporter is Victor Signer – present at the execution of Manfred Seidler…'

`Execution?' Lachenal was shocked.

`By a one-man firing squad, a marksman. And Signer may have given the order. Think about it, check it, Lachenal. And I'm leaving now…'

`There are questions I would like to ask…'

Newman shook his head. He buttoned up his coat. He had turned the handle of the door when he fired his closing shot over his shoulder.

`And at long last. I know what Terminal means – yesterday in conversation with someone they told me by chance.'