Terminal

Thirty-Five

Sunday, 19 February. The call came late in the morning just after Newman and Nancy had got out of bed. They had slept in late and Nancy drew back the curtains as Newman reached for his wristwatch on the bedside table. 11.45 am. He threw back the bed-clothes and hoped no one would make a loud noise.

`Bob! Just come and look at this…'

He blinked at the unusually strong light. The sun was shining brilliantly. Slipping into his dressing-gown, he yawned and joined Nancy at the window. No more mist. No traffic on the Sunday roads. Nancy gripped him by the arm and pointed to the left.

`Isn't it just magnificent? And we might never have seen it if the weather hadn't cleared.'

In the near distance – or so it seemed – they were gazing at the vast panorama of the Bernese Oberland range, a wall of mighty snowbound peaks silhouetted against a background of an azure sky. Newman wrapped an arm round her waist, squeezing her. The long night's sleep, the dream-like view, had relaxed her.

`I think that big job is the Jungfrau,' he commented. 'It's the right shape…'

`Isn't it just wonderful? We can have breakfast up here, can't we?'

`Probably the only way we'll get some at this hour…'

That was when the phone started ringing. Nancy danced to the phone, picked up the receiver and announced herself in a lilting tone.

Newman realized something was very wrong from the change in her expression, in her tone of voice, in the way the conversation turned. She was standing very erect now, her complexion drained of all its natural colour and she began to argue, her voice harsh and aggressive.

`You can't do that! I forbid it! You bastard! I'll call you a bastard any time I want to – because that's what you are… I don't believe any of it… I'm going to raise bloody hell! Don't interrupt… You murdering swine…' Her voice suddenly went strangely quiet. 'You'll pay for this – that I promise you…'

`Get them to hold on,' Newman called out. 'Tell me what it's about. I'll talk to them…'

She had slammed down the receiver. She turned to look at Newman and he stared back at her. Her face had closed up. She began to walk slowly round the room, sucking her thumb, which Newman guessed was reversion to a childhood habit.

`Tell me,' he said quietly.

She went into the bathroom and closed the door. He tore off his night clothes, slipped into vest and pants and pulled on a pair of slacks, his shirt and shoes. At that stage she emerged from the bathroom where he had heard the tap running. She had washed and applied her makeup. She moved like a sleepwalker.

`Do as I tell you,' he snapped. 'Sit down in that chair. Talk.'

`They've killed Jesse…' She spoke in a flat monotone. `That was Kobler. He said Jesse had had a heart attack – that he died almost immediately. They've already cremated him…'

`They can't do that. Who signed the death certificate? Did Kobler say?'

`Yes, he said that Grange signed the certificate. He said they have a sworn document signed by Jesse requesting cremation…'

`They can't get away with that. It's too quick. Christ, this is Sunday…'

`They covered themselves on that one, too. Kobler said Grange found Jesse was infected with cholera. That could justify immediate cremation. I think it could. I'm not familiar with Swiss law…'

She was talking like the playback of a slow-running taperecorder. She sat quite still, her hands slack in her lap as she looked up and Newman was startled by the coldness in her eyes.

`We'll get them to send up some coffee…'

`That would be nice. Just coffee, no food. You order for yourself. You must be hungry…' She waited while he gave Room Service the order and then asked the question. 'Bob – can you tell me something? Is Signer really mixed up in this Terminal thing Dr Nagel mentioned last night?'

`Yes, I'm sure now. I'll show you something while we're waiting for the coffee.' He was glad to get her mind moving on another track – any other track. He produced the report Blanche had brought him. She remarked wasn't that what he had been reading when she'd fallen asleep? He said it was and showed her three pages where he had turned down the corners.

`His signature confirming the transfer of these huge sums of money is clear enough. Victor Signer. He's president of the Zurcher Kredit Bank, the outfit which dominates the Gold Club which backs Grange. After breakfast,' he went on, 'I suggest we go and see Beck if he's in his office – which I'm sure he will be. He's practically sleeping on the job…'

`So,' she said, ignoring his last suggestion, 'Grange and Signer and Kobler are the mainspring behind the Terminal thing?'

`It's beginning to look very much like that. Did you hear what I said about Beck? That we go and see him after we've eaten?'

`I think I'd like that…'

Beck, clean-shaven and spruce, sat behind his desk listening while Nancy repeated the gist of her phone call from Kobler. As she talked he glanced at Newman once or twice, raising an eyebrow to indicate he was disturbed by the calm, detached way she spoke. At the end of her story he used the intercom to call in Gisela and was waiting by the door when she came in.

`Stay with Dr Kennedy until we come back,' he whispered. `On no account leave her alone – not for a moment. I think she is in a state of severe shock.' He raised his voice. 'Bob, could you come with me, please? There's someone you will want to meet.'

When they were outside in the corridor he closed the door and folded his arms. He pursed his lips as though uncertain how to phrase what he was going to say.

`Ever since you arrived I have sensed you found it difficult to trust anyone – probably for very good reasons. That included myself. We are now going to the radio room. You have met Leupin, you know his voice. Since about midnight I have had a film unit van in position watching the Berne Clinic from the edge of the forest above it. When we reach the radio room you can ask Leupin any question you like – bearing in mind security – including checking his position. Now, let's get this poison of mistrust out of your system. I need all the help I can get…'

It took less than five minutes inside the radio room and Newman immediately recognized Leupin's voice. The policeman confirmed that they were in position 'by the forest'. He further mentioned that they had watched 'a certain eminent personage's well-known car leave the place in question about midnight…'

And that, thought Newman, unfortunately would fit in with the story that Grange had diagnosed cholera, had signed the death certificate, had been present at the Clinic after leaving the Bellevue reception to carry out these actions. He asked Beck if they could have a few minutes alone where they could talk privately. Beck led him inside an interrogation room and closed the door.

`This tape,' said Newman, placing the spool on a table, 'is the recorded interview I had with Manfred Seidler when he admitted bringing in Soviet gas masks on the instructions of Professor Grange. Nancy will give you a sworn statement confirming she witnessed the interview – but not today, if you don't mind. And this is the film of several shots I took of the gas mask Seidler handed to you when you grabbed his suitcase…'

`I am grateful,' Beck replied.

`And this cartridge is from a rifle fired at a certain member of Grange's staff at the Clinic. I'm talking about Willy Schaub, head porter. You'll find him at this address. When you pick him up include a man who speaks good English. Tell him to knock on the door of the first-class flat and call out, "Newman here". He'll tell you a lot. Keep him in a safe – very safe – place. Don't be worried by the name alongside the bell-push, B. Signer. She's Victor Signer's daughter and I don't want her bothered. Signer has no time for her. May I rely on you?'

Tor every request, yes.'

`You can bring in Grange now?' Newman asked.

`Not yet. That cholera nonsense is clever. He will have put the Clinic in a state of quarantine…'

`So we still haven't got him?'

`Not yet. He is very powerful.'

It was 6 pm. Soon it would be dark. Blanche sat at a window table in the Bellevue coffee shop, eating a leisurely meal which she had paid for in advance. Earlier, she had watched Newman's parked Citroen from her bedroom window at this side of the hotel. Now she watched it from the table. Her scooter was parked against the wall of the Hertz offices and she was dressed in her riding gear. The wet-look pants, a thick woollen sweater – and her windcheater was thrown over the back of her chair.

Pausing before dessert, she glanced round the empty room and opened her handbag. The hand grenade she had brought from her flat bulged in the side compartment. Strange how she had acquired it – going back to the days when her stepfather had tried to mould her to his will.

He had taken her with him to a grenade practice range and, she had suspected, only his rank had permitted her to accompany him. He had thrown several grenades himself, then asked her to follow his example, watching her for any sign of nerves. That was when she had pocketed this grenade while he watched the previous one explode behind the concrete barrier. She had already escaped being raped in a dark alley by producing the egg-shaped weapon and threatening to blow herself and her attacker to pieces. She zipped up the compartment, looked out at the Citroen again and continued her meal. She was convinced Newman was going to make some reckless move before the evening was out. And to reach the Berne Clinic he had to use that Citroen.