Terminal

Six

Tucson, Arizona. 10 February 1984. 55?. The sun had sunk behind the mountains and Tucson was bathed in the purple glow of dusk as the temperature also sank. Newman raised his glass to Dr Rosen in the Tack Room, probably the most luxurious eating establishment in the state. The tables were illuminated by candlelight.

`Cheers!' said Newman. 'I've seen Frank Chase, I've talked with Linda Wayne – and got nowhere. No evidence of anything odd about Jesse Kennedy being sent to the Berne Clinic…'

`You know Jesse was flown direct to Berne by executive jet?'

`Linda didn't say that…'

`Have you ever heard of Professor Armand Grange, eminent Swiss specialist?'

`No. Should I?'

'Surprising Linda didn't mention him. Grange was on a lecture tour of the States – drumming up business was my impression. And from the moment Linda met him she treated him as her guru.'

`Guru?' Newman looked at the kindly but shrewd face of Rosen. 'I thought you used that word for some Indian fakir who offers salvation – provided you obey the gospel…'

`That's right,' agreed Rosen. 'Grange is into cellular rejuvenation – something the Swiss have practised for years. We're still not convinced. Maybe we're old-fashioned. But Grange certainly gathered in some disciples on that tour – always rich, of course.'

Newman turned sideways to study his guest. `I'm sorry, I'm not sure I'm following this. You're trying to tell me something, is that it?'

`I suppose so.' Rosen accepted a refill. He seemed to mellow outside the Medical Center. Maybe it was the relaxing atmosphere of the Tack Room, Newman thought. Rosen went on. 'Some of what I'm saying may not be strictly ethical – could even be taken for criticism of a professional colleague – but we are talking about a foreigner. I suspect Grange's clinic is full of wealthy patients he attracted during his tour. Two carrots – one for relatives, one for the seriously ill patient.' He smiled ruefully. 'You know something, Newman? I think I'm talking too much…'

`I'm still listening. Sometimes it's good to get things off your chest.'

Newman watched Rosen with an attentive expression. It was part of his stock-in-trade as foreign correspondent – people often opened out to him when they wouldn't say the same things to their wives or colleagues – especially their wives.

`Linda Wayne,' Rosen continued, 'went overboard with Professor Grange the way a drowning woman grasps at a floating spar. He was the answer to her prayer – to get Jesse Kennedy far away, as far away as possible. The carrot Grange offers is to take sick relatives off the hands of their nearest and dearest. The price is high, but like I said, he deals only with the very wealthy. The carrot to the sick patient is the hope of cellular rejuvenation, a new chance at life. I suppose it's a brilliant formula.'

`The carrot worked with a man like Jesse Kennedy?'

`There you put your finger on the key, what's worrying me.' Rosen sipped at his drink and Newman carefully remained silent. 'If Jesse had leukaemia he'd face up to it – but no way would he be into cellular rejuvenation. Did you know he once did a job for the CIA? It was over ten years ago when we had German pilots being trained by our people at a secret air base out in the desert. A very tough CIA operative came down to cooperate with Jesse. Can't recall his name. Linda Wayne fooled around with him. Now I am talking too much…'

`What exactly did Jesse do?'

`He used to ride his horse for miles by himself in the desert every day. They gave him a camera. One morning he spotted a German pilot handing an envelope to a stranger who stopped his car on 1 10 – Interstate Highway 10 which runs all the way from LA to Florida. The stranger came after Jesse with a gun…' Rosen smiled, a dreamy look on his face.

`That was very foolish of him. Jesse rode him down with his horse, the CIA man turned up and one German pilot disappeared for ever. The CIA man shot the stranger. Jesse told me about it years later..

`You said "If Jesse had leukaemia…" '

`Slip of the tongue. You think a man like Jesse would crawl off to Switzerland when he loved the desert? A man who started from nothing and parleyed a bank loan into twelve million dollars?'

`Just how did he do it?'

`Vision. He was a crystal ball gazer – he looked into the future. When he came to Tucson from Texas over twenty years ago he guessed Tucson would expand one day. He bought options on land outside the city limits – and when that increased in value he used the extra collateral to buy more and more land further and further out.

`So,' Newman commented, 'Linda is worth eight million dollars when Jesse goes and Nancy gets four million?'

`His will is common knowledge. He made no secret of it. And if anything happened to Nancy first, then Linda collects the whole twelve million. Maybe you see why it worries me – that kind of money at stake.' Rosen played with his empty glass. 'No thanks. Two is my limit. You know, Newman, I thought you'd be just the man to check out this mystery. You cracked the Kruger espionage case in Germany – I read the book you wrote afterwards. That must have made you a pile…'

`Not four million dollars,' Newman said shortly.

`Oh! Now I get it – I sensed you couldn't make up your mind about marrying Nancy. The money worries you, which is to your credit. I still think you ought to go to Berne…'

`Now you sound like Nancy. She never stops…'

`Argue against her and it will just make her more determined.' Rosen smiled again. 'Or maybe you've found that out?'

`We've had our moments. Jesus, look what just walked in…'

`Harvey Wayne, Linda's husband. He's into electronics, as you doubtless know. He's another one greedy for a dollar…'

Rosen stopped talking as a fat, pasty-faced man in his early forties came over to them. He was wearing a cream-coloured dinner jacket, dark trousers and the oily smile Newman found so distasteful. He put an arm round the Englishman's shoulder.

`Hi, pal! Hear you and that cute sister-in-law of mine will soon be in Berne. Give my regards to that old coot, Jesse.. `You heard what?'

Newman's tone was cold. He glanced at his shoulder and Harvey reluctantly moved his hand. He gave Rosen a throwaway gesture of resignation with his hand, then shrugged.

`Did I say something I ought not to have?'

`You haven't answered my question,' Newman replied.

`You're not rousting Dr Rosen the way you did Frank Chase, I hope.' Harvey looked towards the entrance and smiled again. 'We have company. You have the opportunity- of getting a direct answer to your question.

Linda, wearing an off-the-shoulder cocktail dress and a come-hither smile, had entered the Tack Room and was heading towards them, her innocent eyes staring straight at Newman. Beside her walked Nancy, a few inches shorter, dressed in a cream blouse and a midnight blue skirt. Heads turned as the two women progressed across the room. Newman stood up, his expression bleak.

`Let's go somewhere quiet,' he said to Nancy. 'We have to talk and I do mean now…'

The blazing row took place in the lobby, carried on in low tones so the receptionist couldn't hear them. Newman opened the conversation, treading warily at first.

`I'm sure that creep, Harvey, has got it wrong. He's just told me we're going to Berne…'

`I have the tickets, Bob.' Nancy produced two folders from her handbag and handed them to him. 'It's a very direct route. An American Airlines 727 from Tucson to Dallas. One hour stopover in Dallas. Then an eight-hour flight – again American Airlines – to Gatwick in England from Dallas. The last lap is by Dan-Air from Gatwick to Belp. That's the airport just outside Berne…'

`I have actually heard of Belp,' Newman replied with deceptive calm.

`We take off on tomorrow's flight…'

`I can actually read an airline ticket…'

`Somebody had to take a decision.' She looked pleased with herself. 'And I've just got out of Linda that Jesse didn't go that route. He was flown to Belp by private jet…'

`So?'

`Jesse was careful with money. If he'd agreed to go he'd have travelled in a wheelchair on a scheduled flight rather than hire a jet. Don't you think I've done rather well'?'

`You'd have done a bloody sight better to consult me first. How do you think I felt when your louse of a brother-in-law comes up to me in front of Rosen to give me this news?'

`Really? Linda must have phoned him at the office. He was working late. She's planned a farewell dinner for us here…'

`Count me out…'

`Robert! It's all fixed.' Her temper began to flare. 'I'm all packed. You said you could pack anytime in ten minutes even to go to Tokyo…'

`That's when I want to go, to Tokyo. Look, Nancy – and don't interrupt. There's not a shred of evidence that there's anything wrong about Jesse being flown to the Berne Clinic. I've talked to Dr Chase. I've had two conversations with Rosen. I've stared at Linda's legs while she talked to me…'

`Is that what you're so anxious not to leave – Linda's legs?'

`Now you're getting nasty. Nancy, you can't just push me around like this. It's no basis for any kind of relationship – let alone marriage.'

`Oh, shit, Bob…'

`Look, Nancy, this argument has been going on practically since we first met in London three months ago…'

`That was when I tried to phone Jesse and heard from Linda that he'd been sent to Switzerland. I really do feel something's very wrong. Remember, I am a doctor…'

`And I'm a foreign correspondent who looks for evidence. I haven't found anything to justify your anxiety. Now you present me with this fait accompli, this package deal all wrapped up in pink ribbon.'

He waved the ticket folders under her shapely nose. She took both his wrists in her hands, leaned up to him and nestled her face alongside his, whispering in his ear.

`Bob, would you please come with me to Berne to quiet my fears. For my sake?'

`That's a better approach…'

`It's the approach I should have used first. You're right – I should never have bought those tickets without consulting you. I'm sorry. Truly.'

He freed one hand and reached under her hair to stroke her neck. The receptionist was putting on quite a performance at not noticing them. She nestled her head against his chest and purred contentedly. He freed his other hand, grasped her chin and lifted it up to kiss her full on the lips.

`Nancy, I have to go back to Dr Rosen to ask him one more question. We leave for Berne tomorrow..

Harvey Wayne had just left Rosen when Newman sat down opposite the doctor. Rosen nodded towards Harvey's retreating back with a grimace.

`He's been pumping me, trying to find out what we were talking about. How did the argument go?'

`The way I expected it to.' Newman's manner had changed. He was crisp, decisive. 'Have you any idea where the majority of patients in the Berne Clinic come from?'

`My impression – it was no more than that – was they mostly come from the States. Plus a few from South America where they can still afford the fees. Is it significant?'

`It could be the key to the whole operation.'

Seven

11 February 1984. The DC10 flew at 35,000 feet above the invisible Atlantic as the machine proceeded at 500 mph in a north-easterly direction for Europe. In her first-class seat Nancy was fast asleep, her head flopped on Newman's shoulder. He moved her carefully so he could leave his seat. No risk she would wake up: when Nancy fell asleep she went out cold.

Taking a pad from his pocket, Newman wrote the signal in capital letters so there could be no error in transmission. Standing up, he summoned a stewardess, put a finger to his lips and nodded towards Nancy. Taking the girl by the arm he guided her towards the pilot's cabin and spoke only when they were inside the galley.

`I'd like this message radioed immediately to London. Find out the cost while I wait here…'

The stewardess returned in less than a minute. An attractive girl, she studied Newman frankly. You weren't supposed to fraternize with passengers but… She found Newman's droll, easy manner irresistible. And her flat wasn't far from Gatwick. And he was English. And the female passenger he was travelling with wore no ring. A girl had to make the most of her opportunities. She told him the cost of the message and he took his time paying her in dollars.

`The radio operator is already transmitting, Mr Newman…'

`You're a helpful girl to have around…'

`I have two days off at Gatwick…'

`Give me the phone number?'

`I'm not supposed to…'

`But you will…'

He loaned her his pad and ballpoint pen, tucked a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and watched her while she wrote the figures on the pad. She added a name and upside down he read Susan. He took the pad off her and slipped out of sight as the curtain moved and a steward appeared. He gave her a little salute.

`Thank you for dealing with that for me,' he said for the benefit of the steward who was unnecessarily polishing glasses. 'When should it reach London?'

`Within a matter of minutes, sir…'

`Thank you again.'

He winked at her, pushed aside the curtain and went back to his seat. Nancy was awake, stretching her arms, thrusting out her well-rounded breasts against her tight cashmere sweater. He gave her a look of amiable resignation as he settled himself beside her.

`You're a dog,' she said. 'You've been chatting up that stewardess.' She wrapped a proprietary arm round his. 'You know, sometimes I think I should grab you for good while I can. You're not safe to leave roaming around loose.'

`What stewardess?'

`The one with the superb legs who showed us to our seats, the one you couldn't take your eyes off, the one whose eyes ate you up. Discreetly, of course…'

`Change of plan,' he said abruptly.

`Which means?'

`You'd better have some coffee to get you properly awake before I tell you.' He summoned the steward who had finished polishing glasses and gave the order. Then he relapsed into silence until she had drunk half the cup.

`I've been a good girl,' she said. 'What change of plan?'

`We don't take the Dan-Air flight from Gatwick to Belp. We take the bus from Gatwick to Heathrow. Then we catch a Swissair flight to Geneva. Going in via Geneva disguises our real destination.'

`Bob!' She straightened up so abruptly she almost spilt her coffee. 'You're taking this thing seriously. You do think there's something peculiar going on. God, you're a dark horse. Sometimes I feel I'll never really know you. Your whole manner has changed…'

`If we have to do the job we might as well do it professionally…'

`That isn't the reason,' she pounced. 'Rosen told you something which changed your whole attitude. So why the hell did we have to have that embarrassing row in the lobby of the Tack Room?'

`Rosen told me nothing. We're just doing it my way. You might call it a fait accompli,' he replied airily. asked for that one,' she conceded. 'And I still don't believe you. Well, isn't that nice?'

She looked at him and Newman's head was rested against the back of the seat. His eyes were closed and he had apparently fallen into a catnap, something he was able to do anywhere at any time.

In the pilot's cabin the radio operator crumpled up the note from Newman's pad he had transmitted. The signal seemed innocuous enough and he didn't give it a second thought.

Addressed to Riverdale Trust Ltd with a PO Box number in London it was brief and to the point.

Aboard American Airlines Flight… ETA Gatwick… Proceeding to Heathrow to board Swissair flight to Geneva, repeat Geneva. Newman.

Manfred Seidler was running for his life. He used every devious means to throw a smokescreen in the eyes of those who would try to track him. Using a fake set of identity papers, he hired a car from the Hertz agency next door to the Bellevue Palace in Berne.

He drove only as far as Solothurn where he handed in the car. From the station he caught a train to Basle. If anyone did manage to trace him so far they would – with luck – think he had gone on to Zurich. He fostered this fiction by buying two separate one-way tickets – to Zurich and to Basle. He bought them at ten-minute intervals, using two different ticket windows. As the express slowed down and slid into the main station at Basle he was standing by the exit door, clutching his suitcase.

He phoned Erika Stahel from a booth in the huge station. He found himself staring at every passenger who lingered anywhere near the booth. He knew his nerves were in a bad way. Which was when a man made mistakes. Christ! Would the cow never answer? Her voice came on the line as if in response to his plea.

`It's Manfred…'

`Well, well, stranger. Isn't life full of surprises?'

Erika didn't sound welcoming, certainly not enthusiastic, he thought savagely. Women needed careful handling. He forced himself to sound confident, pleasant, firm. Any trace of the jitters and she wouldn't cooperate. She knew a little of what he did for a living.

`I need a place to rest, to relax…'

`In bed? Of course?'

Her melodious voice sounded sarcastic. He wondered if she had a man with her. That would be a disaster area. It was a few months since he'd last contacted her.

`I need you,' he said. 'As company. Forget bed…'

`This is Manfred Seidler I'm talking to?' But her voice had softened. 'Where have you come from?'

`Zurich,' he lied easily.

`And where are you now?'

`Tired and hungry – inside a phone booth at the Hauptbahnhof. You don't have to cook. I'll take you out. Best place in town.'

`You counted on me being here – just waiting for your call?' `Erika,' he said firmly, 'this is Saturday. I know you don't work Saturdays. I just hoped…'

`Better come on over, Manfred…'

Erika Stahel lived in a small, second-storey apartment near the Munsterplatz. Seidler lugged his suitcase through the falling snow, ignoring the cab rank outside the station. He could easily have afforded transport but cab-drivers had good memories. And often they were the first source the Swiss police approached for information.

It was ten o'clock in the morning when he pressed the bell alongside the name E. Stahel. Her voice, oddly recognizable despite the distortion of the speakphone, answered as though she had been waiting.

`Who is it?'

`Manfred. I'm freezing..

`Come!'

The buzzer zizzed, indicating she had released the front door which he pressed open as he glanced up and down the street. Inside he climbed the steps, ignoring the lift. You could get trapped inside a lift if someone was waiting for you. Seidler had reached that state of acute nervousness and alertness when he trusted no one.

Her apartment door was open a few inches and he had reached out to push it when he paused, wondering what might be on the far side. The door opened inward and she stood looking at him without any particular expression. Only five feet four tall, she was a trim brunette of twenty-eight with a high forehead and large, black steady eyes.

`What are you waiting for? You look cold and frightened – and hungry. Breakfast is on the table. A jug of steaming coffee. Give me your case and eat…'

She said it all in her calm, competent voice as she closed the door and held out her hand for the case. He shook his head, decided he was being too curt and smiled, conscious of a sense of relief. He was under cover.

`I'll put the case in the bedroom if you don't mind. A couple of minutes and I'll be myself..

`You know where the bedroom is. You should by now.' Her manner was matter-of-fact but she watched him closely.

Inside the bedroom with the door closed, he dropped the case on one of the two single beds and looked round quickly. He needed a hiding-place and only had minutes to find a safe one.

Moving a chair quietly against a tall cupboard, he stood on it and ran a finger along the top. His fingers came away with a thin film of dust. The rest of the place was spotless – but small women often overlooked the tops of tall cupboards. He stepped down and opened his suitcase.

The smaller, slim executive case was concealed beneath his shirts. He raised the catches quietly and took out several envelopes. All of them contained large sums of money – he had emptied his bank account in Berne on Friday just before the bank closed. Another envelope held the twenty five hundred-franc notes he had extracted from the dead Franz Oswald's wallet in the Vienna basement.

Clutching the envelopes, he climbed back on the chair and distributed them across the top of the cupboard which was recessed. His final touch was to put two shirts into the executive case – to explain its presence – and then he closed the larger case, locked it and shoved it under the bed nearest the window.

`One ravenous lodger gasping for that steaming coffee and your lovely croissants,' he told Erika cheerfully as he emerged into the comfortably and well-furnished living-room which served also for a dining-room.

`My!' Her dark eyes searched his. 'Aren't we suddenly the bright, suave man-about-town. Good to get off the streets, Manfred?'

He swallowed the cup of coffee she poured even though it almost scalded him. Then he sat down and devoured three croissants while she sat facing him, studying him. Like Seidler, her parents were dead and she had no close relatives. Erika had worked her way up to the post of personal assistant to the chief executive of the bank she worked for. And her background was modest. Probably only in Switzerland could she have risen so high on sheer hard work and application.

`I'm quite happy on my own,' she had once confided to a girl friend. 'I have a good job I like, a lover' (she meant Manfred, although she didn't identify him). 'So what more do I need? I can certainly do without being tied down at home, touring the supermarkets with some yelling brat – and a husband who, after three years, starts noticing the attractive secretaries in his office…'

`You were, glad to get in off the streets, Manfred?' she repeated.

`Look outside the window! It's snowing cats and dogs. And I have been working very hard. I feel like holing up – some place no one knows where I am. Where the telephone won't ring,' he added quickly.

For once Seidler was telling the truth. He had cleverly chosen Basle to go to ground; Basle where three frontiers meet – Swiss, French and German. In case of emergency, the need for swift flight, he only had to board a train at the main station and the next stop – minutes away – was in Germany. Or, from the same station he could walk through a barrier to the other section and he was already on French soil. Yes, Basle was a good place to wait until he decided on his next move – until something turned up. Because for Manfred Seidler something always did turn up.

Then there was Erika. Seidler, a man who spent most of his time making money engaging in illegal, near-criminal activity – and who was now a murderer – appreciated that Erika was a nice girl. It was such a pleasant change to have her for company. He woke up from his reverie, aware she had said something.

`Sorry, I was dreaming…'

`Since you were last here I've been promoted…'

`Higher still? You were already PA to a director…'

`Now I'm PA to the president of the bank.' She leaned across the table and he stared at the inviting twin bulges against her flowered blouse. 'Manfred,' she went on, 'have you – you get around a lot, I know – have you ever heard anyone refer to the word terminal?'

Seidler's sense of well-being- brought on by a full stomach, the apartment's warmth (Erika could afford to turn up the central heating) and the proximity of Erika – vanished. One word and the nightmare was back on his doorstep. He struggled to hide the shock she had given him.

`I might have,' he teased her, 'if you tell me where you heard it.'

She hesitated, her curiosity fighting her integrity. Curiosity won-. She took a deep breath and stretched out her small hand to grasp his.

`I was taking coffee in to a board meeting. My boss said to the others "Has anyone found out any more about this terminal business, what it means, or is it just another rumour about the Gold Club?" '

`Gold Club? What's that?'

`Well, it doesn't really exist officially. I gather that it comprises a group of bankers who have certain views on national policy. The group is known as the Gold Club…'

`And your boss belongs to it?'

`On the contrary. He doesn't agree with their views, whatever they may be. The Gold Club is based in Zurich. `Zurich? Not Berne?' he probed.

`Definitely Zurich…'

`Who is your boss?' he enquired casually.

`I'm talking too much about my job…'

`I could find out so easily,' he pointed out. 'I'd only have to phone you at work and you'd say, "Office of…" There are other ways. You know that.'

`I suppose you're right,' she agreed. In any case, it really doesn't matter. I work for Dr Max Nagel. Now, does terminal mean a railway station? That's the current thinking…'

`They got it right first time. More than that I don't know.'

`A railway station – not an airport?' she persisted. 'We do have an airport at Basle.'

`Positively nothing to do with airports,' he assured her.

He stood up and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He offered to clear the table but she shook her head and stood close to him, coiling her hands round his neck. As they kissed he wrapped his arms round her body and felt the buttons down the back of her blouse.

`That Gold Club,' he whispered. 'Something to do with gold bullion?'

`No. I told you. It's just a name. You know how wealthy the Zurich bankers are. It's a good name for them…'

He unfastened the top two buttons and slipped his hand inside, searching for the splayed strap. His exploring fingers found nothing. He undid two more buttons and realized that beneath the blouse she was naked. She had stripped herself down while he trudged through the snow from the station.

He enjoyed himself in the bedroom but when the aftermath came he began to worry like mad about what she'd said. Was Basle the worst place in the world he could have come to escape? Had he wandered into the lion's pit? He'd have to keep under cover. He'd also watch the newspapers – especially those from Geneva, Berne and Zurich, plus the locals. Something might show up in them, something which would show him the way – the way to escape the horror.