Terminal

Eight

London, 13 February 1984. 6?. The atmosphere inside Tweed's office at 10 am was one of appalled mystification. Besides Tweed, the other people gathered in the office included Howard, who had just returned from a weekend in the country, Monica, the middle-aged spinster of uncertain age Tweed called his 'right arm', and Mason, summoned urgently from Vienna on an apparent whim of Tweed's.

The 'object' Mason had brought with him and which he had purchased from Franz Oswald, was now locked away in Tweed's steel filing cabinet. No one had wanted to continue staring at that for long.

Howard, wearing the small check suit he kept for the country, was furious. He was convinced Tweed had exploited his absence to set all sorts of dangerous wheels in motion. To add insult to injury, Tweed had just returned from Downing Street where he had remained closeted with the Prime Minister for over an hour.

`Did you ask her for that document?' he enquired coldly.

Tweed glanced at the letter headed 10 Downing Street which he had deliberately left on his desk. It gave him full powers to conduct the investigation personally. There was even a codicil promising him immediate access to her presence at any time there were developments.

`No,' replied Tweed, standing like the rest and polishing his glasses with a shabby silk handkerchief. 'It was her idea. I didn't argue, naturally..

`Naturally,' Howard repeated sarcastically. 'So, now you've got the whole place in an uproar what's the next move?'

`I need outside help on this one.' Tweed looped his glasses over his ears and blinked at Howard. 'As you know, we're fully stretched. We have to get help where we can..

`A name – or names – would be reassuring..

`I'm not sure that's wise. Reliable help will only cooperate on a basis of total secrecy. If I'm the only person who knows their identity they know who to point the finger at if things go wrong. I take full responsibility..

`You've hired an outsider already,' Howard accused.

Tweed shrugged and glanced at the letter on his desk. Howard could have killed him. It was an uncharacteristic action on the part of Tweed, but he would go to any length to protect a source. He decided he had treated Howard rather badly – especially in front of the others.

`There's already been a body,' he informed his chief. 'A man was murdered in Vienna. Mason can tell you about it…'

`God Almighty!' Howard exploded. 'What are you letting us in for?'

`Permission to explain, sir?' the trim, erect Mason interjected. Taking Howard's curt nod for an affirmative he described in concise detail his experience with Franz Oswald. Howard listened in silence, his pursed lips expressing disapproval – and anxiety, a reaction Tweed sympathized with. He wasn't at all happy about the way the situation was developing himself.

`And did he tell you – while he was alive – how he obtained the thing?'

Howard nodded again, this time towards the locked drawer in the filing cabinet. He had calmed down while listening to Mason, a man he disliked but respected – they came from the same background. The trouble was he was Tweed's man. Like that bloody old spinster, Monica, who hadn't spoken a word- but Howard knew that later she could repeat the entire conversation back verbatim from memory.

`No, sir, he didn't,' Mason answered. 'I did ask but he refused point-blank to go into details. I have, however, got a photograph of the man who boarded the plane at Schwechat – that new camera is a wizard and I always carry it with me. It was a long shot, telephoto lens, but it's come out rather well.'

`Show it to me. You have got it on you?'

Mason glanced quickly at Tweed, which infuriated Howard once more. Tweed nodded acquiescence and wished Mason hadn't asked his permission. Still, Mason was being ultra- careful with this one. He watched Howard studying the photograph Mason handed to him.

`Any idea who he is?' Howard demanded.

`He's familiar,' Tweed replied. 'It will come back to me…'

Tut it through Records,' Howard suggested. 'Now, Mason, I'm going to say a word and I want you to react instantly. Give me the first association that comes into your head. Don't think about it. Ready? Terminal…'

`An electrical circuit,' Mason responded promptly.

`That's interesting.' Howard turned to Tweed. 'The Swiss are transforming their whole economy to run on electric power. New houses are heated by electricity – to avoid dependence on oil. Did you know that?'

`Yes, I knew that. You might have a shrewd point there,' he agreed.

`Supposing this whole business hinges on a massive sabotage operation?' Howard warmed to his theme. 'The enemy is planning to hit all the key points in the Swiss power system when the moment comes for them to make their move.'

`You could be right. We'll know when we find out what really is going on inside Switzerland. I need to send in someone the Swiss police and military intelligence don't know. Mason would fit the bill. And the Ambassador in Vienna agreed to bring forward his leave – three weeks…'

`Good idea,' agreed Howard. He felt a little better about the whole thing now he was contributing. Time to show a modicum of goodwill. He nodded towards the letter on Tweed's desk. 'With her backing we have an open-ended call on resources. But this business still worries me. Who would imagine the Swiss getting mixed up in a situation of such international dimensions? Yes, Mason, was there something?'

`Permission to find some breakfast – if you're finished with me, sir? Airline meals turn my stomach. I haven't eaten since last night.'

`Fuel up!' Howard said breezily, still buoyant. 'That is, if Tweed has nothing more?'

`I'll be organizing your flight to Zurich,' Tweed told Mason. `Get a train from there to Berne – it's only ninety minutes. Breakfast first though. And thank you, Mason. I'm not certain what you've triggered off yet, but it's something very big. I feel it in my arthritic bones…'

`Howard is a pain in the proverbial,' Monica remarked to Tweed when they were alone. `Up and down like a bloody yo-yo…'

`It's his wife, Eve,' Tweed said, slumping back in his swivel chair. 'I only met her once. Very County, very superior. She went out of her way to make me feel uncomfortable…'

`That's because she fears you,' Monica commented shrewdly.

`And that's ridiculous,' Tweed protested.

`She's ambitious, the driving force behind Howard. When he tells her the Prime Minister has given you carte blanche she'll really hit the roof. I know the type. On top of that she has money – a large block of ICI shares she inherited. That gives a woman a sense of power.'

`Poor Howard,' said Tweed and his sympathy was genuine. He looked at Monica, a comfortable woman whose deep loyalty to him he sometimes found worrying. Under other circumstances he might have considered marrying her, but that, of course, was quite impossible. `I have an appointment,' he said, standing up. 'Expect me when you see me…'

`No way of getting in touching?' she enquired mischievously.

`Not this time.' He paused near the door and she was careful not to help him on with his coat. Tweed hated fuss. `Monica, when Mason gets back, ask him to wait for me. Tell him one job will be to compile a file on Professor Armand Grange, head of the Berne Clinic…'

Lee Foley walked along Piccadilly, his expression bleak, hands thrust inside the pockets of his duffel coat. Christ, it was cold in London, a raw, damp cold. No wonder the Brits. had once conquered the world. If you could stand this climate you could stand anywhere across the face of the earth.

He checked his watch. The timing of the call was important. The contact would be expecting him at the appointed number. He glanced round casually before descending into Piccadilly underground station. No reason why anyone should be following him – which was the moment to check.

Inside the phone booth he checked his watch again, waited until his watch registered precisely 11 am, then dialled the London number, waited for the bleeps, inserted a ten-penny coin and heard the familiar voice. He identified himself and then listened before answering.

`Now let me do the talking. I'll catch an early flight to Geneva today. I'll wait at the Hotel des Bergues. When the time comes I'll proceed to Berne. I'll reserve a room at a hotel called the Savoy near the station – you can get the number from the Berne directory. We'll keep in close touch as the situation develops. You must keep me informed. Signing off…'

It was 12.30 pm when Tweed returned to his office, hung up his coat by the loop and settled himself behind his desk. Monica, checking a file with Mason, frowned. He should have put the coat on a hanger – no wonder he always had such a rumpled look. She carefully refrained from so doing. Tweed had been away for over two hours.

`I've booked Mason on Swissair Flight SR 805. Departs Heathrow fourteen forty-five, arrives Zurich seventeen twenty, local time…'

`He'll catch it easily,' Tweed agreed with an absent-minded expression. 'What are you two up to?'

`Looking through hundreds of photos. We've found the man he saw boarding that Swiss jet at Schwechat Airport. Manfred Seidler…'

`You're sure?'

`Positive,' Mason replied. 'Look for yourself.'

He handed across the desk the photo he had taken and which the photographic section in the basement of Park Crescent had developed and printed. Monica – pushed Seidler's file across the desk open at the third page to which another photo was pasted.

`Poor old Manfred,' Tweed said half to himself. 'It looks as though this time he's mixed up in something he may not be able to handle.'

`You know him?' Mason queried.

' Knew him. When I was on the continent. He's on what we used to call the circuit…'

`Not an electric circuit?' Monica pounced. 'Remember Howard asking Mason what Terminal suggested to him?'

Tweed stared at her through his glasses. Monica didn't miss a trick: he would never have thought of that himself. He considered the idea. 'There could be a connection,' he conceded eventually. 'I'm not sure. Seidler is a collector – and seller – of unconsidered trifles. Sometimes not so trifling. Lives off his network of contacts. Just occasionally he comes up with the jackpot. I've no idea where he is now. Something for you to enquire about, Mason.'

`I'm going to be busy. Searching for Manfred Seidler, building up a file on this Professor Grange. We've nothing on him here.'

`The computer came up with zero,' Monica added.

`Computer?' An odd expression flickered behind Tweed's glasses and was then gone. He relaxed again. 'Mason, from the moment you leave this building I want you to watch your back. Especially when you've arrived in Switzerland.'

`Anything particular in mind?'

`We've already had one murder – Franz Oswald. People will kill for what I've got in that locked drawer…' He looked at Monica. 'Or has the courier from the Ministry of Defence collected it?'

`Not so far…'

`They must be mad.' Tweed drummed his thick fingers on the desk. 'The sooner their experts examine it…'

`Charlton is a careful type,' Monica reminded him. 'He's very conscious of security. My bet is the courier will arrive as soon as night has fallen.'

`You're probably right. I shan't leave my office until the thing is off our hands. Now, Mason,' he resumed, 'another unknown factor is the attitude of the Swiss authorities – the Federal police and their Military Intelligence. They could prove hostile…'

`What on earth for?' Monica protested.

`It worries me – that Lear executive jet Mason watched leaving Schwechat. The fact that it bore a flag on its side with a white cross on a red ground, the Swiss flag. Don't accept anyone as a friend. Oh, one more thing. We've reserved a room at the Bellevue Palace in Berne.'

Mason whistled. 'Very nice. VIP treatment. Howard will do his nut when he finds out…'

`It's convenient,' Tweed said shortly. 'I may join you later.'

Monica had trouble keeping her face expressionless. She knew that Tweed had his own reservation at the Bellevue Palace a few days hence: she had booked the room herself. Tweed, naturally secretive, was playing this one closer to the chest than ever before. He wasn't even letting his own operative know about his movements. For God's sake, he couldn't suspect Mason?

`Why convenient?' enquired Mason.

`It's central,' Tweed said shortly and left it at that. 'We're getting things moving,' he went on with that distant look in his eyes, 'placing the pieces on the board. One thing I'd dearly like to know – where is Manfred Seidler now?'

Basle, 13 February 1984. 0?. Seidler still felt hunted. He had spent the whole weekend inside Erika Stahel's apartment and the walls were starting to close in on him. He heard a key being inserted in the outer door and grabbed for his 9-mm Luger, a weapon he had concealed from Erika.

When she walked in, carrying a bag of groceries, the Luger was out of sight under a cushion. She closed the door with her foot and surveyed the newspapers spread out over the table. She had dashed out first thing to get them for him. Now she had dashed back from the office – only one hour for lunch – to prepare him some food.

`Anything in the papers?' she called out from the tiny kitchen.

`Nothing. Yet. You don't have to make me a meal…'

`Won't take any time at all. We can talk while we eat…'

He looked at the newspapers on the table. The Berner Zeitung, the main Zurich morning, the Journal de Geneve and the Basle locals. He lifted one of them and underneath lay the executive case. He'd made up his mind.

Since he was a youth Seidler had involved himself in unsavoury activities – always to make money. Brought up by an aunt in Vienna – his mother had been killed by the Russians, his father had died on the Eastern Front – Seidler had been one of the world's wanderers. Now, when he had the money, when he felt like settling down, the whole system was trying to locate him

He felt a great affection for Erika because she was such a decent girl. He laid the table, listened to her chatting with animation while they ate, and only brought up the subject over coffee.

`Erika, if anything happens to me I want you to have this…'

He opened the executive case, revealing the neatly stacked Swiss banknotes inside. Her face, which always showed the pink flush Seidler had observed when women were pregnant, went blank as she stood up. Her deft fingers rifled through several of the stacks at random and replaced them. She stared at him.

`Manfred, there has to be half a million francs here…'

`Very close. Take them and put them into a safety deposit- not at the bank where you work. Call a cab. Don't walk through the streets with that – not even in Basle…'

I can't take this.' She grasped his hand and he saw she was close to tears. 'I'm not interested – you're the only one I'm interested in.'

`So, bank it for both of us. Under your own name. Under no circumstances under my name,' he warned.

`Manfred..' She eased herself into his lap. 'Who are you frightened of? Did you steal this money?'

`No!' He became vehement to convince her. 'It was given to me for services rendered. Now they no longer need me. They may regard me as a menace because of what I know. I shouldn't stay here much longer…'

`Stay as long as you like. Who are these people?'

`One person in particular. Someone who wields enormous power. Someone who may be able to use even the police to do his bidding.'

`The Swiss police?' Her tone was incredulous. 'You look so tired, so worn. You're over-estimating this person's power. If it will make you feel any better I will put that case in a safety deposit – providing you keep the key…'

`All right.' He knew it was the only condition under which she'd agree to do what he asked. They'd find some place inside the apartment to hide the key. 'You'd better hurry. You'll be late for work,' he told her.

She hugged him as though she'd never let go. He almost had tears in his own eyes. So decent, so nice. If only he'd met her years ago…'

Inside their bedroom at the Penta Hotel, situated amid the vast enclave of Heathrow Airport, Newman checked his watch again. Nancy had gone out hours ago on her own – she knew how he hated shopping expeditions. They still had plenty of time to catch Swissair Flight SR 837 which departed 19.00 hours and reached Geneva 21.30 hours local time. The door opened and she caught him looking at his watch.

`I've been hours, I know,' she said cheerfully. 'Think we were going to miss our flight? Have I enjoyed myself…'

`You've probably bought up half Fortnum's…'

`Just about. It's a marvellous shop – and they'll post off purchases anywhere in the world.' She looked at him coyly as she hung up her sheepskin in the wardrobe. 'I'm not showing you the bills. God, I love London…'

`Then why don't we settle down here?'

`Robert, don't start that again. And you've been out. Your coat is on a different hanger…'

`For a breath of fresh air. Tinged with petrol fumes. You're cut out to be a detective.'

`Doctors have to be observant, darling.' She looked at the bed. 'Do we eat now – or later?'

`Later. We have things to do.' He wrapped his arms round her slim waist. 'Afterwards we'll just have a drink. Dinner on the plane. Swissair food is highly edible…'

Belted in his seat aboard an earlier Swissair flight, Lee Foley glanced out of the window as the aircraft left Heathrow behind and broke through the overcast into a sunlit world. He was sitting at the rear of the first-class section.

Foley had reserved this particular seat because it was a good viewing point to observe his fellow-passengers. Unlike them, he had refused any food or drink when the steward came to put a cloth on his fold-out table.

`Nothing,' he said abruptly.

`We have a very nice meal as you can see from the menu, sir.'

`Take the menu, keep the meal…'

`Something to drink then, sir?'

`I said nothing.'

It was still daylight when the aircraft made its descent over the Jura Mountains, heading for Cointrin Airport. Foley watched the view as the plane banked and noted Lac de Joux, nestled inside the Juras, was frozen solid. At least, he. assumed this must be the case – the lake was mantled in snow, as were the mountains. He was the first passenger to leave the plane after it landed and he carried his only luggage.

Foley always travelled light. Hanging around a carousel, waiting for your bag to appear on the moving belt, gave watchers the opportunity to observe your arrival. Foley always regarded terminals as dangerous points of entry. He showed his passport to the Swiss official seated inside his glass box, watching him out of the corner of his eye. The passport was returned and, so far as Foley could tell, no interest had been aroused.

He walked through the green Customs exit into the public concourse beyond. For strangers there was a clear sign pointing to TAXIS, but Foley automatically turned in the right direction. He was familiar with Cointrin.

The chill air had hit him like a knife thrust when he came down the mobile staircase from the aircraft. It hit him again when he emerged from the building and walked to the first cab. He waited until he was settled in the rear seat with the door closed before he gave the instruction to the driver.

`Hotel des Bergues…'

Foley's wariness about terminals was closer to the mark than he realized when he walked swiftly across the concourse without turning his head. Looking back drew attention to yourself – betrayed nervousness. So he had not seen a small, gnome-like figure huddled against a wall with an unlit cigarette between his thin lips.

Julius Nagy had straightened briefly when he saw Foley, then he took out a bookmatch and pretended to light the cigarette without doing so – Nagy didn't smoke. His tiny, bird-like eyes sparkled with satisfaction as he watched the American pass beyond the automatic exit doors. His neat feet trotted inside the nearest phone box and closed the door.

Nagy, who had escaped from Hungary in 1956 when Soviet troops invaded his country, was fifty-two years old. Streaks of dark-oily hair peeped from under the Tyrolean-style hat he wore well pulled down. His skin was wrinkled like a walnut, his long nose pinched at the nostrils.

He dialled the number he knew by heart. Nagy had a phenomenal memory for three things – people's faces, their names, and phone numbers. When the police headquarters operator answered he gave his name, asked to be put through immediately, please, to Chief Inspector Tripet. Yes, he was well-known to Tripet and he was in a hurry.

`Tripet speaking. Who is this?'

The voice, remote, careful, had spoken in French. Nagy could picture the Sfiret6 man sitting in his second-floor office inside the seven-storey building facing the Public Library at 24 Boulevard Carl-Vogt, at the foot of the Old City.

`Nagy here. Didn't they tell you?'

`Christian name?'

`Oh, for God's sake. Julius. Julius Nagy. I've got some information. It's worth a hundred francs..

`Perhaps…'

`Someone who just came in from London off the flight at Cointrin. A hundred francs I want – or I'll dry up…'

`And who is this expensive someone?' asked Tripet in a bored tone of voice.

`Lee Foley, CIA man…'

`I'll meet you at the usual place. Exactly one hour from now. Eighteen hundred hours. I want to talk to you about this – see your face when I do. If it isn't genuine you're off the payroll for all time…'

Nagy heard the click and realized Tripet had broken the connection. He was puzzled. Had he asked too little? Was the information pure gold? On the other hand Tripet had sounded as though he were rebuking the little man. Nagy shrugged, left the booth, saw the airport bus for town was about to leave and started running.

At 24 Bd Carl-Vogt, Tripet, a thin-faced, serious-looking man in his late thirties, a man who had risen quickly in his chosen profession, hoped he had bluffed Nagy as his agile fingers dialled the Berne number.

`Arthur Beck, please, Assistant to the Chief of Federal Police,' he requested crisply when the operator at the Taubenhalde came on the line. 'This is Chief Inspector Tripet, Surete, Geneva…'

`One moment, sir…'

Beck came to the phone quickly after first dismissing from his tenth floor office his secretary, a fifty-five-year-old spinster not unlike Tweed's Monica. Settling himself comfortably in his chair, Beck spoke with calm amiability.

`Well, Leon, and how are things in Geneva? Snowing?'

`Not quite. Arthur, you asked me to report if any odd people turned up on my patch. Would Lee Foley, CIA operative, qualify?'

`Yes.' Beck gripped the receiver a shade more firmly. 'Tell me about it.' He reached for pad and pencil.

`He may have just come in on a Swissair flight from London. I have a report from Cointrin.

`A report from who?' The pencil poised.

`A small-time informer we call The Mongrel, sometimes The Scrounger. He'll burrow in any filthy trash-can to make himself a few francs. But he's very reliable. If Foley interests you I'm meeting Julius Nagy, The Mongrel, shortly outside. Can you give me a description of Foley so I can test Nagy's story?'

`Foley is a man you can't miss ' Beck gave from memory a detailed description of the American, including the fact that he spoke in a gravelly voice. 'That should be enough, Leon, you would agree? Good. When you've seen The Mongrel, I would appreciate another call from you. I'll wait in my office…'

Tripet went off the line quickly, an action Beck, who couldn't stand people who wasted time, appreciated. Then he sat in his chair, twiddling the pencil while he thought.

They were beginning to come in, as he had anticipated. The crisis was growing. There would be others on the way, he suspected. He had been warned about the rumours circulating among various foreign embassies. Beck, forty years old in May, was a stockily-built man with a thick head of unruly brown hair and a small brown moustache. His grey eyes had a glint of humour, a trait which often saved his sanity when the pressure was on.

He reflected that he had never known greater pressure. Thank God his chief had given him extraordinary powers to take any action he thought fit. If what he suspected was true – and he hoped with all his Catholic soul he was wrong – then he was going to need those powers. Sometimes when he thought of what he might be up against he winced. Beck, however, was a loner. If necessary I'll fight the whole bloody system he said to himself. He would not be defeated by Operation Terminal.

Unlocking a drawer while he waited for Tripet to call him back, he took out a file with the tab, Classification One, on the front of the folder. He turned to the first page inside and looked at the heading typed at the head of the script. Case of Hannah Stuart, American citizen. Klinik Bern.

Nine

Geneva, 13 February 1984. -3?. 'On duty' again at Cointrin, Julius Nagy could hardly believe his eyes. This was Jackpot Day. After meeting Chief Inspector Tripet, who had asked for a detailed description of Lee Foley, who had been sufficiently satisfied with the information to pay him his one hundred francs, Nagy had returned to meet the last flights into the airport despite the bitter cold.

Flight SR 837 – again from London – had disgorged its passengers when Nagy spotted a famous face emerging from the Customs exit. Robert Newman had a woman with him and this time Nagy followed his quarry outside. He was just behind the Englishman when he heard him instructing the driver of the cab.

`Please take us to the Hotel des Bergues,' Newman had said in French.

Nagy had decided to invest twenty or so of the francs received from Tripet to check Newman's real destination. They were tricky, these foreign correspondents. He wouldn't put it past Newman to change the destination once they were clear of the airport. As he summoned the next cab Nagy glanced over his shoulder and saw Newman, on the verge of stepping inside the rear of his cab, staring hard at him. He swore inwardly and dived inside the back of his own cab.

`Follow my friend in that cab ahead,' he told the driver.

`If you say so…'

His driver showed a little discretion, keeping another vehicle between himself and Newman's. It was only a ten- minute ride – including the final three-sided tour round the hotel to reach the main entrance because of the one-way system.

He watched the porter from the Hotel des Bergues taking their luggage and told his driver to move on and drop him round the corner. Paying off the cabbie, he hurried to the nearest phone box, frozen by the bitter wind blowing along the lake and the Rh6ne which the des Bergues overlooked. He called Pierre Jaccard, senior reporter on the Journal de Geneve. His initial reception was even more hostile than had been Tripet's.

`What are you trying to peddle this time, Nagy?'

`There are plenty of people in the market for this one,' Nagy said aggressively, deliberately adopting a different approach. You had to know your potential clients. 'You have, I presume, heard of the Kruger Affair – the German traitor who extracted information from the giant computer at Dusseldorf?'

`Yes, of course I have. But that's last year's news…'

Nagy immediately detected the change in tone from contempt to cautious interest – concealing avid interest. He played his fish.

`Two hundred francs and I'm not arguing about the price. It's entirely non-negotiable. You could still catch tomorrow's edition. And I can tell you how to check out what I may tell you – with one phone call.'

`Tell me a little more…'

`Either another Kruger case, this time nearer home, or something equally big. That's all you get until you agree terms. Is it a deal? Yes or no. And I'm putting down this phone in thirty seconds. Counting now…'

`Hold it! If you're conning me…'

`Goodbye, Jaccard…'

`Deal! Two hundred francs. God, the gambles I take. Give.'

`Robert Newman – you have heard of Robert Newman? I thought you probably had. He's just come in on Flight SR 837 from London. You think he arrives late in the evening anywhere without a purpose? And he looked to be in one hell of a hurry…'

`You said I could check this out,' Jaccard reminded him.

`He's staying at the Hotel des Bergues. Call the place – ask to speak to him, give a false name. Christ, Jaccard, you do know your job?'

`I know my job,' Jaccard said quietly. 'Come over to my office now and the money will be waiting…'

Arthur Beck sat behind his desk, a forgotten cup of cold coffee to his left, studying the fat file on Lee Foley. A good selection of photos – all taken without the subject's knowledge. A long note recording that he had resigned from the CIA, that he was now senior partner in the New York outfit, CIDA, the Continental International Detective Agency. 'I wonder…' Beck said aloud and the phone rang.

`I'm so sorry I didn't phone earlier.. Tripet in Geneva was full of apologies. 'An emergency was waiting for me when I got back to the office… a reported kidnapping at Cologny… it turned out to be a false alarm, thank God…'

`Not to worry. I have plenty to occupy myself with. Now, any developments?'

`The Mongrel – Julius Nagy – confirmed exactly your description of Foley. He is somewhere in Geneva – or he was when he left Cointrin at seventeen hundred hours…'

`Do something for me, will you? Check all the hotels – find out where he's staying, if he's still there. Let me give you a tip. Start with the cheaper places – two and three-star. Foley maintains a low profile.'

`A pleasure. I'll get the machinery moving immediately…'

Beck replaced the receiver. He rarely made a mistake, but on this occasion he had badly misjudged his quarry.

Foley, who had dined elsewhere, approached the entrance to the Hotel des Bergues cautiously. He peered through the revolving doors into the reception hall beyond. The doorman was talking to the night concierge. No one else about.

He pushed the door and walked inside. Checking his watch, he turned left and wandered up to the door leading into one of the hotel's two restaurants, the Pavillon which overlooks the Rhone. At a banquette window table he saw Newman and Nancy Kennedy who had reached the coffee stage.

Newman had his back to the door which had a glass panel in the upper half. Foley had a three-quarter view of Nancy. Newman suddenly looked over his shoulder, Foley moved away quickly, collected his key and headed for the elevator.

The Pavillon, a restaurant favoured by the locals as well as hotel guests, was half-empty. Newman stared out of the window as several couples hurried past, heads down against the bitter wind, the women wearing furs – sable, lynx, mink – while their men were clad mostly in sheepskins.

`There's a lot of money in this town,' Nancy observed, following his gaze. 'And Bob, that was a superb meal. The chicken was the best I've ever eaten. As good as Bewick's in Walton Street,' she teased him. 'What are you thinking about?'

`That we have to decide our next move – which doesn't mean we necessarily rush on to Berne yet…'

`Why not? I thought we were leaving tomorrow…'

`Maybe, maybe not.' Newman's tone was firm. 'When we've finished do you mind if I take a walk along the lake. Alone. I have some thinking to do.'

`You have an appointment? You've checked your watch three times since the main course…'

`I said a walk.' He grinned to soften his reply. 'Did you know that Geneva is one of the great European centres of espionage? It crawls with agents. The trouble is all the various UN outfits which are here. Half the people of this city are foreigners. The Genevoises get a bit fed up. The foreigners push up the price of apartments – unless you're very wealthy. Like you are…'

`Don't let's spoil a lovely evening.' She checked her own watch. 'You go and have your walk – I'll unpack. Whether we're leaving tomorrow or not I don't want my dresses creased.' Her chin tilted at the determined angle he knew so well. 'Go on – have your walk. Don't spend all night with her…'

`Depends on the mood she's in.' He grinned again.

Newman, his sheepskin turned up at the collar, pushed through the revolving doors and the temperature plummeted. A raw wind slashed at his face. Across the road, beyond iron railings, the Rhone chopped and surged; by daylight he guessed it would have that special greenish colour of water which was melted snow from peaks in the distant Valais.

By night the water looked black. Neon lights from buildings on the opposite shore reflected in the dark flow. Oddly British-sounding signs. The green neon of The British Bank of the Middle East. The blue neon of Kleinwort Benson. The red neon of the Hongkong Bank. Street lamps were a zigzag reflection in the ice-cold water. Thrusting both hands inside his coat pockets he began walking east towards the Hilton.

Behind him Julius Nagy emerged, frozen stiff, from a doorway. The gnome-like figure was careful to keep a couple between himself and Newman. At least his long wait had produced some result. Where the hell could the Englishman be going at this hour, in this weather?

Sitting in Pierre Jaccard's cubby-hole office at the Journal de Geneve, Nagy had received a pleasant shock. Jaccard had first pushed an envelope across his crowded desk and then watched as Nagy opened it. Thirty-year-old Jaccard, already senior reporter on the paper, had come a long way by taking chances, backing his intuition. Thin-faced with watchful eyes which never smiled even when his mouth registered amiability, he drank coffee from a cardboard cup.

`Count it, Nagy. It's all there. Two hundred. Like to make some more?'

`Doing what?' Nagy enquired with calculated indifference.

`You hang on to Newman's tail for dear life. You report back to me where he is, where he goes, whom he meets. I want to know everything about him – down to the colour of the pyjamas he's wearing…'

`An assignment like that costs money,' Nagy said promptly.

It was one of the favourite words in Nagy's vocabulary. He never referred to a job – he was always on an assignment. It was the little man's way of conferring some dignity on his way of life. A man needed to feel he had some importance in the world. Jaccard was too young to grasp the significance of the word, too cynical. Had he understood, he could have bought Nagy for less.

`There's another two hundred in this envelope,' Jaccard said, pushing it across the desk. 'A hundred for your fee, a hundred for expenses. And I'll need a receipted bill for every franc of expenses…'

Nagy shook his head, made no effort to touch the second envelope. Despite Jaccard's expression of boredom he sensed under the surface something big, maybe very big. He clasped his small hands in his lap, pursed his lips.

`Newman could take off for anywhere – Zurich, Basle, Lugano. I need the funds to follow him if I'm to carry out the assignment satisfactorily…'

`How much? And think before you reply…'

`Five hundred. Two for myself for the moment. Three for expenses. You'll get your bills. Not a franc less.'

Jaccard had sighed, reached for his wallet and counted five one-hundred franc notes. Which cleaned him out. Tomorrow he'd been on his way to Munich – but he was gambling again, gambling on Newman who had cracked the Kruger case. Christ, if he could only get on to something like that he'd be made for life.

Which was how Nagy, shivering in his shabby overcoat and Tyrolean hat, came to be following Newman who had now reached the lakeside. Earlier, just before crossing the rue du Mont Blanc, the Englishman had glanced back and Nagy thought he'd been spotted. But now Newman continued trudging along the promenade, his head bent against the wind.

As he approached the Hilton, which faces the lake, the street was so deserted that Newman heard another sound above the whine of the wind. The creaking groan of a paddle steamer moored to one of the landing stages, the noise of the hull grinding against the wood of the mooring posts. A single-funnel paddle steamer going no place: it was still out of season. Waiting for spring. Like the whole of the northern hemisphere. No more neon signs across the broadening expanse of the lake. Only cold, twinkling lights along some distant street. He stopped by the outside lift and pressed the button.

A small version of the external elevators which slide vertiginously up the sides of many American hotels, the lift arrived and Newman stepped inside, pressing another button. It occurred to him how exposed he was as the small cage ascended – the door was of glass, the lift was lit inside, a perfect target for any marksman.

Nagy timed it carefully, running up the staircase to the first floor so he saw Newman vanishing inside the restaurant. He waited, then followed. Before entering the restaurant, Nagy removed his shabby coat, stuffed his Tyrolean hat inside a pocket, smoothed his ruffled hair and walked inside. A wave of heat beat at his bloodless face.

The restaurant is a large rectangle with the long side parallel to the lake. Newman was sitting down at a window table at the far end, a table for two. The other chair was already occupied by a girl who made Nagy stare.

The little man sat at a table near the exit, ordered coffee from the English waitress who appeared promptly – the waitresses here are of various nationalities. He studied Newman's companion surreptitiously. Some people had all the luck he thought without envy.

The girl was in her late twenties, Nagy decided, memorizing her appearance for Jaccard. Thick, titian- (Nagy called it red) coloured hair with a centre parting, a fawn cashmere (at a guess) sweater which showed off her ample figure and tight black leather pants encasing her superb legs from crotch to ankle as though painted on her. Gleaming leather. The new `wet' look. Very good bone structure – high cheekbones.

A stunner. At first Nagy thought she was a tart, then decided he was wrong. This girl had class, something the little man respected. Exceptionally animated, their conversation gradually developed so she listened intently while Newman talked, drinking his cup of coffee at occasional intervals.

At one stage she reached across to straighten his tie, a gesture Nagy duly noted. It suggested a degree of intimacy. Something else for Jaccard. Nagy had the impression Newman was instructing her, that she asked a question only to clarify a point.

When Newman paid the bill and left she remained at the table. Nagy had a moment of indecision – who to watch now? But only a moment. Newman walked towards Nagy – and the exit, putting on his sheepskin as he walked past the little man without even a glance in his direction. Nagy, who had paid his own bill as soon as his coffee had arrived, followed.

This time Newman jibbed at the exposed elevator. He ran down the staircase and walked back briskly along the Siberian promenade. He dived inside the revolving doors of the Hotel des Bergues and went straight up to Room 406. Nancy, wearing a transparent nightdress, opened the door a few inches, then let him inside.

Was she good?' was her first question.

`You think I'm some kind of stud?' he replied genially.

`I'll tell you something – when we arrived and you had to register, I was like a jelly inside with embarrassment. Mr and Mrs R. Newman..

`The Swiss are discreet. I told you…' He had already taken off his tie. `.. they only want to see the man's passport. And it's bloody freezing outside. I walked miles.'

`Come to any decisions?'

`Always sleep on decisions. See how they look in the morning.'

It was in the morning that the world blew up in Newman's face.