Colin Forbes - Terminal

`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…'