Colin Forbes - Terminal

`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.