Colin Forbes - Terminal

`I must dash out again.' She checked her watch. 'I saw some perfume. I'm packed. I have time. Be back in ten minutes…'

`You'll have to move. You're like a bloody grasshopper. In and out. Nancy, I don't want to miss that train…'

`So you can use the time settling up the bill. See you…'

`M. Kobler,' the concierge greeted the man who had just walked into the Hotel des Bergues. 'Good to see you again, sir.'

`You haven't seen me. Robert Newman is staying here.' `He's upstairs in his room. You wish me to call him?' `Not at the moment…'

Kobler glanced quickly inside the Pavillon before walking into the restaurant. He chose a table which gave him a good view through the glass-panelled door of the reception hall, ordered a pot of coffee, paid for it, and settled down to wait.

The cab he had travelled in from the station was parked outside. He had paid the driver a generous tip with instructions to wait for him. A titian-haired beauty wearing a short fur over her jeans tucked inside knee-length boots walked in and he stared at her.

Their eyes met and a flicker of interest showed in hers as she passed his table and chose a seat facing the reception hall. It was nice, Kobler reflected, to know that you hadn't lost your touch. She had, of course, in that long glance assessed his income group. Not a pro. Just a woman.

Half an hour later he saw a porter carrying luggage out of the reception hall, followed by an attractive woman, followed by Newman. He stood up, put on his coat and walked out of the revolving doors in time to see Newman's back disappearing inside the rear of a cab. He glanced along the pavement to his left and stiffened. Kobler missed one development as he climbed inside his own cab and told the driver to follow the cab ahead.

The titian-haired girl he had admired came out of the door leading direct on to the street. Running round the corner, she climbed on to the scooter she had left parked there, kicked the starter and followed Kobler's taxi.

Cornavin Gare, Geneva's main station, was quiet on a Tuesday in mid-February near lunchtime. Kobler paid off his cab and followed Newman and the expensively-dressed woman with him into the concourse. Standing to one side, he watched Emil Graf go into action, joining the ticket queue behind Newman. Only two people were ahead of the Englishman, so Emil, after purchasing his own tickets, soon came over to Kobler.

`He bought a one-way ticket to Berne, two tickets actually. I've bought tickets for both of us – in case you wish…'

`I do wish. Tickets to where?'

`Zurich. The eleven fifty-six goes through, of course.'

Kobler congratulated himself on his choice of Graf for the station. He took the ticket Graf handed him and put it inside his crocodile wallet.

`Why to Zurich, Emil – when Newman booked seats for Berne?'

`These foreign correspondents are tricky. His real destination could be Zurich..

`Excellent, Emil. You see that little man with the absurd Tyrolean hat, the one buying his own ticket? That's Nagy. He is scum. The police once threw him out of Berne. He followed Newman in a cab from the hotel.' Kobler checked his watch. `Your next job is Julius Nagy. Hang on to his tail. Wait your opportunity. Get him in the train lavatory – or some alley when he gets off. Find out who he is working for. Break a few arms, legs, if necessary. Scare the hell out of him Then put him on our payroll. Tell him to continue following Newman, to report all his movements and contacts to you.'

`It's done.'

Kobler picked up his brief-case and watched Graf trotting away with his holdall. The contents might come in useful to persuade Nagy where survival lay. Kobler checked the departure board and headed for the platform where the Zurich Express was due to leave in five minutes.

In the far corner of the station Lee Foley watched all these developments with interest from behind the newspaper he held in front of his face. He had left the Hotel des Bergues only five minutes ahead of Newman and Nancy, anticipating this would give him a ringside seat. After buying a one-way first-class ticket to Berne he had taken up his discreet viewing point where he could watch all the ticket windows. As Kobler disappeared he folded the paper, tucked it inside the pocket of his coat, picked up his bag and made his own way towards the same platform.

The passenger everyone – including Foley – missed noticing was a titian-haired girl. A porter carried her scooter inside the luggage van. She boarded the next coach and the express bound for Berne and Zurich glided out of the station.

Berne! A city unique not only in Switzerland but also in the whole of Western Europe. Its topography alone is weird. Wrapped inside a serpentine bend of the river Aare, it extends eastward as a long peninsula – its length stretching from the main station and the University to the distant Nydeggbrucke, the bridge where it finally crosses the Aare.

Its width is a quarter of its length. At many points you can walk across the peninsula, leaving the river behind, only to find in less than ten minutes, the far bend of the river barring your way.

Berne is a fortress. Built on a gigantic escarpment, it rears above the surrounding countryside. Below the Terrasse behind the Parliament building, the ground slopes steeply away. Below the Plattform at the side of the Munster the massive wall ramparts drop like a precipice one hundred and fifty feet to the Badgasse. Beyond, the noose of the Aare flows past from distant Lake Thun.

The escarpment is at its peak near Parliament and the station. As the parallel streets wind their way east they descend towards the Nydeggbrucke.

Berne is old, very old. The Munster goes back to 1421. And because it is centuries since it endured the curse of war, it has remained old. It is a city for human moles. The streets are lined with a labyrinth of huddled arcades like burrows. People can walk through these arcades in the worst of weathers, secure from snow and rain.

When night falls-even during heavily overcast days-there is a sinister aspect to the city. Few walk down the stone arcades of the Munstergasse, which continues east as the Junkerngasse until it reaches the Nydeggbrucke. All streets end at the bridge.

Backwards and forwards across its waist, a network of narrow alleys thread their way, alleys where you rarely meet another human being. And when the mist rolls in across the Aare, smoky coils drift down the arcades, increasing the atmosphere of menace.

Yet here in Berne are located – principally in buildings close to the Bellevue Palace – centres of power which do not always see eye to eye with the bankers. Swiss Military Intelligence, the Federal Police of which Arthur Beck is a key figure – are housed either next door to or within minutes' walk of one of the greatest hotels in Europe.

At the station a keen observer sees that Berne is where German Switzerland meets its French counterpart. The station is BahnhofGare. At the foot of the steps leading to pairs of platforms the left-hand platform is Voie, the right-hand Gleis. The express from Geneva arrived on time at precisely 1.58 pm.

During the journey from Geneva Newman, facing Nancy in her own window seat, had not moved. Gazing out of the window while the express sped from Geneva towards Lausanne he watched the fields covered in snow. The sun shone and frequently he had to turn away from the harshness of the sun glare.

`It's not non-stop as I thought,' he told Nancy. 'Lausanne, Fribourg and then Berne…'

`You look very serious, very concentrated. Too many things happened in Geneva?'

`Keep your voice down.' He leaned forward. 'Police headquarters for a start, then our friend on the phone. A lot to open the day…'

He was careful not to tell her he had seen Julius Nagy board the second-class coach immediately behind them. Who was Nagy really working for? The problem bothered him. At least they were heading for Berne. At the first opportunity he would go and talk to Arthur Beck. If anyone could – would – tell him what was going on, that man was Beck.