Colin Forbes - Terminal

`During my off-duty hours I do what I like…'

`Don't sound indignant. But so far we haven't exactly felt welcome inside this place. I repeat. I insist on meeting you – so suggest somewhere. Thun would be closest?'

`I suppose it would be.' Novak sounded dubious. `I don't see why I have to meet you anywhere..

`Don't you?' Newman, observing what was happening behind Novak's back, kept talking fast. `You're not compelled to, I agree. But then I could start writing articles about this place – naming you as my informant…'

`For Christ's sake, no…'

`No smart lawyer will get me for libel. I'm an expert at hinting at things and I know just how far I can go. Be honest with yourself, Novak – you're desperate to talk to someone. I sensed it within minutes of meeting you…'

The Hotel Freienhof…' The words tumbled out. `… in Thun on the Freienhofgasse… it overlooks the Inner Aare… a stretch of the river flowing in from the lake… the cheaper restaurant… do you know the place?'

`I'll find it. Tomorrow suit you?'

`Day after tomorrow. Thursday. Seven in the evening. It will be dark then…'

While Newman distracted Novak's attention Nancy had been talking to her grandfather, who suddenly woke up, his eyes fierce and alert. She leaned close to him so they could whisper and he spoke without any trace of being drugged.

`What are they doing to you here, Jesse?'

`It's what they're doing to the others. I never wanted to come to this place. That bastard Dr Chase shot me full of some drug in Tucson after I fell off the horse. I was hustled aboard a Lear jet and flown here.

`What do you mean – what they're doing to the others?'

`The patients. It's got to be stopped. They're carrying out some kind of experiments. I keep my ears open and they talk when they think I'm doped out of my mind. The patients don't survive the experiments. A lot of them are dying anyway – but that's no reason for murdering them…'

`Are you sure, Jesse? How are you feeling?'

`I'm OK. As long as I'm inside here you've got a pipeline into this place. Don't worry about me…'

`I do,' she whispered.

`Nancy.' Newman had left the window and was walking round the bed. 'Maybe it would be better if we came back another day when your grandfather isn't sedated…'

She looked up at him and saw him stop suddenly. Her expression was a mixture of pathos, anxiety and puzzlement. Newman put a finger to his lips to hush both Novak and Nancy. Jesse lay inert in the bed, his eyes closed. Newman bent down close to the head of the bed and listened. No, he had not been mistaken. He had caught the sound of a whirring noise, of machinery working.

Lee Foley had followed Newman at a discreet distance until he rounded a bend on the snowbound hillside in time to see Newman turn off along the narrow road leading to the Berne Clinic. He drove the Porsche straight past the turn-off and continued up the slope towards the fir forest.

As he ascended higher and higher he looked down on the buildings of the Clinic. He continued climbing until he reached the forest where he swung off the road, wheels skidding dangerously, heading for a narrow opening between the towering black firs. Always take the high ground.

Turning the Porsche through a hundred and eighty degrees – ready for a quick departure – he switched off the engine. On the floor of the empty seat behind him lay a pair of powerful binoculars in a leather case. He extracted them from the case, climbed out of the car and stood half-behind the erect trunk of an immensely tall tree.

Lifting the binoculars he adjusted the focus and slowly swept the lenses across the view far below. Within half an hour he had memorized the entire layout of the Clinic, the weird covered tunnel connecting it to the laboratory complex, and the laboratory itself. Then, ignoring the bitter east wind which scoured his craggy face, he settled down to wait, taking a nip of whisky from his hip flask.

Lee Foley was not the only watcher who took an interest in the Berne Clinic that wintry afternoon in mid-February. The rider on the scooter who had – by driving the machine to the limit – kept up with Foley, took a different route.

The scooter proceeded up the hillside to the point where the sign indicated the turn-off to the Clinic. Here it swung right, following the road taken earlier by Newman. Instead of stopping at the gatehouse, it went on past full tilt, so fast that the Dobermans, again released, had no time to reach the gate.

The rider headed towards Thun, then turned off along a side track leading up the far side of the plateau. The surface of the track was diabolical but the rider continued upwards with great skill until, a snow-covered knoll to the left and close to the track obscured the grounds of the Clinic. The rider stopped, perched the machine against a pile of logs and used both hands to remove the helmet.

A cascade of titian hair fell down her back in a waterfall, was caught in the wind and streamed behind her. The girl opened the carrying satchel and took out a camera with a telescopic lens. She strode up the side of the knoll, her black leather pants sheathing her long, agile legs. At the summit she peered over. The entire, huge estate comprising the grounds and the buildings of the Berne Clinic spread out below.

Crouching down, she raised the view-finder to her eyes, scanning the laboratory complex, the igloo-like tunnel linking it to the side of the Clinic, the main building of the Clinic itself. Deftly, she began taking pictures, swivelling the lens, clicking almost continuously.

Inside Jesse Kennedy's room Newman, who had acute hearing, remained stooped as he searched for the source of the continuous whirring sound. Then he saw the metal, louvred grille set low down in the wall. It looked like an air-conditioning grille.

He knelt on the floor, pressing his ear against the louvres. The sound was much louder – a whirring noise with an occasional click at regular intervals. Putting a finger to his lips again to keep them quiet, he stood up. Facing Nancy and Novak, he gestured towards the grille and mouthed the words. Tape recorder.

Walking a few feet away from the grille, he started talking, raising his voice. His manner was aggressive, his target Novak.

`Now listen to me, Dr Novak – and listen well. We're leaving total responsibility for Jesse Kennedy's welfare in the hands of the Berne Clinic. You understand that clearly? Answer me!'

`That has always been the situation,' Novak replied, playing along with Newman. 'Nothing will be changed by your visit – and you can rest assured Mr Kennedy will continue to receive every care and attention…'

`He'd better.' Newman stabbed a finger into Novak's chest. `I don't know whether you're aware of the fact, but in a few days' time a major international medical congress is being held – including a reception at the Bellevue Palace. If anything happened to Jesse I'll shout my head off at that reception. We haven't exactly had the red carpet rolled out for us since we arrived at this place…'

`I do assure you…' Novak began.

`You'd better talk to Kohler and Grange and get their assurances, too. I blew the Kruger case wide open and I'm a man who can make a lot of noise. We're leaving now. Nancy…'

`Dr Novak, we'll be back – and very soon,' Nancy said firmly as Novak produced his key card.

Newman was close to the door when it slid back and he was looking beyond it.. Two men in white coats walked past the opening, pushing a long trolley. Something lay on the trolley, something covered with a sheet which protruded upwards at the rear end – at the end where a patient's head would be. The silhouette was very large and shaped like a cage. From underneath the sheet a hand projected, a hand which moved in a grasping movement.