Colin Forbes - Terminal

The same atmosphere of restlessness, of moody irritability which infected Basle was also apparent all day in Berne. Gisela had noticed it in her chief, Arthur Beck, and both Newman and Nancy had found the day a trial. They had felt lethargic and everything seemed such an effort they passed the whole day trying not to get on each other's nerves. Before going to bed, Newman went out for a long walk by himself.

Returning, he tapped on their bedroom door and heard Nancy unlock it. She was wearing her bathrobe. The second thing Newman noticed as he walked into the bedroom and threw his coat on the bed was a fresh pot of coffee, two cups and a jug of cream on a tray.

`I've had a bath,' Nancy said as she lit a cigarette. Did you enjoy your walk? You've been out ages…'

`Not especially. Enjoy your bath?'

`Not especially. Trying to bathe myself was one hell of an effort. Like paddling through treacle. What's wrong with us?'

`Two things. The concierge explained one cause – the fohn wind is blowing. You get edgy and tired. Yes, I know – you don't feel any sense of a wind but it drives people round the bend. And the suicide rate goes up…'

`Charming. And the other thing?'

`I sense this whole business about the Berne Clinic is moving towards a climax. That's what is getting to us…'

The unmarked police car with the two plain clothes Federal policemen drove slowly along the Aarstrasse towards the lofty span of the Kirchenfeld bridge. The river was on the far side of the road to their left. Leupin sat behind the wheel with his partner, Marbot, alongside him. They were the two men Beck had earlier in the week sent to the Bahnhof to watch for Lee Foley. It was Marbot who saw the sluice.

In the middle of the night it was freezingly cold. Because they had the heater on full blast the windscreen kept misting up with condensation. Leupin cleared it with the windscreen wipers while Marbot lowered the side window at intervals to give him a clear view.

`Slow down, Jean,' Marbot said suddenly. 'There's something odd over there by that sluice…'

`I can't see anything,' Leupin replied but he stopped the car.

`Give me the night-glasses a sec…'

Shivering, rubbing his hands as the night air flooded in through the open window, Leupin waited patiently. Marbot lowered the binoculars and turned to look at his companion.

`I think we'd better drive over there – where we can get on to the walkway to the sluices…'

As the car was driven away to cross the Aare, Mason's battered, waterlogged body continued to be churned against the sluice, a sodden wreck of a man with the head lacerated in a score of places.

Thursday, 16 February. The headquarters of Army Intelligence in Berne is located in the large square stone building next to the Bellevue Palace if you turn left on emerging from the hotel. This is Bundeshaus Ost.

Newman entered the large reception hall beyond glass doors, walked up to the receptionist and placed his passport on the counter. His manner was brisk, confident and he spoke while his passport was being examined.

`Please inform Captain Lachenal I have arrived. He knows me well. I am also rather short of time…'

`You are expected, M. Newman. The attendant will escort you to Captain Lachenal's office…'

Newman gave no indication of his astonishment. He followed the attendant up a large marble staircase. He was escorted to Lachenal's old office on the second floor, an office at the rear of the building with windows overlooking the Aare and the Bantiger rising beyond on the far bank of the river.

`Welcome to Berne again, Bob. You come at an interesting time – which no doubt is why you are here…'

Lachenal, thirty-five years old, tall and thin-faced with thick black hair brushed over the top of his head, exposing an impressive forehead, came round his desk to shake hands. The Swiss was an intellectual and in some ways – with his long nose, his commanding bearing, his considerable height and his aloof manner – he reminded Newman of de Gaulle. He was one of the world's greatest authorities on the Soviet Red Army.

`You expected me,' Newman remarked. 'Why, Rene?'

`The same old Bob – always straight to the point. Sit down and I will help you as far as I can. As to expecting you, we knew you had arrived in Berne, that you are staying at the Bellevue Palace. What could be more natural than to expect a visit from you? Does that answer your question?'

`No. I have come here with my fiancee whose grandfather is a patient in the Berne Clinic. Why should that involve a visit to you?'

`Ah! The Berne Clinic…'

Seated in a chair facing the Swiss, Newman studied his friend. Dressed in mufti, he wore a smart, blue, pin-striped business suit, a blue-striped shirt and a plain blue tie. Newman shifted his gaze to the uniform hanging on a side wall. The jacket carried three yellow bars on shoulder epaulettes, bars repeated round the peaked cap – indicating Lachenal's rank of captain.

But what interested Newman were the trousers. Down each side was a broad black strip. Lachenal was more than a captain – he was now an officer on the General Staff. The Swiss followed his gaze.

`Yes, a little promotion since last we met…'

`And you report to?'

`Again the direct question! To the chief of UNA which, as you know, is the Sub-Department Information chief and a certain two-star general. I have direct access to him at all times…'

`So you are working on a special project?'

`You will not expect me to reveal information which is not only confidential but also classified,' Lachenal replied drily. `Why have I come at an interesting time?'

`Oh, that is simple… Lachenal spread his long, slim- fingered hands. 'Certain military manoeuvres are taking place.'

`Military manoeuvres are always taking place,' Newman countered. 'And why did you perk up when I mentioned the Berne Clinic? Incidentally, is that place being guarded by Swiss troops?'

Lachenal shook his head, more in sorrow than anger. 'Now you know I can neither confirm nor deny what establishments in this country come under military protection. Bob, what a question!'

`It's a damned good question,' Newman persisted aggressively. 'I actually spotted a man wearing Swiss Army uniform inside the place…'

He watched Lachenal's dark, steady eyes for any sign of anxiety. You might just as well hope for de Gaulle himself to reveal his real feelings. There was only one tiny out of character reaction. Lachenal took a king-size cigarette from a pack on the desk and lit it, then remembered his manners.

`Sorry.' He offered the pack and lit Newman's cigarette. `Can I talk about something for a few minutes?' he began, sitting very erect in his chair. 'As you know, we are preparing for military conflict. All able-bodied men serve specific periods annually in the forces until they are forty-five. When the war will come from the East we shall be ready to defend ourselves. What we are worried about is the enemy's massive use of helicopters. Still, that problem may soon be solved. At this very moment we are testing certain missiles in the Bernina Pass area – because in that zone we have deep snow and it is very cold. War in low temperatures, Bob…'

Newman was puzzled. At first he had thought Lachenal was skilfully guiding the conversation away from the subject of the Berne Clinic. Now he sensed the General Staff officer was telling him something quite different, something he wished to get across by subtle means.

`I do know the general attitude of the Swiss,' Newman remarked. wish to God our War Office would send a team here so it could study your techniques for use in Britain…'

`Please!' Lachenal held up a slim hand. 'Let me continue so you get the complete picture. Then ask questions.' He puffed at his cigarette and continued. 'What I am about to tell you is highly confidential – on no account to be reported. You see, we have two competing military philosophies, two schools of thought, if you like. One is held by the majority – at the moment – of the regular Swiss Army. They believe we should continue to stick to orthodox strategy. But there is a second school, mostly made up of officers who spend most of the year working at their civilian jobs. Like the regulars they also subscribe to the theory of defence tous azimuts…'