Colin Forbes - Terminal

One of the men – something about his manner, a man in his forties with a moustache, suggested he was in charge – let an object slip from his right hand. His reflexes were very good. He caught the object in mid-air before it hit the cobbles. An object which looked exactly like a walkie-talkie.

Foley smiled to himself as he climbed out of his car and locked it. He thought he knew their profession.

Unlike Berne, the town of Thun is as Germanic as it sounds. The river Aare, flowing in from Thunersee – Lake Thun, too far from the town to be seen – bisects it. The river also isolates the central section on an island linked to both banks by a series of bridges.

Arriving in Thun, as with Berne, is an excursion back to the Middle Ages. Ancient buildings hover at the water's edge. Old covered bridges, roofed with wood, span stretches of the Aare which, leaving Thun behind, flows on to distant Berne.

Driving along the Hauptgasse, Newman saw the red Porsche as it turned down the Grabenstrasse and decided his suspicions were groundless. He drove on, turned right on to the island over the Sinnebrucke and parked the Citroen in the Balliz. He then walked back through the quiet of the dark streets to the Freienhof Hotel which overlooks a stretch of the Aare. The first surprise was Waldo Novak had got there before him.

Taking off his coat and hanging it on a hook in the lobby, he studied the American who sat at a corner table in the public restaurant. Two empty glasses on the table told Newman that Novak had arrived early to tank up, to brace himself to face the Englishman, which suited Newman very nicely.

`Another Canadian Club,' Novak ordered from the waiter and then saw Newman.

`I'll have the same…'

`Don't forget – doubles,' Novak called out to the waiter's back. 'Okay, Newman, so you made it. Where do we go from here?'

`Why did you take that job at the Berne Clinic?' Newman enquired casually.

He sat waiting while Novak downed half his fresh glass and sipped at his own. The American wore a loud check sports jacket and grey flannel slacks. His face was flushed and he fiddled with the glass he had banged down on the table.

`For money. Why does anyone take any job?' he demanded.

`Sometimes because they're… dedicated is the word I'm seeking, I think.'

`Well, you found it – the word! Found anything else recently I should know about?'

`A couple of bodies.'

Novak stiffened. The high colour left his young-looking face. He gripped his glass so tightly, the knuckles whitened, that Newman thought he was going to crush it. Although the tables close to them were unoccupied he stared round the restaurant like a hunted man.

`What bodies?' he said eventually.

`First a little man called Julius Nagy. There's an ironclad link between him and Dr Kobler. Someone shoved Nagy off the Munster Plattform in Berne the other night. It's a drop of at least a hundred feet, probably more. He ended up on top of a car. Mashed potato.'

`You trying to frighten me?'

`Just keeping you informed of developments. Don't you want to know about the second body?'

`Go ahead, Newman. You're not scaring me…'

`An Englishman called Bernard Mason. He had been investigating Swiss clinics – which I'm sure we'll find was a cover for checking on the Berne Clinic. He ended up in the river – his body pounded to pulp by a sluice. It doesn't seem to be too healthy an occupation – taking an interest in the Berne Clinic. Waiter, another two doubles. We like reserves…'

`I don't think I want to talk to you, Newman.'

`You have someone else you can trust? What makes it worth your while to work for Professor Armand Grange?' `Two hundred thousand bucks a year..

He said it with an air of drunken bravado, to show Newman he counted for something, that even at his comparatively early age he was a winner. Newman discounted the enormous salary – Novak had to be exaggerating. Wildly. He paid the waiter for the fresh round of drinks and Novak grabbed for his glass, almost spilling it in the process.

`What kind of a boss is Grange to work for?' Newman enquired.

`I've come to a decision, Newman.' He made it sound like Napoleon about to issue orders for the battle of Austerlitz. `I'm not talking to you any more. So why don't you just piss off?'

That was the moment Newman knew he had lost him. It was also the moment Lee Foley chose to walk in and sit down in the chair facing Novak.

`I'm Lee Foley. You are Dr Waldo Novak of New York. You are at present assigned to the Berne Clinic. Correct?'

Bare-headed, Foley wore slacks and a windcheater. His blue eyes stared fixedly at the doctor. He had not even glanced in Newman's direction. There was something about Foley's manner which caused Novak to make a tremendous effort to sober up.

`So what if I am?' he asked with an attempt at truculence.

`We are worried about you, Novak.' Foley spoke in a calm, flat tone but his voice still had a gravelly timbre. 'The fact is, we are growing more worried about you day by day,' he added.

`Who the hell is "we"? Who the hell are you?'

`CIA…'

Foley flipped open a folder and pushed it across the table. Novak put down his glass without drinking. He picked up the folder and stared at it, looked at Foley, then back at the folder. Foley reached across and wrenched it out of his hand, slipped it back inside his breast pocket and the blue eyes held Novak's as he went on talking quietly.

`I'll tell you-what you're going to do. You're going to give Newman answers to any and all questions he may ask. Do I make myself clear?'

`And if I don't?'

`Nothing to drink, thank you,' Foley said, refusing Newman's offer, his eyes still holding Novak's. 'If you don't. I think you should know we are already considering withdrawing your passport. And I understand the Justice Department has gone further. Discussions are under way on the possibility of revoking your American citizenship…'

Foley still spoke in a cool, offhand manner. He glanced at Newman and said yes, he would have a drink, just some Perrier water. His throat was rather dry. It must be the low temperatures. He checked his watch.

`I'm short of time, Novak. And don't approach the American Embassy in Berne. That will only make matters worse for you. This comes direct from Washington. Make up your mind. Are you – or are you not – going to cooperate with Newman?'

`I'd like a little time to consider…'

`No time! Now! Yes. Or no.'

Foley drank his Perrier and stared away from Novak, gazing out of the window. Beyond a narrow road was an arm of the river. Beyond that old buildings whose lights reflected in the dark water. He finished his Perrier, checked his watch again and looked direct at Novak.

`And you haven't met me. I don't exist. That is, if you value your health. Now, which is it to be?'

`I'll cooperate. This will be kept confidential, I hope?'

Foley stood up without replying, a very big man, nodded to Newman and walked out into the night. Novak gestured to the waiter who brought two more glasses. Newman waited until he had downed more Canadian Club and left his own glass on the table.

`What do you want to know?' Novak asked in a tone of resignation.

`What is the nationality of the patients in the Berne Clinic? Mixed?'

`It's odd. No Swiss. They're all American – with a few from South America when they can afford it. Grange charges enormous fees. Most of them come to him as a result of his lecture tours in the States. He's into cellular rejuvenation in a big way. So, it's a two-way pull.'

`What does that mean?'

`Look, Newman…' Novak, ashen-faced from his encounter with Foley, turned to look at the Englishman. `… this isn't an ideal world we live in. There are a lot of American families reeking with money, often new money. Oil tycoons in Texas, men who have made millions in Silicon Valley out of the electronics boom. Others, too. Grange has a sharp eye for a set-up where the money is controlled by some elderly man or woman whose nearest and dearest are panting to take that control away. They send the head of the family to the Berne Clinic for this so-called cellular rejuvenation. That gets them out of the way. They apply for a court order to administer the estate. You get the picture?'