Colin Forbes - Terminal

`I do know that, Rene,' Newman said quietly.

`But do you also know the Soviets have perfected far more deadly toxic gases – especially those highly lethal irritants which they have adapted for use by their chemical battalions? I am referring, Bob, specifically, to hydrogen cyanide…'

Hydrogen cyanide…'

The two words rang through Newman's head like the clang of a giant hammer hitting a mighty anvil. Lachenal continued talking in a level voice devoid of emotion.

`This substance is regarded in the West as being too volatile. Not so by the Soviets. They, have equipped their special chemical warfare sections with frog rockets and stud missiles. Artillery shells filled with this diabolical agent are also part of their armoury. Did you say something, Bob?'

`No. Maybe I grunted. Please go on…'

`The Soviets have further equipped aircraft with sophisticated spray tanks containing this advanced form of hydrogen cyanide gas. We have calculated that a single shell fired through the vehicle of a missile, an artillery shell or from a spray tank – aimed by a low-flying aircraft – would destroy all life over an area of one square kilometre. Just a single shell,' Lachenal repeated.

Newman heard him but he also heard Nancy's diagnosis of how Mrs Holly Laird had died. And the complexion of the face showed distinct traces of cyanosis. What was it Anna Kleist had replied? My examination so far confirms precisely Dr Kennedy's impression…'

Lachenal walked back from the window and again sat behind his desk, clasping his hands as he stared at his visitor who sat motionless. Newman shook his head slightly, brought himself back into the present. He had the distinct conviction that the Swiss was labouring under enormous tension, that he was concealing that tension with a tremendous effort of will.

`And so,' Lachenal concluded, 'all that started with Tabun. Which was what you came here to talk about – not the Leopard.'

`If you say so, Rene.' Newman heaved himself to his feet and reached for his coat. 'I'd better be going now…'

`One more thing, Bob.' Lachenal had stood up and he spoke with great earnestness. 'We all have to be the final judge of our own conduct in this world. No hiding behind the order of a so-called superior…'

`I would say you're right there,' Newman replied slowly.

It was this conversation which decided Newman as he left the Bundeshaus Ost – decided him that at the very first opportunity he would get Nancy out of Switzerland-even if it meant he had to crash the border.

`I'm going to visit Jesse – with or without you,' Nancy announced when Newman returned to their bedroom. `They're holding that Medical Congress reception here tomorrow evening. Are you, or are you not, coming with me?'

`I agree – and I'm coming with you.'

Newman dragged a chair over to the window and sank into it, staring at the view. The dark grey sea of cloud was lower than ever. He thought Lachenal had been right: they would have snow in Berne within the next twenty-four hours. Nancy came up behind him and wrapped her arms round his neck.

`I expected an argument. You're looking terribly serious. God, you've changed since we started out on this trip. Has something upset you?'

`Nancy, I want you to listen to me carefully. Most people think of Switzerland as a country of cuckoo clocks, Suchard chocolate and skiing. In one of his novels a famous writer made a wisecrack about the cuckoo clocks. There's another side to Switzerland most tourists never even dream exists.'

`Go on. I'm listening…'

`That makes a change. The Swiss are probably the toughest, most sturdy nation in Western Europe. They are ruthless realists – in a way I sometimes wish we were in Britain. They'll go a long way to ensure their survival. You know about their military service. This country has been on a wartime footing ever since nineteen thirty-nine. They still are. From now on we have to move like people walking through a minefield – because that's what lies in our path. A minefield…'

`Bob, you've found out something new since you left the hotel. Where have you been? And why the sudden turnabout as regards visiting the Berne Clinic?'

Newman stood up and began pacing the large room while he lit a cigarette and talked. He punctuated each remark with a chopping gesture of his left hand.

`We started out with four people who might have told us what is really going on. Julius Nagy, Mason – the Englishman I met briefly in the bar – together with Dr Waldo Novak and Manfred Seidler. The first two have been murdered – the police are convinced of that although they can't prove a thing. That leaves us Novak and Seidler.

`You want to see Novak again? That's why you agreed to go back to the Berne Clinic?'

`One reason. If I can get Novak on his own for a short time I think he will tell me more – especially after that appalling episode over the death of Mrs Laird. He's very close to cracking, I'm convinced. Incidentally, you mentioned the Medical Congress reception. Why do you want to see Jesse before that takes place?'

`To get more information from him, if I can. To find out, again if I can, what his real condition is. Then at that reception I'm going to confront Professor Grange. We know he's going to be there. Don't try and stop me, Bob – I've made up my mind. Now,' she continued briskly, 'what about Seidler?'

`He could be the key to the whole labyrinthine business. He's phoning me here at five and we'll meet him this evening. Better pack a small case for both of us – essentials for an overnight stay…'

`Why?' she asked suspiciously.

`Seidler sounds even more trigger-happy than Novak. My guess is he'll fix a rendezvous point a long way off – some place we can just reach in time after his call by driving like hell. That way he'll hope we won't have time to alert anyone else. He smells like a man who trusts no one.'

`Oh, by the way, Bob,' she said casually, 'Novak knows I'm visiting the Clinic today. I phoned him while you were out. I got lucky. That creepy old bitch, Astrid, must be off duty. A man answered the phone and put me straight through to Novak. And he told me Kobler is away some place.'

`Kobler's not at the Clinic?' Newman asked quickly.

`That's right. Neither is Grange. Novak did ask me if you would be coming. He sounded anxious that you would be. Can we leave soon?'

`After I've kept a brief appointment with someone in the bar. I met him on my way in. One of your own countrymen – a Lee Foley…'

`And who might he be?'

`A killer…'

He left her on that note, driving home again that she had better watch her step if she wanted to live.

The tall American with the thatch of white hair stood up courteously as Newman came across to his table inside the bar. He already had a drink in a tall glass crammed with ice. Newman said he would have a large Scotch and sat down on the banquette alongside Lee Foley who wore an expensive blue business suit, a cream shirt and a smart blue tie with small white checks. Gold links dangled from his cuffs.

`You're staying at the Bellevue, Lee?' Newman enquired.

`For the moment, yes. Unfinished business.' He raised his glass. 'Cheers! I've just had a visit from that bastard Federal policeman, Beck. I could feel sorry for the gentleman – he can't find a reason to throw me out of the country…'

`Not yet…'

By then I'll be gone…'

`You still keep up your flying – piloting a plane?'

`Just light aircraft. Pipers, stuff like that…'

`What about a Lear executive jet?' Newman suggested.

`Now you're reaching.' Foley smiled his dry smile which was not reflected in the ice-blue eyes. 'Beck,' he continued, 'is concerned with the way the body count is rising. Two so far. The little man you and I talked with – and now some Englishman…'