Colin Forbes - Terminal

`Through that door where I went when we arrived,' Seidler told him sullenly. 'You'll find it on your right when you get inside…'

Hidden in the lavatory, Newman pulled up his trouser legs and concealed the miniature tape inside the thick sock on his left foot. The film from the camera he shoved down inside his other sock. When he came out Seidler was putting the gas mask into one of the suitcases and-snapping the catches shut.

I'll keep this if you don't mind…'

`It's your property. Why the sudden desire for cleanliness, Nancy? We've got to get out of here fast before something unfortunate happens.'

She was crouched by the huge open fireplace filled with logs, using a dustpan and brush to sweep up the hearth. She stood up, put the pan and brush back inside a cupboard and rubbed her hands clean of dust.

`You wanted the tape-recorder hidden. It's underneath the logs,' she snapped.

`That's a good place. Thanks, Nancy.' Newman turned towards Seidler. 'You were saying something about a girlfriend – I didn't think you'd want her details on record…' am grateful…' Seidler swallowed and showed signs of emotion. If anything happens to me I would like her to know. She had nothing to do with Terminal. Will you take down her address and phone number? Erika Stahel…'

Newman wrote the details in his notebook with a wooden expression as though he had never heard of her. He went on writing and then froze for a second at Seidler's next words.

`She works for Dr Max Nagel, the big Basle banker. Nagel is the only man powerful enough to oppose Grange. He has just left Basle for Berne to attend some medical reception at the Bellevue Palace..

`The reception tomorrow?' Nancy asked sharply.

`I don't know when. Hadn't we better leave this place?'

`Immediately,' responded Newman. 'And prepare yourself for a rough ride. I'm driving like hell along the road to Le Brassus…'

`Why Le Brassus?' Seidler queried, picking up the suitcase containing the gas mask.

`Because we want to avoid Le Pont – after what happened at the station. God knows what could be waiting for us there.'

Nancy had washed up the pan, their mugs and replaced them where she had found them. She was carrying the opened jar of coffee which she said ought to be taken away. No trace of their visit remained when Seidler, still nervy and anxious to leave, opened the front door. There was a score of questions Newman would have liked to ask him but the priority was to move, to get over the border into France. Newman held the front door key Seidler had handed him. The first shot was fired as Newman locked the door while Seidler and Nancy were heading for the Citroen parked under the trees. In the cold silence of the night the report was a loud Crack!

`Run!' Newman yelled. 'Crouch down! Get into the car for Christ's sake!'

The second shot – Newman now realized it was a rifle – was fired in rapid succession. Stumbling down the icy steps, holding the second suitcase Seidler had left behind in his left hand, Newman saw the case Seidler had taken jerk out of his hand. The shot had passed through the case. Seidler picked it up and continued his shambling trot towards the car which Nancy had already reached, unlocked and opened the doors.

A third shot was fired, a fourth – neither came anywhere near them. That was when Newman realized there was a second rifleman – firing at the first. The night reverberated with a fusillade of shots.

The wind blew and there was a strange weather phenomenon Newman had never seen before. A wave of snow dust, as fine as salt particles, cruised a foot high across the lower slopes, swirling round his ankles as he reached the car. Seidler had dived into the rear seat, Nancy was in the front passenger seat. She had inserted one of the keys Newman had given her on their arrival while he studied the old house, in the ignition. He slid in behind the wheel, slammed the door, drove out from under the trees and a rifle shot grazed the bonnet.

`Oh, Jesus!' said Nancy. `What's happening?'

`It's weird – there are two of them. One firing at us, the other firing at the first marksman. Christ, how many people know we're up here?'

The sound of the shots faded as he drove as fast as he dare. In their headlights the road was gleaming like a skating rink. He passed through the main street of L'Abbaye and the village seemed deserted. Now for Le Brassus – and the French border. That was when he heard again the sound of the chopper coming closer.

Le Brassus VD – the road sign said – was a village of ancient villas, stark trees and gardens fronted with beech hedges half-buried under a coating of snow. Again deserted. They had left the lake behind. Newman pulled out of a skid and drove on.

`The second case I threw in the back,' he called out. 'It contains what, Seidler?'

`Old newspapers. Where are you taking me?'

`To safety. The French frontier is just ahead. If I have to, I'll crash the border to get through…'

`We're leaving Switzerland?' Nancy asked.

`You'll be safer in France, so will Seidler. And I may be able to operate more freely outside Switzerland. I plan to phone Beck, tell him we have Seidler's evidence, see if he'll raid the Berne Clinic…'

The sign came up in their headlights. Zoll – Douane. 2 km. They were within a couple of kilometres of escape. Newman pressed his foot down, at times gliding over the ice shining threateningly in the beams. He glanced at Nancy and she nodded her approval of the course he was taking. She had been badly shaken by the violence at Le Pont station, by the shooting outside the old house.

`Oh, God! No!' she exclaimed.

Something else was showing up in the headlights and Newman slowed down. The black Audi had been positioned at right-angles, acting as a road-block. To one side a second car, a Saab, was parked on the verge. Uniformed policemen stood waving torches frantically. Newman stopped the car, sagged behind the wheel. They were trapped.

The first sound he heard as he stepped out on to the slippery road was the roar of the chopper's rotors as it landed, a large, dark silhouette, in a nearby field. He told Nancy and Seidler to stay in the car and went to meet the nearest policeman.

`What the devil do you think you're doing?' he asked in French.

`Instructions, sir. Someone is coming..

The policeman gestured towards the field where the chopper had landed. A compact figure came out of the darkness, hatless and wearing an overcoat. Arthur Beck. Of course. The Federal police chief trod his way carefully across the road and peered inside the Citroen.

`You've no reason to stop us,' Newman snapped.

`You were thinking of leaving the country?' Beck enquired. `What concern is it of yours?'

`Every concern, my friend. You are a material witness in my investigation into the deaths of Julius Nagy and Bernard Mason…'

Another man had emerged from the helicopter and was walking towards Beck. A man of medium height, well-built, who walked with a deliberate tread. As he passed in front of the headlights of the Citroen Newman saw he was dressed in the uniform of a colonel in the Swiss Army. Under his peaked cap, beneath his thick eyebrows, motionless eyes stared at Newman. Clean-shaven, he had a strong nose, a thin-lipped mouth and he carried himself with an air of confidence verging on arrogance. Newman recognized him before Beck made his introduction.

`This is Colonel Victor Signer, president of the Zurcher Kredit Bank. He called on me just before I was leaving – he expressed a wish to accompany me. This is Robert Newman…'

No handshake. Signer half-smiled, not pleasantly, dipped his head in acknowledgement. The blank eyes, still studying Newman, reminded him of films he had seen of sharks, which was fanciful, he told himself. Of one thing he was sure. God had just arrived.