Colin Forbes - Terminal

`So you will have consulted that record of marksmen very recently – probably still have it in this office,' Newman pounded on. 'May I see it? I might believe in you if you show it to me.'

`You are telling me the truth about Seidler?'

`You really didn't know? There's the phone. Call Beck and ask him…'

`There is a temporary hitch in liaison.'

Which, Newman thought, was a neat way of saying they were no longer speaking to each other. Lachenal looked worried sick, close to the end of his tether. Without another word he went over to a steel filing cabinet, produced a ring of keys, unlocked the cabinet, took out a red file and brought it back to his desk.

`This is classified information…'

`Since when did brutal assassination become classified?'

Lachenal rifled through the typed sheets inside the file. He stopped at a page near the end and Newman guessed it was arranged alphabetically by district. 'T' for `Thun'.

The Intelligence chief gestured for Newman to join him on his side of the desk. He used the flat of both hands to prevent Newman flipping over to another page. There were five marksmen in Thun, a high proportion, Newman guessed. Alongside one was an asterisk. He pointed to this name. Bruno Kobler.

`What's the asterisk for? Or is that top secret?'

`Expert with both rifle and handgun. A crack shot…'

`Get the link?' Newman queried. `Kobler, deputy to Professor Grange. And Grange's closest financial supporter is Victor Signer – present at the execution of Manfred Seidler…'

`Execution?' Lachenal was shocked.

`By a one-man firing squad, a marksman. And Signer may have given the order. Think about it, check it, Lachenal. And I'm leaving now…'

`There are questions I would like to ask…'

Newman shook his head. He buttoned up his coat. He had turned the handle of the door when he fired his closing shot over his shoulder.

`And at long last. I know what Terminal means – yesterday in conversation with someone they told me by chance.'

`I'll be there if I'm needed,' Lee Foley said, gripping the phone with his left hand while he reached for the lighted cigarette with his other hand. 'All those people at that reception means something's going to break. I'll be there like I said – to watch it happen…'

Inside Room 214 the American replaced the receiver, checked his watch and stretched out on the bed. 11.30 am. Today he was staying in the bedroom which had already been cleaned. On the outside door handle a notice hung. Please Do Not Disturb.

He had used Room Service to order lunch. The fox was in its hole – and would remain there until the moment came to act. Closing his eyes, he fell fast asleep.

Newman walked out of the phone booth and headed along the familiar route to the Junkerngasse. Blanche was waiting for him, clad in a beige sweater and her wet-look black pants, the outfit she wore when she thought she might need to ride her scooter.

`I have a big favour to ask,' Newman told her, 'and very little time to spare. Would you be willing to evacuate your flat for a day or two – I've provisionally booked you a room at the Bellevue. I may need a hideaway – this would be ideal geographically…'

`Of course you can have it…'

`Not for myself. If you agree, lock up any valuables or confidential papers. Your temporary lodger might be nosy. I just don't know…'

`When do I move to the Bellevue? And here is a spare key.'

`By one o'clock. About clothes, pack what you're wearing. And something dressy – for a reception. This has two plusses for me. I have what the pros call a safe house. And I have you where I can keep an eye on you. People are getting killed. A lot of people.'

Inside the Bellevue Tweed knocked gently on the door after first making sure the corridor was deserted. The door to the suite was opened by a small, very broad-shouldered man with a large head, thick black hair and a wide, firm mouth. He was smoking a Havana cigar and he wore an expensive and conservative dark grey business suit.

`Come in, Tweed,' said Dr Max Nagel. 'On time to the minute, as always.'

`We may be getting somewhere,' Tweed replied as Nagel shut the door and ushered him to a deep arm-chair which enveloped the small Englishman.

`Tell me,' Nagel continued in English, drawing up a similar chair to join his guest. 'You saved me a lot of embarrassment over that Kruger affair when you traced the funds he'd embezzled to my bank.'

`That was only achieved by keeping track of that newspaperman, Newman's, activities. I've manoeuvred all the pieces on the Terminal board as best I could. Now we hope and we pray…'

`Maybe not.' Nagel, who spoke in a hoarse growl, reached for his brief-case, unlocked it and handed a file to Tweed. `Those are photocopies of highly intricate banking transactions covering the movement of no less than two hundred million Swiss francs. At one stage they went out of the country to a company in Liechtenstein – then, hey presto! they come back again and end up, guess where?'

`In a bank account accessible to Professor Armand Grange?'

`Where else? You can keep that set of accounts. What is your strategy? When you phoned me before you left London telling me you were coming here you didn't say too much…'

`Not over an open line…'

Tweed then told Nagel all he had discovered – including the gas mask 'an emissary' had brought from Vienna and Manfred Seidler's involvement. Nagel listened in silence, smoking his cigar. His appearance reminded Tweed of a gorilla in repose, an amiable, determined and highly intelligent gorilla. Great force of character emanated from the man and his energy was proverbial.

`So,' he declared when Tweed had finished, 'I repeat, what is your strategy?'

`To squeeze Grange from every possible quarter – to exert such psychological pressure he miscalculates. I don't think we have much time left, Max. And have you another spare set of those accounts?'

`Certainly. Here you are. May I ask who they are for?'

`Newman, the foreign correspondent – passed to him through an intermediary so he doesn't know their source. I can't believe he's here simply to pay a visit with his American fiancee who, incidentally, has a grandfather as a patient at the Berne Clinic. Max, as the Americans say, we may have to go public as a final resort.'

`That I'd like to avoid. This Newman, can you trust him?'

`When these documents are handed over it will be conditional on his not publishing them. Yes, he lives on trust. But if Grange knows he's got them it will unnerve him..

`I hope so.' There was a hint of doubt in Nagel's voice. `Grange is a fanatic-you do know that? He'll go to any length to achieve his objective – which is to change the whole military policy of this country. Tread carefully – Grange is a very dangerous and unpredictable man. Like a cobra he strikes when you least expect it…'

Half an hour later Newman, who had phoned from Blanche's flat, walked into Beck's office. The police chief began to feel he was under bombardment when Newman started speaking.

`I don't see any reason why you shouldn't take a full team including Forensic to the Berne Clinic today with a warrant to examine not only the Clinic but also the laboratory…'

`You are trying to rush me? On what grounds could I furnish myself with a warrant?'

`On the basis of the findings of Dr Kleist concerning the death of their patient, Mrs Holly Laird. Cyanosis poisoning was the diagnosis, for God's sake…'

`Please!' Beck held up a defensive hand. 'And won't you sit down. All right, stay on your feet! Dr Kleist has not yet produced her final report. There are aspects about Mrs Laird's demise which still puzzle her. Until I do receive her report I cannot – will not – obtain a warrant. Haven't I already explained I have to move cautiously – that there are powerful forces trying to have me taken off the case?'