Colin Forbes: Terminal

`He is carrying no weapon,' he reported.

`But why should he carry a weapon, Bruno?' Grange asked as he padded closer. The poor lighting had the effect of blanking out the tinted glasses so he seemed eyeless. 'He is a reporter,' Grange continued. 'He works on the basis that the pen – the typewriter – is mightier than the sword. This may be an occasion when the old adage is proved wrong…'

`How the hell did you know I was coming?' Newman enquired. His tone expressed disgust, his expression showed a hint of fear.

`Through the medium of radar, of course! Also we have concealed television cameras sweeping the approaches. The security here has been brought to a fine art, Mr Newman…'

`Along with gassing people to test those Soviet masks…'

`A well-informed reporter, Bruno,' Grange commented, his tone mocking.

`Except that isn't the real object – it's the gas which you're testing, the gas you manufacture at Horgen. You made a slip when you told me you manufacture your own cylinders at Horgen – you have the facilities to make the bombs which contain the gas you test here. Tous azimuts. All-round defence of Switzerland, isn't that it, Professor?'

`Oh dear, he is too well-informed, Bruno…'

`You have developed a new gas, haven't you?' Newman persisted. 'A gas which will penetrate the latest Soviet masks. Hence tous azimuts, the new strategy. If the Red Army does come you plan to encircle the whole of Switzerland with this wall of gas they will never get through – alive. But you had to be sure the latest Soviet masks were useless against it – so you used patients to test it…'

`But Mr Newman, these patients are terminal…'

`Hence the name of the operation which has puzzled so many people – because the word has different meanings. What kind of gas, Grange? Something developed from Tabun, the gas you grabbed out of Germany when you were a member of the special team sent in at the end of the war?'

`Worse and worse, Bruno. So very well-informed. I repeat, the patients are terminal, so what difference does it make? We have a population of millions to defend. It is a question of numbers, Mr Newman. As to the gas, we have come a long way from Tabun. We now have the most advanced form of hydrogen cyanide in the world – and we have found a way to control its volatility. We can distribute belts of the gas as we wish – in the face of an advancing armoured division. They will be dead within thirty seconds, their tanks useless scrap metal. But the gas, Mr Newman, disperses very quickly – swiftly loses its toxicity…'

`You think you'll get away with murder?'

`We have triumphed…' Grange's voice rose to a pitch of ecstasy. Newman realized finally he was faced by a megalomaniac- Grange was a madman. He went on in the same tone of exhilaration. 'Signer has called a meeting of the General Staff for Wednesday night. The new policy will be adopted – with the aid of what we call the irregulars – those officers who support our determination to defend our country at all costs…'

`And Nagel's conference of the bankers?'

It is scheduled for Thursday morning. The meeting will be cancelled. A matter of military security. And now, since you know it all, we will convince you I am right. You will be our final experiment – a more virile specimen than those who went before you. Bruno! Proceed…!'

`You dare not let me see inside the atombunker then?' `Of course you may see. Bring him inside..

Grange led the way, a massive figure in the gloom. Newman estimated the half-open door to the atombunker was at least six inches of solid steel. They paused as a man wearing one of the masks emerged. He carried in each hand a small blue cylinder with a flow meter attached to its head. Stencilled along each cylinder were the words Achtung! Giftgas! Beware! Poison gas!

Inside the vast windowless bunker piles of the blue cylinders were stacked against a wall. The man who had walked out wore a uniform which Newman briefly mistook for a Swiss Army uniform. Then he realized it was similar in appearance – but not the same. It was the outfit of a security unit designed to look superficially like the military version. The Swiss Army was not guarding the Clinic. Grange had been diabolically clever – he had given the impression he was being protected by the military.

`The filters on top of the chimneys,' Newman asked Grange as they stood staring round the place. 'Why do you need them?'

He knows everything, Bruno. The filters, Mr Newman, were designed by my top chemist at Horgen in case of an accident here – in case the gas escaped. It would not do to exterminate a dozen patients wandering round the grounds in summer. Those filters render the gas harmless. On the basis of that design we shall develop a mask to protect ourselves against a change in wind direction in wartime. But the gas comes first. Now, Bruno, time for Mr Newman to leave us…'

Bruno Kobler supervised the operation. They held his arms by his sides and Kobler himself fastened the mask over Newman's head and face. He struggled but they held him firmly. Through the Plexiglas eyepieces he saw the tinted glasses of Professor Grange staring at him with no expression at all. It was a scientific experiment he was engaged on.

Kobler led the way out of the atombunker across the laboratory chamber to a door one of the other masked figures had opened. Icy air crawled over Newman's hands. The straps round his neck chafed the skin. Kobler paused at the doorway, lifted the mask over one ear and gave instructions.

`You run down the slope. It is your only chance of survival. Who knows? You are a fit man – you might just make it to the road. Not that anyone will believe what you have seen here. I will point the way you go..

The two men held Newman in a vice-like grip as Kobler slipped on an overcoat. Then they led him into the night. He looked round quickly through the eyepieces, checking where everyone was positioned. The nearby mound overlooking the downward slope, the mound where the mortar was mounted, a stock of bombs by its side. The men grouped round it – one holding a bomb near the mouth of the barrel. The slope behind them, climbing up towards the forest.

Hannah Stuart and Holly Laird had died running down that slope, doubtless hoping to reach the road they would have seen earlier while sitting inside the enclosed verandah – Mrs Laird had even reached the road, but had then died.

Kobler was pointing down the slope. On top of the mound a few yards away half-a-dozen masked figures watched him, watched their target. The two men on either side released him. Kobler gestured impatiently down the slope. Newman flexed his stiff arms, nodded his head to show he understood and walked slowly forward to the edge of where the slope started downhill. Kobler, wearing no mask, retreated inside the laboratory.

Newman flexed each leg, easing the stiffness, then bent down to rub his left ankle. He jerked upright, the automatic Beck had given him, the weapon he had concealed behind his sock, gripped in his right hand. He aimed it at the men grouped round the mortar, firing over their heads.

They scattered, abandoned the mound as Newman ran straight for it, kicking over the mortar barrel, running on uphill. The wind blew in his face. He knew they dare not fire the mortar even if they remounted it successfully. The gas would blow back in their faces. They could only pursue him up the steep incline on foot. He doubted they would risk the sound of any more shots. But he was handicapped by the bloody mask which was constricting his neck. No time to stop and try to tear it off – they'd be on top of him. God, the ascent was steep, the forest seemed so very far away.

Blanche stood on the knoll above the Clinic, the knoll she had used when she had photographed the Clinic and its grounds. She had followed Newman's Citroen on her scooter along the motorway. She had watched through her pair of night-glasses from a distance when he vaulted the fence. She had ridden on to the knoll, the only point from where she might see what was happening.