Colin Forbes - Terminal

Seidler made his move when Franz turned down a narrow, deserted side street lined with tall old apartment buildings. Flights of steps led down to basement areas. Checking his rear view mirror, Seidler speeded up, squeezed past the slow- moving Renault and swung diagonally into the kerb. Franz jammed on his brakes and stopped within inches of the Opel. Jumping out of his car, he ran along the pavement in the opposite direction with a shuffling trot.

Seidler caught up with him in less than a hundred metres opposite a flight of steps leading into one of the basement areas. His left hand grasped Franz by the shoulder and spun him round. He smiled and spoke rapidly.

`There's nothing to be frightened about… All I want to know is who you gave the box to… Then you can go to hell as far as I'm concerned… Remember, I said this was the last run…'

He was talking when he rammed the knife blade upwards into Franz's chest with all his strength. He was surprised at the ease with which the knife entered a man's body. Franz gulped, coughed once, his eyes rolled and he began to sag. Seidler gave him a savage push with his gloved hand and Franz, the hilt of the knife protruding from his chest, fell backwards down the stone steps. Seidler was surprised also at the lack of noise: the loudest sound was when Franz, half-way down the steps, cracked the back of his skull on the stonework. He ended up on his back on the basement paving stones.

Seidler glanced round, ran swiftly down the steps and felt inside Franz's jacket, extracting his wallet which bulged, although the envelope of Austrian banknotes Seidler had passed to him was still inside the same pocket. He pulled out a folded wad of Swiss banknotes – five-hundred-franc denomination. At a guess there were twenty. Ten thousand Swiss francs. A large fortune for Franz.

The distant approach of a car's engine warned Seidler it was time to go. His gloved hand thrust the notes in his pocket and he ran back up the steps to his car. He was just driving away when he saw the sidelights of the approaching car in his wing mirror. He accelerated round a curve and forgot about the car, all his thoughts now concentrated on reaching Schwechat Airport.

Captain 'Tommy' Mason, officially designated as military attache to the British Embassy in Vienna, frowned as he saw the driver-less Renault parked at an angle to the kerb, the gaping entrance to the basement area. He was just able to drive past the vehicle, then he stopped and switched off his own engine.

The sound of the Renault's motor ticking over came to him in the otherwise silent street. With considerable agility he nipped out of his Ford Escort, ran to peer down into the basement, ran back to the Ford, started up the motor again and drove off at speed.

He was just in time to see the rear lights of the Opel turn on to a main highway. He caught up with it quickly and then settled down to follow at a decent interval. No point in alarming the other party. First thing in the morning and all that.

Mason had first noticed the Opel parked outside the Embassy when he was interviewing Franz Oswald. Peering casually from behind the curtains of the second floor window he had seen the car, the slumped driver wearing one of those funny, Frog-style berets. At least, the Frogs had favoured them at one time. Didn't see them much these days.

He had seen no reason to alarm his visitor who, much to his surprise, had actually kept their appointment. More surprising still – even a trifle alarming – had been the contents of the cardboard box. When his visitor had left Mason had thought there might be no harm in following the chap – especially since Black Beret appeared also to be in the following business. You could never tell where these things might lead. Tweed, back in London, had said something to this effect once. Odd how things Tweed said, remarks casually tossed off, stuck in the mind.

Mason, thirty-three, five feet ten, sleepy-eyed, trimlymoustached, drawly-voiced, crisply-spoken, using as few words as possible, was a near-walking caricature of his official position. At a party shortly after his arrival in Waltz City, the Ambassador had indulged in his dry humour at the new arrival's expense.

`You know, Mason, if I was asked to show someone a picture of the typical British military attache I'd take a photo of you…'

`Sir,' Mason had replied.

Mason was soon pretty sure that the Opel chap was heading for the airport – unless he continued on to the Czech border and Bratislava, God forbid! But any man who left bodies in basements at this hour was worth a little attention. A quarter of an hour later he knew his first guess had been spot on. Curiouser and curiouser. What flight could he be catching before most people had downed their breakfast?

Seidler drove beyond the speed limit, checking his watch at frequent intervals. Franz Oswald was only the second man he had ever killed – the first had been an accident – and the reaction was setting in. He was shaken, his mind taken up with one thing. Getting safely aboard the aircraft.

Customs would be no problem. Here again, timing was vital – the chief officer on duty had already been paid a substantial sum. When it came to essentials his employer, so careful with money, never hesitated to produce the requisite funds. Turning into the airport, he drove past the main buildings and continued towards the tarmac. Josef, who didn't know anything, was waiting to take the hired car back to Vienna.

Seidler jumped Out of the car, nodded to Josef, lifted the large container from the back of the Opel and walked rapidly towards the waiting executive jet. The ladder was already in position. A man he had never seen stood by the ladder, asking the question in French.

`Classification of the consignment?'

`Terminal.'

London. 10 February 1984. 8?. Tweed, short and plump- faced, middle-aged, was gazing out of the window of his office at SIS headquarters in Park Crescent when Mason called from Vienna.

Through his horn-rimmed glasses he looked out towards Regent's Park across the Crescent gardens. Small clusters of gold sprouted amid the green in the watery morning sunlight. Early spring crocuses. It was something – promising the ultimate end of winter. The phone on his desk rang.

`Long distance from Vienna,' the internal switchboard operator informed him. Tweed wondered when Vienna was a short distance. He told her to put the call through and settled himself in his swivel chair. They exchanged the normal preliminaries identifying each other. Mason sounded rushed, which was unusual.

`I've got something for you. Won't specify on the phone…'

`Mason, where are you speaking from?' Tweed asked sharply.

`A booth in the General Post Office, middle of Vienna. The Embassy phone goes through the switchboard. I've just hurtled back from Schwechat Airport – that's…'

`I know where it is. Get to the point…'

Tweed was uncharacteristically sharp again. But he sensed a terrible urgency in his caller's voice. Mason was the SIS man in Vienna under the cloak of military attache. The British were at last learning from their Soviet colleagues – who were never who they seemed at embassies.

`I've got something for you, something rather frightening. I won't specify over this line – I'll bring it with me when I come to London. Main thing is a Lear jet with Swiss markings left Schwechat half an hour ago. Destination Switzerland is my educated guess…'

Tweed listened without interrupting. Mason was his normal concise self now. Short, terse sentences. Not a wasted word. As he listened Tweed made no notes on the pad lying in front of him. When Mason had finished Tweed asked him just one question before breaking the connection.

`What is the flight time Vienna to Switzerland?'