by Colin Forbes
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.'
Five
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?'
One hour and ten minutes. So you have less than forty minutes if I've guessed right. Oh, there's a body involved.. `See you in London.'
Tweed waited a moment after replacing the receiver and then he lifted it again and asked for an open line. He dialled 010 41, the code for Switzerland, followed by 31, the code for Berne, followed by six more digits. He got through to Wiley, commercial attache at the British Embassy in Berne, in less than a minute. He spoke rapidly, explaining what he wanted.
`.. so alert our man in Geneva and the chap in Zurich…'
`The time element is against anyone getting to the airports to set up surveillance,' Wiley protested.
`No, it isn't. Cointrin is ten minutes from the centre of Geneva. Twenty minutes in a fast car gets you from Zurich to Kloten now they've finished the new road. And you can check Belp…'
`I'll have to put my skates on…'
`Do that,' Tweed told him and broke the
connection again.
Sighing, he got up and walked over to the wall-map of Western Europe. Mason could run rings round Wiley. Maybe he ought to switch them when Mason arrived home. Vienna was a backwater – but Berne was beginning to smoulder. And why did everyone forget Belp? Even Howard probably had no idea Berne had its own airport fifteen minutes down the four-lane motorway to Thun and Lucerne. Plus a thrice- weekly service from Belp to Gatwick. He was studying the map when his chief, Howard, burst into the office. Without knocking, of course.
`Anything interesting cooking?' he asked breezily.
Howard had all the right connections, had gone to all the useful schools and university, which completed the circle, giving him all the right connections. An able admin. man, he was short on imagination and not a risk-taker. Tweed had been known – in a bad mood – to refer to him privately as Woodentop.
`Possibly Berne,' Tweed replied and left it at that.
`Berne?' Howard perked up. 'That's the Terminal thing you latched on to. What the hell does the word mean – if anything?'
`No idea – that it means anything. Just that we keep getting rumours from a variety of sources.' He decided not to mention to Howard the reference Mason had made to 'a body involved'. It was too early to excite Howard.
`I hope you're not employing too much manpower on this,' Howard commented. 'Terminal,' he repeated. 'Might be an idea to watch the airports. That would link up – airport, terminal…'
`I've just done that.'
`Good man. Keep me informed…'
Wiley phoned Park Crescent at exactly 4 p.m. He apologized for not calling earlier. The lines from the Embassy had been jammed up most of the day. Tweed guessed he had really waited until nearly everyone – including the Ambassador – had gone home. It was now 5 pm in Berne since Switzerland was one hour ahead of London in time.
`I got lucky,' he informed Tweed. 'At least I think so. If this was the plane you're interested in.. He described the machine and Tweed grunted and told him to go on. 'A passenger disembarked and carried a large cardboard container to a waiting truck. A canvas-covered job. Stencilled on the side were the words Chemiekonzern Grange AG…
`Let me write that down. Now, go on…'
`It's a weird story. I followed the truck – the passenger travelled in the cab beside the driver – back along the motorway towards Berne. It turned off on to a road I knew was a cul-de-sac, so I waited. Pretended my car had broken down and stood in the freezing cold with my head under the bonnet. God, it was cold…'
Mason would have left that bit out. Patiently this time, Tweed waited. At four in the afternoon he had the lights on. It was near-darkness outside and cars passing along the main road had their lights on also. Tweed felt a little disappointed in the report so far. He couldn't have said why.
`About a quarter of an hour later a small van appeared down the same side road. I nearly missed it – then I spotted the same passenger sitting beside the van driver. I followed the van which headed towards the city. Lost it in the traffic on the outskirts. Funny thing is, I could have sworn it passed me later driving down the opposite lane – away from the city…'
`So, that's that?'
`Hold on a minute. I did notice the name painted on the side of the van. I'm damned sure it was the same one both times…'
Tweed was writing down the name when Howard came into the office, again without knocking. Tweed scribbled out the second name as Howard came round the desk to peer over his shoulder, another irritating habit. He thanked Wiley and put the phone down.
Tweed had no doubt Howard had paid one of his frequent visits to the switchboard room – to see if anything was going on. He also knew that Howard often stayed back late at night so he could poke around his staff's offices after they had gone home. Which was why Tweed locked away anything of interest and only left trivia on his desk.
`Any developments?' Howard enquired.
`I'm not sure. I haven't decided yet but I may have to go to Berne myself. As you know, we're fully stretched. Keith Martel is away on a job and it's all hands to the pumps…'
`Any excuse,' Howard commented drily and rattled loose change in his pocket. 'You like Berne. Any developments?' he repeated.
`This morning Mason reported he had something for me – something rather frightening were the exact words he used. I think it was delivered to him at the Embassy. He's bringing it to us within a few days, so it has to be serious – maybe very serious…'
`Oh, Christ! You're building up another crisis.'
`Crises build themselves up,' Tweed pointed out. 'And that was Wiley on the phone…' As if you didn't know, he thought. 'From Vienna Mason reported to me this morning he followed a man – who may be an assassin – to Schwechat Airport outside the city. He saw this man board a private Swiss jet. I put tags on three Swiss airports – although there are plenty of others. Wiley has just told me a similar aircraft landed at Belp…'
`Belp? Where the hell is Belp? Funny name…'
`Look at the pin sticking in the wall map. It's the airport for Berne.'
`Didn't know there was one.' Tweed said nothing but peered over his glasses as Howard scrutinized the map. `So it was an airport,' Howard said with satisfaction. 'A terminal! This is getting interesting..
With Howard it always helped to get him on your side – or at best in a neutral status – if he thought he had contributed an idea himself. Tweed continued talking in his level tone.
`Wiley saw the aircraft disembark one passenger carrying a large container. Eventually he was driven away in a small van. Wiley noted the name on the side of the van. At the moment I have several disconnected pieces which may eventually build into a pattern.'
`Or a crisis,..' It was the nearest Howard ever came to cracking a joke. He swung round on one heel, flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his regulation pin-striped suit. Howard was a trendy dresser; always wore a camel overcoat of the length which was the latest vogue. 'Well, what was the name on the van?' he asked.
`Klinik Bern…'
Six
Tucson, Arizona. 10 February 1984. 55?. The sun had sunk behind the mountains and Tucson was bathed in the purple glow of dusk as the temperature also sank. Newman raised his glass to Dr Rosen in the Tack Room, probably the most luxurious eating establishment in the state. The tables were illuminated by candlelight.
`Cheers!' said Newman. 'I've seen Frank Chase, I've talked with Linda Wayne – and got nowhere. No evidence of anything odd about Jesse Kennedy being sent to the Berne Clinic…'
`You know Jesse was flown direct to Berne by executive jet?'
`Linda didn't say that…'
`Have you ever heard of Professor Armand Grange, eminent Swiss specialist?'
`No. Should I?'
'Surprising Linda didn't mention him. Grange was on a lecture tour of the States – drumming up business was my impression. And from the moment Linda met him she treated him as her guru.'
`Guru?' Newman looked at the kindly but shrewd face of Rosen. 'I thought you used that word for some Indian fakir who offers salvation – provided you obey the gospel…'
`That's right,' agreed Rosen. 'Grange is into cellular rejuvenation – something the Swiss have practised for years. We're still not convinced. Maybe we're old-fashioned. But Grange certainly gathered in some disciples on that tour – always rich, of course.'
Newman turned sideways to study his guest. `I'm sorry, I'm not sure I'm following this. You're trying to tell me something, is that it?'
`I suppose so.' Rosen accepted a refill. He seemed to mellow outside the Medical Center. Maybe it was the relaxing atmosphere of the Tack Room, Newman thought. Rosen went on. 'Some of what I'm saying may not be strictly ethical – could even be taken for criticism of a professional colleague – but we are talking about a foreigner. I suspect Grange's clinic is full of wealthy patients he attracted during his tour. Two carrots – one for relatives, one for the seriously ill patient.' He smiled ruefully. 'You know something, Newman? I think I'm tal
king too much…'
`I'm still listening. Sometimes it's good to get things off your chest.'
Newman watched Rosen with an attentive expression. It was part of his stock-in-trade as foreign correspondent – people often opened out to him when they wouldn't say the same things to their wives or colleagues – especially their wives.
`Linda Wayne,' Rosen continued, 'went overboard with Professor Grange the way a drowning woman grasps at a floating spar. He was the answer to her prayer – to get Jesse Kennedy far away, as far away as possible. The carrot Grange offers is to take sick relatives off the hands of their nearest and dearest. The price is high, but like I said, he deals only with the very wealthy. The carrot to the sick patient is the hope of cellular rejuvenation, a new chance at life. I suppose it's a brilliant formula.'
`The carrot worked with a man like Jesse Kennedy?'
`There you put your finger on the key, what's worrying me.' Rosen sipped at his drink and Newman carefully remained silent. 'If Jesse had leukaemia he'd face up to it – but no way would he be into cellular rejuvenation. Did you know he once did a job for the CIA? It was over ten years ago when we had German pilots being trained by our people at a secret air base out in the desert. A very tough CIA operative came down to cooperate with Jesse. Can't recall his name. Linda Wayne fooled around with him. Now I am talking too much…'
`What exactly did Jesse do?'
`He used to ride his horse for miles by himself in the desert every day. They gave him a camera. One morning he spotted a German pilot handing an envelope to a stranger who stopped his car on 1 10 – Interstate Highway 10 which runs all the way from LA to Florida. The stranger came after Jesse with a gun…' Rosen smiled, a dreamy look on his face.
`That was very foolish of him. Jesse rode him down with his horse, the CIA man turned up and one German pilot disappeared for ever. The CIA man shot the stranger. Jesse told me about it years later..