by Colin Forbes
For once Seidler was telling the truth. He had cleverly chosen Basle to go to ground; Basle where three frontiers meet – Swiss, French and German. In case of emergency, the need for swift flight, he only had to board a train at the main station and the next stop – minutes away – was in Germany. Or, from the same station he could walk through a barrier to the other section and he was already on French soil. Yes, Basle was a good place to wait until he decided on his next move – until something turned up. Because for Manfred Seidler something always did turn up.
Then there was Erika. Seidler, a man who spent most of his time making money engaging in illegal, near-criminal activity – and who was now a murderer – appreciated that Erika was a nice girl. It was such a pleasant change to have her for company. He woke up from his reverie, aware she had said something.
`Sorry, I was dreaming…'
`Since you were last here I've been promoted…'
`Higher still? You were already PA to a director…'
`Now I'm PA to the president of the bank.' She leaned across the table and he stared at the inviting twin bulges against her flowered blouse. 'Manfred,' she went on, 'have you – you get around a lot, I know – have you ever heard anyone refer to the word terminal?'
Seidler's sense of well-being- brought on by a full stomach, the apartment's warmth (Erika could afford to turn up the central heating) and the proximity of Erika – vanished. One word and the nightmare was back on his doorstep. He struggled to hide the shock she had given him.
`I might have,' he teased her, 'if you tell me where you heard it.'
She hesitated, her curiosity fighting her integrity. Curiosity won-. She took a deep breath and stretched out her small hand to grasp his.
`I was taking coffee in to a board meeting. My boss said to the others "Has anyone found out any more about this terminal business, what it means, or is it just another rumour about the Gold Club?" '
`Gold Club? What's that?'
`Well, it doesn't really exist officially. I gather that it comprises a group of bankers who have certain views on national policy. The group is known as the Gold Club…'
`And your boss belongs to it?'
`On the contrary. He doesn't agree with their views, whatever they may be. The Gold Club is based in Zurich. `Zurich? Not Berne?' he probed.
`Definitely Zurich…'
`Who is your boss?' he enquired casually.
`I'm talking too much about my job…'
`I could find out so easily,' he pointed out. 'I'd only have to phone you at work and you'd say, "Office of…" There are other ways. You know that.'
`I suppose you're right,' she agreed. In any case, it really doesn't matter. I work for Dr Max Nagel. Now, does terminal mean a railway station? That's the current thinking…'
`They got it right first time. More than that I don't know.'
`A railway station – not an airport?' she persisted. 'We do have an airport at Basle.'
`Positively nothing to do with airports,' he assured her.
He stood up and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He offered to clear the table but she shook her head and stood close to him, coiling her hands round his neck. As they kissed he wrapped his arms round her body and felt the buttons down the back of her blouse.
`That Gold Club,' he whispered. 'Something to do with gold bullion?'
`No. I told you. It's just a name. You know how wealthy the Zurich bankers are. It's a good name for them…'
He unfastened the top two buttons and slipped his hand inside, searching for the splayed strap. His exploring fingers found nothing. He undid two more buttons and realized that beneath the blouse she was naked. She had stripped herself down while he trudged through the snow from the station.
He enjoyed himself in the bedroom but when the aftermath came he began to worry like mad about what she'd said. Was Basle the worst place in the world he could have come to escape? Had he wandered into the lion's pit? He'd have to keep under cover. He'd also watch the newspapers – especially those from Geneva, Berne and Zurich, plus the locals. Something might show up in them, something which would show him the way – the way to escape the horror.
Eight
London, 13 February 1984. 6?. The atmosphere inside Tweed's office at 10 am was one of appalled mystification. Besides Tweed, the other people gathered in the office included Howard, who had just returned from a weekend in the country, Monica, the middle-aged spinster of uncertain age Tweed called his 'right arm', and Mason, summoned urgently from Vienna on an apparent whim of Tweed's.
The 'object' Mason had brought with him and which he had purchased from Franz Oswald, was now locked away in Tweed's steel filing cabinet. No one had wanted to continue staring at that for long.
Howard, wearing the small check suit he kept for the country, was furious. He was convinced Tweed had exploited his absence to set all sorts of dangerous wheels in motion. To add insult to injury, Tweed had just returned from Downing Street where he had remained closeted with the Prime Minister for over an hour.
`Did you ask her for that document?' he enquired coldly.
Tweed glanced at the letter headed 10 Downing Street which he had deliberately left on his desk. It gave him full powers to conduct the investigation personally. There was even a codicil promising him immediate access to her presence at any time there were developments.
`No,' replied Tweed, standing like the rest and polishing his glasses with a shabby silk handkerchief. 'It was her idea. I didn't argue, naturally..
`Naturally,' Howard repeated sarcastically. 'So, now you've got the whole place in an uproar what's the next move?'
`I need outside help on this one.' Tweed looped his glasses over his ears and blinked at Howard. 'As you know, we're fully stretched. We have to get help where we can..
`A name – or names – would be reassuring..
`I'm not sure that's wise. Reliable help will only cooperate on a basis of total secrecy. If I'm the only person who knows their identity they know who to point the finger at if things go wrong. I take full responsibility..
`You've hired an outsider already,' Howard accused.
Tweed shrugged and glanced at the letter on his desk. Howard could have killed him. It was an uncharacteristic action on the part of Tweed, but he would go to any length to protect a source. He decided he had treated Howard rather badly – especially in front of the others.
`There's already been a body,' he informed his chief. 'A man was murdered in Vienna. Mason can tell you about it…'
`God Almighty!' Howard exploded. 'What are you letting us in for?'
`Permission to explain, sir?' the trim, erect Mason interjected. Taking Howard's curt nod for an affirmative he described in concise detail his experience with Franz Oswald. Howard listened in silence, his pursed lips expressing disapproval – and anxiety, a reaction Tweed sympathized with. He wasn't at all happy about the way the situation was developing himself.
`And did he tell you – while he was alive – how he obtained the thing?'
Howard nodded again, this time towards the locked drawer in the filing cabinet. He had calmed down while listening to Mason, a man he disliked but respected – they came from the same background. The trouble was he was Tweed's man. Like that bloody old spinster, Monica, who hadn't spoken a word- but Howard knew that later she could repeat the entire conversation back verbatim from memory.
`No, sir, he didn't,' Mason answered. 'I did ask but he refused point-blank to go into details. I have, however, got a photograph of the man who boarded the plane at Schwechat – that new camera is a wizard and I always carry it with me. It was a long shot, telephoto lens, but it's come out rather well.'
`Show it to me. You have got it on you?'
Mason glanced quickly at Tweed, which infuriated Howard once more. Tweed nodded acquiescence and wished Mason hadn't asked his permission. Still, Mason was being ultra- careful with this one. He watched Howard studying the photograph Mason handed to him.
`Any idea who
he is?' Howard demanded.
`He's familiar,' Tweed replied. 'It will come back to me…'
Tut it through Records,' Howard suggested. 'Now, Mason, I'm going to say a word and I want you to react instantly. Give me the first association that comes into your head. Don't think about it. Ready? Terminal…'
`An electrical circuit,' Mason responded promptly.
`That's interesting.' Howard turned to Tweed. 'The Swiss are transforming their whole economy to run on electric power. New houses are heated by electricity – to avoid dependence on oil. Did you know that?'
`Yes, I knew that. You might have a shrewd point there,' he agreed.
`Supposing this whole business hinges on a massive sabotage operation?' Howard warmed to his theme. 'The enemy is planning to hit all the key points in the Swiss power system when the moment comes for them to make their move.'
`You could be right. We'll know when we find out what really is going on inside Switzerland. I need to send in someone the Swiss police and military intelligence don't know. Mason would fit the bill. And the Ambassador in Vienna agreed to bring forward his leave – three weeks…'
`Good idea,' agreed Howard. He felt a little better about the whole thing now he was contributing. Time to show a modicum of goodwill. He nodded towards the letter on Tweed's desk. 'With her backing we have an open-ended call on resources. But this business still worries me. Who would imagine the Swiss getting mixed up in a situation of such international dimensions? Yes, Mason, was there something?'
`Permission to find some breakfast – if you're finished with me, sir? Airline meals turn my stomach. I haven't eaten since last night.'
`Fuel up!' Howard said breezily, still buoyant. 'That is, if Tweed has nothing more?'
`I'll be organizing your flight to Zurich,' Tweed told Mason. `Get a train from there to Berne – it's only ninety minutes. Breakfast first though. And thank you, Mason. I'm not certain what you've triggered off yet, but it's something very big. I feel it in my arthritic bones…'
`Howard is a pain in the proverbial,' Monica remarked to Tweed when they were alone. `Up and down like a bloody yo-yo…'
`It's his wife, Eve,' Tweed said, slumping back in his swivel chair. 'I only met her once. Very County, very superior. She went out of her way to make me feel uncomfortable…'
`That's because she fears you,' Monica commented shrewdly.
`And that's ridiculous,' Tweed protested.
`She's ambitious, the driving force behind Howard. When he tells her the Prime Minister has given you carte blanche she'll really hit the roof. I know the type. On top of that she has money – a large block of ICI shares she inherited. That gives a woman a sense of power.'
`Poor Howard,' said Tweed and his sympathy was genuine. He looked at Monica, a comfortable woman whose deep loyalty to him he sometimes found worrying. Under other circumstances he might have considered marrying her, but that, of course, was quite impossible. `I have an appointment,' he said, standing up. 'Expect me when you see me…'
`No way of getting in touching?' she enquired mischievously.
`Not this time.' He paused near the door and she was careful not to help him on with his coat. Tweed hated fuss. `Monica, when Mason gets back, ask him to wait for me. Tell him one job will be to compile a file on Professor Armand Grange, head of the Berne Clinic…'
Lee Foley walked along Piccadilly, his expression bleak, hands thrust inside the pockets of his duffel coat. Christ, it was cold in London, a raw, damp cold. No wonder the Brits. had once conquered the world. If you could stand this climate you could stand anywhere across the face of the earth.
He checked his watch. The timing of the call was important. The contact would be expecting him at the appointed number. He glanced round casually before descending into Piccadilly underground station. No reason why anyone should be following him – which was the moment to check.
Inside the phone booth he checked his watch again, waited until his watch registered precisely 11 am, then dialled the London number, waited for the bleeps, inserted a ten-penny coin and heard the familiar voice. He identified himself and then listened before answering.
`Now let me do the talking. I'll catch an early flight to Geneva today. I'll wait at the Hotel des Bergues. When the time comes I'll proceed to Berne. I'll reserve a room at a hotel called the Savoy near the station – you can get the number from the Berne directory. We'll keep in close touch as the situation develops. You must keep me informed. Signing off…'
It was 12.30 pm when Tweed returned to his office, hung up his coat by the loop and settled himself behind his desk. Monica, checking a file with Mason, frowned. He should have put the coat on a hanger – no wonder he always had such a rumpled look. She carefully refrained from so doing. Tweed had been away for over two hours.
`I've booked Mason on Swissair Flight SR 805. Departs Heathrow fourteen forty-five, arrives Zurich seventeen twenty, local time…'
`He'll catch it easily,' Tweed agreed with an absent-minded expression. 'What are you two up to?'
`Looking through hundreds of photos. We've found the man he saw boarding that Swiss jet at Schwechat Airport. Manfred Seidler…'
`You're sure?'
`Positive,' Mason replied. 'Look for yourself.'
He handed across the desk the photo he had taken and which the photographic section in the basement of Park Crescent had developed and printed. Monica – pushed Seidler's file across the desk open at the third page to which another photo was pasted.
`Poor old Manfred,' Tweed said half to himself. 'It looks as though this time he's mixed up in something he may not be able to handle.'
`You know him?' Mason queried.
' Knew him. When I was on the continent. He's on what we used to call the circuit…'
`Not an electric circuit?' Monica pounced. 'Remember Howard asking Mason what Terminal suggested to him?'
Tweed stared at her through his glasses. Monica didn't miss a trick: he would never have thought of that himself. He considered the idea. 'There could be a connection,' he conceded eventually. 'I'm not sure. Seidler is a collector – and seller – of unconsidered trifles. Sometimes not so trifling. Lives off his network of contacts. Just occasionally he comes up with the jackpot. I've no idea where he is now. Something for you to enquire about, Mason.'
`I'm going to be busy. Searching for Manfred Seidler, building up a file on this Professor Grange. We've nothing on him here.'
`The computer came up with zero,' Monica added.
`Computer?' An odd expression flickered behind Tweed's glasses and was then gone. He relaxed again. 'Mason, from the moment you leave this building I want you to watch your back. Especially when you've arrived in Switzerland.'
`Anything particular in mind?'
`We've already had one murder – Franz Oswald. People will kill for what I've got in that locked drawer…' He looked at Monica. 'Or has the courier from the Ministry of Defence collected it?'
`Not so far…'
`They must be mad.' Tweed drummed his thick fingers on the desk. 'The sooner their experts examine it…'
`Charlton is a careful type,' Monica reminded him. 'He's very conscious of security. My bet is the courier will arrive as soon as night has fallen.'
`You're probably right. I shan't leave my office until the thing is off our hands. Now, Mason,' he resumed, 'another unknown factor is the attitude of the Swiss authorities – the Federal police and their Military Intelligence. They could prove hostile…'
`What on earth for?' Monica protested.
`It worries me – that Lear executive jet Mason watched leaving Schwechat. The fact that it bore a flag on its side with a white cross on a red ground, the Swiss flag. Don't accept anyone as a friend. Oh, one more thing. We've reserved a room at the Bellevue Palace in Berne.'
Mason whistled. 'Very nice. VIP treatment. Howard will do his nut when he finds out…'
`It's convenient,' Tweed said shortly. 'I may join you later.'
Monica had trouble
keeping her face expressionless. She knew that Tweed had his own reservation at the Bellevue Palace a few days hence: she had booked the room herself. Tweed, naturally secretive, was playing this one closer to the chest than ever before. He wasn't even letting his own operative know about his movements. For God's sake, he couldn't suspect Mason?
`Why convenient?' enquired Mason.
`It's central,' Tweed said shortly and left it at that. 'We're getting things moving,' he went on with that distant look in his eyes, 'placing the pieces on the board. One thing I'd dearly like to know – where is Manfred Seidler now?'
Basle, 13 February 1984. 0?. Seidler still felt hunted. He had spent the whole weekend inside Erika Stahel's apartment and the walls were starting to close in on him. He heard a key being inserted in the outer door and grabbed for his 9-mm Luger, a weapon he had concealed from Erika.
When she walked in, carrying a bag of groceries, the Luger was out of sight under a cushion. She closed the door with her foot and surveyed the newspapers spread out over the table. She had dashed out first thing to get them for him. Now she had dashed back from the office – only one hour for lunch – to prepare him some food.
`Anything in the papers?' she called out from the tiny kitchen.
`Nothing. Yet. You don't have to make me a meal…'
`Won't take any time at all. We can talk while we eat…'
He looked at the newspapers on the table. The Berner Zeitung, the main Zurich morning, the Journal de Geneve and the Basle locals. He lifted one of them and underneath lay the executive case. He'd made up his mind.
Since he was a youth Seidler had involved himself in unsavoury activities – always to make money. Brought up by an aunt in Vienna – his mother had been killed by the Russians, his father had died on the Eastern Front – Seidler had been one of the world's wanderers. Now, when he had the money, when he felt like settling down, the whole system was trying to locate him
He felt a great affection for Erika because she was such a decent girl. He laid the table, listened to her chatting with animation while they ate, and only brought up the subject over coffee.