Terminal tac-2

by Colin Forbes

  `A sleeping tablet for you tonight. You'll need to be fresh for your meeting, all your wits about you. We're going to bed now. To sleep…'

  Ten minutes later Seidler was sprawled beside her in a deep sleep. It was Erika who stared at the ceiling where the neon advertising sign perched on the building opposite flashed on and off despite the drawn curtains Horrific. Dear God – what could the suitcase contain?

  The same atmosphere of restlessness, of moody irritability which infected Basle was also apparent all day in Berne. Gisela had noticed it in her chief, Arthur Beck, and both Newman and Nancy had found the day a trial. They had felt lethargic and everything seemed such an effort they passed the whole day trying not to get on each other's nerves. Before going to bed, Newman went out for a long walk by himself.

  Returning, he tapped on their bedroom door and heard Nancy unlock it. She was wearing her bathrobe. The second thing Newman noticed as he walked into the bedroom and threw his coat on the bed was a fresh pot of coffee, two cups and a jug of cream on a tray.

  `I've had a bath,' Nancy said as she lit a cigarette. Did you enjoy your walk? You've been out ages…'

  `Not especially. Enjoy your bath?'

  `Not especially. Trying to bathe myself was one hell of an effort. Like paddling through treacle. What's wrong with us?'

  `Two things. The concierge explained one cause – the fohn wind is blowing. You get edgy and tired. Yes, I know – you don't feel any sense of a wind but it drives people round the bend. And the suicide rate goes up…'

  `Charming. And the other thing?'

  `I sense this whole business about the Berne Clinic is moving towards a climax. That's what is getting to us…'

  The unmarked police car with the two plain clothes Federal policemen drove slowly along the Aarstrasse towards the lofty span of the Kirchenfeld bridge. The river was on the far side of the road to their left. Leupin sat behind the wheel with his partner, Marbot, alongside him. They were the two men Beck had earlier in the week sent to the Bahnhof to watch for Lee Foley. It was Marbot who saw the sluice.

  In the middle of the night it was freezingly cold. Because they had the heater on full blast the windscreen kept misting up with condensation. Leupin cleared it with the windscreen wipers while Marbot lowered the side window at intervals to give him a clear view.

  `Slow down, Jean,' Marbot said suddenly. 'There's something odd over there by that sluice…'

  `I can't see anything,' Leupin replied but he stopped the car.

  `Give me the night-glasses a sec…'

  Shivering, rubbing his hands as the night air flooded in through the open window, Leupin waited patiently. Marbot lowered the binoculars and turned to look at his companion.

  `I think we'd better drive over there – where we can get on to the walkway to the sluices…'

  As the car was driven away to cross the Aare, Mason's battered, waterlogged body continued to be churned against the sluice, a sodden wreck of a man with the head lacerated in a score of places.

  Eighteen

  Thursday, 16 February. The headquarters of Army Intelligence in Berne is located in the large square stone building next to the Bellevue Palace if you turn left on emerging from the hotel. This is Bundeshaus Ost.

  Newman entered the large reception hall beyond glass doors, walked up to the receptionist and placed his passport on the counter. His manner was brisk, confident and he spoke while his passport was being examined.

  `Please inform Captain Lachenal I have arrived. He knows me well. I am also rather short of time…'

  `You are expected, M. Newman. The attendant will escort you to Captain Lachenal's office…'

  Newman gave no indication of his astonishment. He followed the attendant up a large marble staircase. He was escorted to Lachenal's old office on the second floor, an office at the rear of the building with windows overlooking the Aare and the Bantiger rising beyond on the far bank of the river.

  `Welcome to Berne again, Bob. You come at an interesting time – which no doubt is why you are here…'

  Lachenal, thirty-five years old, tall and thin-faced with thick black hair brushed over the top of his head, exposing an impressive forehead, came round his desk to shake hands. The Swiss was an intellectual and in some ways – with his long nose, his commanding bearing, his considerable height and his aloof manner – he reminded Newman of de Gaulle. He was one of the world's greatest authorities on the Soviet Red Army.

  `You expected me,' Newman remarked. 'Why, Rene?'

  `The same old Bob – always straight to the point. Sit down and I will help you as far as I can. As to expecting you, we knew you had arrived in Berne, that you are staying at the Bellevue Palace. What could be more natural than to expect a visit from you? Does that answer your question?'

  `No. I have come here with my fiancee whose grandfather is a patient in the Berne Clinic. Why should that involve a visit to you?'

  `Ah! The Berne Clinic…'

  Seated in a chair facing the Swiss, Newman studied his friend. Dressed in mufti, he wore a smart, blue, pin-striped business suit, a blue-striped shirt and a plain blue tie. Newman shifted his gaze to the uniform hanging on a side wall. The jacket carried three yellow bars on shoulder epaulettes, bars repeated round the peaked cap – indicating Lachenal's rank of captain.

  But what interested Newman were the trousers. Down each side was a broad black strip. Lachenal was more than a captain – he was now an officer on the General Staff. The Swiss followed his gaze.

  `Yes, a little promotion since last we met…'

  `And you report to?'

  `Again the direct question! To the chief of UNA which, as you know, is the Sub-Department Information chief and a certain two-star general. I have direct access to him at all times…'

  `So you are working on a special project?'

  `You will not expect me to reveal information which is not only confidential but also classified,' Lachenal replied drily. `Why have I come at an interesting time?'

  `Oh, that is simple… Lachenal spread his long, slim- fingered hands. 'Certain military manoeuvres are taking place.'

  `Military manoeuvres are always taking place,' Newman countered. 'And why did you perk up when I mentioned the Berne Clinic? Incidentally, is that place being guarded by Swiss troops?'

  Lachenal shook his head, more in sorrow than anger. 'Now you know I can neither confirm nor deny what establishments in this country come under military protection. Bob, what a question!'

  `It's a damned good question,' Newman persisted aggressively. 'I actually spotted a man wearing Swiss Army uniform inside the place…'

  He watched Lachenal's dark, steady eyes for any sign of anxiety. You might just as well hope for de Gaulle himself to reveal his real feelings. There was only one tiny out of character reaction. Lachenal took a king-size cigarette from a pack on the desk and lit it, then remembered his manners.

  `Sorry.' He offered the pack and lit Newman's cigarette. `Can I talk about something for a few minutes?' he began, sitting very erect in his chair. 'As you know, we are preparing for military conflict. All able-bodied men serve specific periods annually in the forces until they are forty-five. When the war will come from the East we shall be ready to defend ourselves. What we are worried about is the enemy's massive use of helicopters. Still, that problem may soon be solved. At this very moment we are testing certain missiles in the Bernina Pass area – because in that zone we have deep snow and it is very cold. War in low temperatures, Bob…'

  Newman was puzzled. At first he had thought Lachenal was skilfully guiding the conversation away from the subject of the Berne Clinic. Now he sensed the General Staff officer was telling him something quite different, something he wished to get across by subtle means.

  `I do know the general attitude of the Swiss,' Newman remarked. wish to God our War Office would send a team here so it could study your techniques for use in Britain…'

  `Please!' Lachenal held up a slim hand. 'Let me continue so you get the compl
ete picture. Then ask questions.' He puffed at his cigarette and continued. 'What I am about to tell you is highly confidential – on no account to be reported. You see, we have two competing military philosophies, two schools of thought, if you like. One is held by the majority – at the moment – of the regular Swiss Army. They believe we should continue to stick to orthodox strategy. But there is a second school, mostly made up of officers who spend most of the year working at their civilian jobs. Like the regulars they also subscribe to the theory of defence tous azimuts…'

  They were conversing in French. Lachenal had an excellent command of English but when he was absorbed in what he was saying he preferred to use his own language. Newman was familiar with the phrase tous azimuts. It expressed all-round defence – fighting to hold back the enemy on every Swiss frontier regardless of geography.

  Lachenal had paused to stub out his cigarette and light a fresh one. Newman had the impression the pause was really intended to emphasize the phrase just used – as though in some way this was the key to the conversation.

  `But,' Lachenal went on, 'unlike the regulars this faction, which is very influential, takes an even more ruthless view. After all, we are a small nation – but we are determined to do everything in our power to protect the few millions who make up our population. The civilian school takes tous azimuts very seriously. That is why I said you come at a very interesting time.'

  `The civilian officers…' Newman threw the question at him… they are controlled largely by bankers?'

  Lachenal froze. Outwardly his expression hadn't changed it was the sudden total lack of expression. He leaned back in his chair, speaking with the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

  `What makes you say that?'

  `I also have my sources. Inside and outside Switzerland.'

  Newman emphasized the word to throw Lachenal off the track. It might be important to protect Arthur Beck. Something very strange was happening inside Switzerland.

  `I can't imagine why you say that,' Lachenal commented eventually.

  `It's obvious,' Newman rapped back quickly. 'You referred to the civilian group being very influential – your own words. Influence suggests power, power suggests money, money suggests bankers.'

  `Theories are abstract, abstractions are misleading,' Lachenal said brusquely.

  Newman stood up to leave and slipped on his coat. He chose the moment deliberately. Lachenal was a brave, very able man but he was also sensitive. He had just spoken almost rudely and Newman knew he would regret it. Lachenal followed his visitor as the latter put his hand on the door handle.

  `You must realize, Bob, that none of us really believe_ you are here on holiday. You have to be working on a story..

  `I am here with my fiancee for the reason I gave,' Newman said coldly. 'Check up on me, if you wish to…'

  `Instead of that, let us have dinner together one evening. I am truly glad to see you again. But you must admit that your reason for being here would make an excellent cover story…'

  Newman paused in the act of turning the handle, looking back at Lachenal. The Swiss was one of the shrewdest, most intuitive men he knew. He took the hand Lachenal had extended and shook it.

  I accept your invitation with pleasure. Rene, take care of yourself…'

  Tous azimuts. That had been the key phrase, Newman felt sure as he descended the marble steps and walked out of Bundeshaus Ost. And Lachenal was genuinely deeply worried about something. Newman had the strongest hunch that if he knew what that worry concerned it might unlock the whole strange business.

  Nancy came running towards him as he pushed his way through the revolving doors inside the Bellevue Palace. She had been sitting where she could watch the entrance. Looping an arm through his, she guided him quickly to an obscure corner table.

  `Now we have the Swiss Army on our backs,' he told her. 'I don't like the way things are developing..

  `I've got something to tell you, but what are you talking about. Who have you seen?'

  `A high-ranking Swiss Army officer, an old friend. We had coffee at that restaurant across the street. Don't ask me his name. I think he was warning me off the Berne Clinic…'

  `You said an old friend. If he's that he should know the one way to encourage you to go on is to threaten you…'

  `That occurred to me. Curious, isn't it? Now, I can see you're agog to tell me some news…'

  `There's been a phone call from a man called Beck. He says will you go and see him at once. He said it was very urgent.'

  Nineteen

  `Newman, do you know this man?'

  Beck was hostile again. His manner was stiff. His voice was flat, toneless. His official voice. Three people stood in the morgue. The room was cold. The floor and walls were tiled. The place had all the comfort and cheerful atmosphere of a public lavatory, a spotless public lavatory.

  The third person was Dr Anna Kleist, Federal Police pathologist. A tall, dark-haired woman in her late thirties, she wore a white gown and watched Newman through tinted glasses with interest and a sympathetic expression. He had felt she liked him from the moment they had been introduced.

  Newman gazed down at the body lying on the huge metal drawer Dr Kleist had hauled out for his inspection. The sheet covering the corpse had been partly pulled back to expose the head and shoulders. The head was horribly battered but still recognizable – mainly from the sodden moustache. Newman suddenly felt very angry. He turned on Beck.

  `Am I the first person you have asked to identify him?' `Yes…'

  `Well, Beck, you had better know I am getting fed up. Why choose me? This is the second time you've dragged me to view the wreck of a corpse…'

  `Just answer the question. Do you know this man?'

  `He told me his name was Tommy Mason. That he was engaged on market research. Medical. Something to do with clinics – Swiss clinics…'

  `You do know this man then? You were using him as a contact?'

  Tor Christ's sake, Beck, shove it. I was brought here without a hint as to what was waiting for me. I've answered your question. If you want to ask me anything else we'll go straight back to the Taubenhalde…'

  `As you wish…'

  Beck turned away to leave the room but Newman lingered. Dr Kleist had considerately closed the drawer. A tag was attached to the handle by a piece of string, a tag bearing a number. Tommy Mason was no longer a person, only a number.

  `Dr Kleist,' Newman requested in a normal voice, 'have you any idea how he died – or is it too early?'

  `He was found floating…'

  `Anna!' Beck broke in. 'No information…'

  `And why not, Arthur?' She removed her glasses and Newman saw she had large pale blue eyes with a hint of humour. 'Mr Newman has answered your question. And remember, I am in control here. I intend to answer Mr Newman…'

  `You have the independence of the devil,' Beck grumbled. `Which is why you had me appointed to this position.' She turned her attention to Newman. 'The body was found in the river. His injuries are due in part to the fact that for some time before he was found he was caught in one of the sluices below the Munster.'

  `Thank you, Dr Kleist.'

  As he left the room Newman hoped she would get married and leave this place before her emotions became as dead as the body she had just shown him.

  He said nothing to Beck during the drive back to the Taubenhalde. Inside the building the same routine. The ascent to the tenth floor. Beck producing the key which unlocked the lift. Outside Newman gestured towards a punch-time clock on the wall.

  `Do you still clock in and out morning and night? The Assistant to the Chief of Police?'

  `Every time. It is the regulation. I am not exempt…'

  Beck was still stiff and unbending but once inside the office he did ask Gisela to make them coffee and then please leave them on their own. Newman, his mind still focused on his interview with Captain Lachenal, made a great effort to push that into the past. He needed all his concentration on this new developmen
t. Beck stared out of the window, hands clasped behind his back, until Gisela brought the coffee on a tray and left the office.

  `I'm sorry, Bob,' he said, walking wearily round his desk and sagging into his chair before attending to the coffee. 'You see, this is the second body you have been directly linked with. First, Julius Nagy…'

  `You said that was an anonymous phone call to Pauli…'

  `This was an anonymous phone call to Gisela. A man. Someone who spoke in broken German – or pretended to. Last night you were seen with Bernard Mason, or so the caller alleged…'

  `Bernard?'

  `Yes, I noticed you called him Tommy in the morgue. When we fished him out we found he carried his passport in a cellophane folder which protected it to some extent against the water. He is – was – Bernard Mason. How did you come to know him, Bob?'

  `In the bar at the Bellevue Palace. I went in for a drink and he turned round with his glass in his hand and bumped into me. The contents of the glass spilt over my jacket and he insisted on buying me one to compensate. We sat talking for maybe five minutes. That's how I know him. It's also how I know the data I gave you on him back at the morgue. He told me. A chance acquaintance…'

  I wonder…'

  `And what do you mean by that?'

  `Could he have spilt his drink over you deliberately – to contrive this chance acquaintance? Chance always worries me.'

  How could he have contrived anything?' Newman demanded. only decided to pop in there for a drink at the last moment. Any more questions?'

  `I'm only doing my job, Bob. And I'm getting a lot of flak from the British Embassy. A chap called Wiley. He's a British citizen and was apparently an influential businessman. First, this Wiley wants to know exactly how he died…'

  `How did he die?'

  I think it was murder. I called the Embassy to see if they had any information on him. Wiley asks a lot of questions – then he puts in an urgent request for the minimum of publicity. So who was Mason is what I keep asking myself. And, like it or not, two men have now died in peculiar circumstances – both less than a kilometre from the Bellevue Palace, both who had links, however tenuous, with you..