Terminal tac-2

by Colin Forbes

  He made no attempt to tear off the mask. He could feel the tightness of the straps round his neck, over his head. Stopping to attempt that would be fatal. And they had made another mistake. By tying the cord tightly round his waist they had obviated the danger that he might be slowed down by the flapping of the dressing gown. He ran on.

  The bomb landed ten feet in front of him. It burst. A cloud of mist-like vapour drifted across his face as he ran through it. Too late to run round it. He began coughing, choking. Another bomb landed ahead of him, another cloud spread. He was choking horribly, his eyes trying to force themselves through the Plexiglas. He reached out with both hands and crashed to the ground. His gnarled hands scrabbled, twitched once more and then he lay still.

  Five minutes later the stretcher bearers took him away.

  Thirty-Four

  By 7.30 pm. there was a mellow, relaxed atmosphere at the reception. Over a hundred people were present and the room was crowded, shoulder to shoulder. With Newman following her, Nancy threaded her way through the mob to where Professor Grange stood in deep conversation with Victor Signer. She walked straight up to Grange.

  `I'm Dr Nancy Kennedy. My grandfather is a patient at the Berne Clinic…'

  `If you care to make an appointment, my dear,' the soft voice intoned. Blank eyes stared down at her from behind the tinted glasses. 'This is hardly the moment…'

  `And this is an intrusion on a private conversation,' Victor Signer informed her in a tone which suggested women were an inferior species.

  `Really?' Nancy turned on him, raising her voice so that people nearby stopped talking to listen, which made their conversation carry an even greater distance. 'Maybe you would like to talk about the convenient execution of Manfred Seidler up in the Juras last night? After all, Colonel, you were there. Alternatively, perhaps you could kindly shut up while I talk to Professor Grange…'

  `Gross impertinence…' Signer began.

  `Watch it,' Newman warned. 'Remember me? Let her talk.'

  `Your suggested appointment is not helpful,' Nancy continued in the same clear, carrying voice, staring straight at the tinted glasses. 'You hide behind Bruno Kobler at the Clinic. You are never available. Just exactly what is it you fear, Professor?'

  An expression of fury flickered behind the glasses. The hand holding the champagne glass shook. Grange tightened his pouched lips, struggling for control while Nancy waited. The silence was spreading right across the room as people realized something unusual was happening: a woman was confronting the eminent Professor Armand Grange.

  `I fear nothing,' he said eventually. 'What exactly is it you want, Dr Kennedy?'

  `Since I have no confidence in your Clinic and the secretive way it is run, I wish to transfer my grandfather, Jesse, to a clinic near Montreux. I wish to arrange this transfer within the next twenty-four hours. That is what I want, what I am going to get. You have no objection, I assume?'

  `You question my competence?'

  Nancy sidestepped the trap. 'Who was mentioning your competence – except yourself?' Nancy's voice rose and now every person in the room could hear her loud and clear. 'Are you saying it is against the law – or even medical etiquette – in this country to ask for a second opinion?'

  Possibly for the first time in his life – and in public-the head of the Berne Clinic was checkmated. Newman could see it in the rigid way he held himself. There were even beads of moisture on his high-domed forehead and the tinted glasses stared round at the silent assembly which stood gazing at him.

  `Of course,' Grange replied eventually, 'I agree to your request. May I, with the greatest possible courtesy, remind you that we are here to enjoy ourselves tonight?'

  `Then start enjoying yourself, Professor…'

  On this exit line Nancy turned and made her way between the crowd which parted to let her through. Watched by Grange and Signer she went straight up to Beck and started talking to the police chief, giving the impression she was seeking further backing for the decision she had prised out of the Professor. Newman seized his opportunity, guessing that Grange would not welcome a fresh public row.

  `I'm glad to meet you at last.' He smiled amiably without offering to shake hands. 'I'm writing a series of articles on Swiss industry and I understand you have at Horgen one of the most advanced factories in the world for the production of commercial gases?'

  `That is so, Mr Newman…' Grange seemed relieved at the change of subject, by the prospect of conversing with someone in normal tones. `Horgen is totally automated, the only type of plant in that field in the whole world…'

  `Except that, naturally, the containers are supplied from outside…'

  `But they are not, Mr Newman. We manufacture our own cylinders.'

  `Some photographs would help…'

  `I will send some to you here by special courier. It will be a pleasure…'

  `Thank you so much. And now I had better… circulate.'

  Newman smiled and withdrew. He joined Nancy who was still chatting with Beck. The police chief looked quizzically at Newman and then glanced across the room to where Signer was talking rapidly to Grange.

  `You had a pleasant conversation?' he enquired.

  `Grange just made one of his rare – and possibly fatal – mistakes. He gave me the last piece of information I was seeking…'

  `You know Dr Novak has arrived?' Nancy said to Newman as soon as they were alone. 'I think he tanked up in the bar before he decided to join us…'

  She stopped speaking as a hush fell on the guests. The silence was so pronounced that Newman turned towards the entrance to see what had caused every head to turn in that direction. A short man with a large head and a wide mouth, smoking a cigar, stood surveying the assembly.

  `My God!' he heard someone behind him say in French. 'Dr Max Nagel has arrived. Now we'll see some real fireworks.'

  Nagel, whose dinner jacket emphasized the great width of his shoulders, carried two large envelopes tucked under his arm. He dipped his head, acknowledging a waiter and taking a glass of champagne from the proffered tray, then walked across the room slowly, his mouth tightly clamped on the cigar.

  There was a feeling of tension, hardly anyone was talking as Grange and Signer watched him coming. Nagel paused, thanked another waiter who held a tray with an ash-tray for him. He carefully dropped the ash from his cigar, increasing the tension. The man was a superb actor, Newman reflected.

  He held the entire gathering in the palm of his large hand. `Good evening, Grange. Colonel Signer. I have something for you both…'

  `This is a medical reception,' Grange said coldly. 'I was not aware you had joined the profession…'

  `Signer is a doctor?' Nagel's voice was a rumbling growl.

  Newman glanced over his shoulder. Signer had switched his gaze to someone behind him. Blanche was watching the scene with a frown. Not Blanche. Lee Foley, one of the few men present not in evening dress, who was wearing a dark blue business suit with matching tie, a cream shirt and gold links fastening his cuffs, was now standing, staring at Signer. Close to him stood the small Englishman, Tweed, who was gazing intently through his spectacles. Newman had the impression of a stage manager studying the actors performing in a play he had rehearsed. Newman heard the growl continuing and faced the other way.

  `I think we're near the end of the line,' Nagel pronounced. `It has taken two months for the most brilliant accountants to trace the movement of two hundred million francs to its ultimate destination. A copy of the report for you, Professor Grange, one for you Colonel Signer. Terminal is terminated.

  `What is this to do with me?' Signer asked with a sneer as he took the sheaf of stapled papers from the envelope and gave them a mere glance.

  `They are photocopies,' Nagel rumbled on, 'the original is in my vault. And I expect you're capable of recognizing your own signature, Colonel. It appears three times on those documents. And you might care to know, Grange, I have called a meeting of bankers to take place in Zurich. We will travel to meet
you from Basle. The main item on the agenda? Those complex transactions. I bid you good night. Enjoy your medical ruminations, gentlemen…'

  Newman turned round again as the banker left, smoking his cigar. He saw Dr Novak leaning up against a wall, holding a glass at a precarious angle. Novak was watching the drama like a man hypnotized. It seemed a good moment to persuade the American to fall in with his plans. He excused himself and the buzz of many voices talking started up as Nagel let himself out through the revolving doors and climbed into the rear of a waiting limousine.

  `Novak,' Newman said, 'they're all watching Grange and Signer. Go to the lift – I'll join you there in a second. We have to talk. Don't argue – the whole thing is collapsing and they'll be looking for scapegoats. You could fit the part beautifully. And dump that glass on the table…'

  He walked out into the main hall, asked the concierge to have two pots of black coffee sent up to his room, and went along to the lift where Novak was waiting.

  `Novak, tomorrow night I'm going to break in to the Berne Clinic and you're going to help me…'

  `You crazy, Newman?'

  The American was sagged on the bed in Room 428, his shirt collar open at the neck, his tie loose. He also wore a business suit and Newman had emptied one jug of black coffee inside him. Novak was sober, reasonably so.

  `You saw Lee Foley tonight at the reception?' Newman asked. 'One word from me and he'll put in motion the revoking of your passport. You have access to those computer key cards which open the outer doors. I'm going inside that laboratory…'

  `Those keys I don't have…'

  `But I do. I got them off Willy Schaub this afternoon – they're so important he carries them with him everywhere. He talked, Novak. And he won't be coming back to the Clinic. I imagine Sunday is quiet at the Clinic?'

  `Yes, it is. The only day both Grange and Kobler are away from the place. Grange spends the night at his large house in Elfenau – that's a suburb of Berne. Kobler spends the night with a girl somewhere. But there are a whole posse of guards left…'

  `So I'll have to evade them. We meet after dark. The only problem I haven't solved is the Dobermans…'

  `They're keeping them indoors. They don't patrol at the moment – not since that business with Mrs Laird. Grange has said he wants the place to look normal. I go off duty myself Sunday night at nine in the evening.'

  I'll be there before then. About eight o'clock. Just be waiting for me inside that lobby. And Novak, I'd pack a bag and clear out yourself. I've booked a room for you here at the Bellevue. Stay inside it. Use Room Service for food until I arrive back. You'll do what I'm telling you?'

  `I want out. I'll do it. It sounded downstairs like Nagel is going to blow the whole thing wide open…'

  Newman escorted him to the door. 'If you think of changing your mind, just say two words to yourself. Lee Foley.'

  He was closing the door when someone pushed against it from the outside. He eased it open a few inches, then opened it wide. Blanche walked into the room carrying an envelope similar to those Nagel had handed to Grange and Signer. She pirouetted in the middle of the bedroom.

  `Like my dress, Bob? If you come closer you'll be able to appreciate my perfume…'

  `You've the nerve of the devil. Nancy could arrive at any moment…'

  `When I slipped up to my room and then along here she was deeply involved in conversation with a doctor from Phoenix…'

  `Blanche, I think your dress is out of this world, to say nothing of what's inside it. By the way, how did you manage to arrive just after Novak left?'

  `By waiting on one of those seats in the corridor. Bob, I don't like the look in your eye, the set of your mouth. You aren't planning on doing something foolish, I hope? Watch your answer – I know you…'

  `I have no intention of bedding you here…'

  `That's not what I meant.' She held out the envelope. 'I was asked to give this to you by Mr X. No probing trying to get his identity out of me. Maybe I had letter leave now.'

  Newman slipped the envelope inside a drawer. 'Your stepfather is at the reception. Have you talked to him?'

  `You must be joking. He walked straight past me as though I didn't exist. I was rather glad. I took a good long look at him and I didn't like what I saw. He's grown even harder. I'll go now.' She kissed him full on the mouth, then gave him a tissue from her handbag. 'You're wearing the wrong shade of lipstick. Bob, for God's sake don't do anything I would worry about. Promise?'

  `I'll bear your affectionate request in mind…'

  It was midnight when the unmarked van carrying Beck's film unit arrived at the forest above the Berne Clinic. Leupin was behind the wheel with Marbot alongside him. In the back of the van was the cine camera technician, Rolf Fischer, and his equipment.

  Leupin stopped the van and then backed it off the snowbound road into a clearing under the trees. He had no way of knowing he was choosing the same vantage point Lee Foley had selected to observe the Clinic on the previous Tuesday. Leupin, having tested the firmness of the ground, now swung the vehicle through a hundred and eighty degrees so the rear of the van faced the panoramic view of the Clinic and its grounds.

  In each rear door of the van was a round window of frosted glass, a hinged window which could be opened so Fischer's telephoto lens could be aimed at any required area of the Clinic, a lens which could see what was happening as clearly in the darkness as in broad daylight. Leupin got out, treading carefully in the snow, and made his way to the back where Fischer had already opened one of the windows.

  `This suit you?' Leupin called out.

  `Perfect. I can see everything – the Clinic, the laboratory, the grounds, even that deep slope near the lab.'

  `And they won't see us in the daytime – not a white van against the snow. Just a moment, something's moving beyond the Clinic…'

  Leupin raised the night-glasses looped round his neck and focused them on the drive curving down to the gatehouse. A black, six-seater Mercedes was driving away from the Clinic. Leupin lowered his glasses, calling out again to Fischer.

  `That's funny. I'm sure that car is Grange's. He's not supposed to be here tonight…'

  It was Beck who had vetoed the suggestion that they should arrive earlier. He was determined the van should not be spotted. And, as he had remarked, nothing would happen that evening with Grange at the reception and later spending the night at Elfenau.

  Thirty-Five

  Sunday, 19 February. The call came late in the morning just after Newman and Nancy had got out of bed. They had slept in late and Nancy drew back the curtains as Newman reached for his wristwatch on the bedside table. 11.45 am. He threw back the bed-clothes and hoped no one would make a loud noise.

  `Bob! Just come and look at this…'

  He blinked at the unusually strong light. The sun was shining brilliantly. Slipping into his dressing-gown, he yawned and joined Nancy at the window. No more mist. No traffic on the Sunday roads. Nancy gripped him by the arm and pointed to the left.

  `Isn't it just magnificent? And we might never have seen it if the weather hadn't cleared.'

  In the near distance – or so it seemed – they were gazing at the vast panorama of the Bernese Oberland range, a wall of mighty snowbound peaks silhouetted against a background of an azure sky. Newman wrapped an arm round her waist, squeezing her. The long night's sleep, the dream-like view, had relaxed her.

  `I think that big job is the Jungfrau,' he commented. 'It's the right shape…'

  `Isn't it just wonderful? We can have breakfast up here, can't we?'

  `Probably the only way we'll get some at this hour…'

  That was when the phone started ringing. Nancy danced to the phone, picked up the receiver and announced herself in a lilting tone.

  Newman realized something was very wrong from the change in her expression, in her tone of voice, in the way the conversation turned. She was standing very erect now, her complexion drained of all its natural colour and she began to argue, her voi
ce harsh and aggressive.

  `You can't do that! I forbid it! You bastard! I'll call you a bastard any time I want to – because that's what you are… I don't believe any of it… I'm going to raise bloody hell! Don't interrupt… You murdering swine…' Her voice suddenly went strangely quiet. 'You'll pay for this – that I promise you…'

  `Get them to hold on,' Newman called out. 'Tell me what it's about. I'll talk to them…'

  She had slammed down the receiver. She turned to look at Newman and he stared back at her. Her face had closed up. She began to walk slowly round the room, sucking her thumb, which Newman guessed was reversion to a childhood habit.

  `Tell me,' he said quietly.

  She went into the bathroom and closed the door. He tore off his night clothes, slipped into vest and pants and pulled on a pair of slacks, his shirt and shoes. At that stage she emerged from the bathroom where he had heard the tap running. She had washed and applied her makeup. She moved like a sleepwalker.

  `Do as I tell you,' he snapped. 'Sit down in that chair. Talk.'

  `They've killed Jesse…' She spoke in a flat monotone. `That was Kobler. He said Jesse had had a heart attack – that he died almost immediately. They've already cremated him…'

  `They can't do that. Who signed the death certificate? Did Kobler say?'

  `Yes, he said that Grange signed the certificate. He said they have a sworn document signed by Jesse requesting cremation…'

  `They can't get away with that. It's too quick. Christ, this is Sunday…'

  `They covered themselves on that one, too. Kobler said Grange found Jesse was infected with cholera. That could justify immediate cremation. I think it could. I'm not familiar with Swiss law…'

  She was talking like the playback of a slow-running taperecorder. She sat quite still, her hands slack in her lap as she looked up and Newman was startled by the coldness in her eyes.