Terminal tac-2

by Colin Forbes

  `We'll get them to send up some coffee…'

  `That would be nice. Just coffee, no food. You order for yourself. You must be hungry…' She waited while he gave Room Service the order and then asked the question. 'Bob – can you tell me something? Is Signer really mixed up in this Terminal thing Dr Nagel mentioned last night?'

  `Yes, I'm sure now. I'll show you something while we're waiting for the coffee.' He was glad to get her mind moving on another track – any other track. He produced the report Blanche had brought him. She remarked wasn't that what he had been reading when she'd fallen asleep? He said it was and showed her three pages where he had turned down the corners.

  `His signature confirming the transfer of these huge sums of money is clear enough. Victor Signer. He's president of the Zurcher Kredit Bank, the outfit which dominates the Gold Club which backs Grange. After breakfast,' he went on, 'I suggest we go and see Beck if he's in his office – which I'm sure he will be. He's practically sleeping on the job…'

  `So,' she said, ignoring his last suggestion, 'Grange and Signer and Kobler are the mainspring behind the Terminal thing?'

  `It's beginning to look very much like that. Did you hear what I said about Beck? That we go and see him after we've eaten?'

  `I think I'd like that…'

  Beck, clean-shaven and spruce, sat behind his desk listening while Nancy repeated the gist of her phone call from Kobler. As she talked he glanced at Newman once or twice, raising an eyebrow to indicate he was disturbed by the calm, detached way she spoke. At the end of her story he used the intercom to call in Gisela and was waiting by the door when she came in.

  `Stay with Dr Kennedy until we come back,' he whispered. `On no account leave her alone – not for a moment. I think she is in a state of severe shock.' He raised his voice. 'Bob, could you come with me, please? There's someone you will want to meet.'

  When they were outside in the corridor he closed the door and folded his arms. He pursed his lips as though uncertain how to phrase what he was going to say.

  `Ever since you arrived I have sensed you found it difficult to trust anyone – probably for very good reasons. That included myself. We are now going to the radio room. You have met Leupin, you know his voice. Since about midnight I have had a film unit van in position watching the Berne Clinic from the edge of the forest above it. When we reach the radio room you can ask Leupin any question you like – bearing in mind security – including checking his position. Now, let's get this poison of mistrust out of your system. I need all the help I can get…'

  It took less than five minutes inside the radio room and Newman immediately recognized Leupin's voice. The policeman confirmed that they were in position 'by the forest'. He further mentioned that they had watched 'a certain eminent personage's well-known car leave the place in question about midnight…'

  And that, thought Newman, unfortunately would fit in with the story that Grange had diagnosed cholera, had signed the death certificate, had been present at the Clinic after leaving the Bellevue reception to carry out these actions. He asked Beck if they could have a few minutes alone where they could talk privately. Beck led him inside an interrogation room and closed the door.

  `This tape,' said Newman, placing the spool on a table, 'is the recorded interview I had with Manfred Seidler when he admitted bringing in Soviet gas masks on the instructions of Professor Grange. Nancy will give you a sworn statement confirming she witnessed the interview – but not today, if you don't mind. And this is the film of several shots I took of the gas mask Seidler handed to you when you grabbed his suitcase…'

  `I am grateful,' Beck replied.

  `And this cartridge is from a rifle fired at a certain member of Grange's staff at the Clinic. I'm talking about Willy Schaub, head porter. You'll find him at this address. When you pick him up include a man who speaks good English. Tell him to knock on the door of the first-class flat and call out, "Newman here". He'll tell you a lot. Keep him in a safe – very safe – place. Don't be worried by the name alongside the bell-push, B. Signer. She's Victor Signer's daughter and I don't want her bothered. Signer has no time for her. May I rely on you?'

  Tor every request, yes.'

  `You can bring in Grange now?' Newman asked.

  `Not yet. That cholera nonsense is clever. He will have put the Clinic in a state of quarantine…'

  `So we still haven't got him?'

  `Not yet. He is very powerful.'

  It was 6 pm. Soon it would be dark. Blanche sat at a window table in the Bellevue coffee shop, eating a leisurely meal which she had paid for in advance. Earlier, she had watched Newman's parked Citroen from her bedroom window at this side of the hotel. Now she watched it from the table. Her scooter was parked against the wall of the Hertz offices and she was dressed in her riding gear. The wet-look pants, a thick woollen sweater – and her windcheater was thrown over the back of her chair.

  Pausing before dessert, she glanced round the empty room and opened her handbag. The hand grenade she had brought from her flat bulged in the side compartment. Strange how she had acquired it – going back to the days when her stepfather had tried to mould her to his will.

  He had taken her with him to a grenade practice range and, she had suspected, only his rank had permitted her to accompany him. He had thrown several grenades himself, then asked her to follow his example, watching her for any sign of nerves. That was when she had pocketed this grenade while he watched the previous one explode behind the concrete barrier. She had already escaped being raped in a dark alley by producing the egg-shaped weapon and threatening to blow herself and her attacker to pieces. She zipped up the compartment, looked out at the Citroen again and continued her meal. She was convinced Newman was going to make some reckless move before the evening was out. And to reach the Berne Clinic he had to use that Citroen.

  Thirty-Six

  It was that intense dark which only comes on a cold, starlit night when Newman parked the Citroen within inches of the wire fence surrounding the Clinic. Switching off the motor, he got out and his feet ground into crusted snow. This part of the fence was a long way from the gatehouse.

  He climbed on to the bonnet, heaved himself up on to the roof of the car, and he was within six inches of the top of the fence. He flexed his legs, crouched down and jumped up and over. He landed the way he had seen paratroopers land, rolling over, and when he stood up his only memento of the leap was a bruised shoulder. He walked briskly across hard snow towards the Clinic entrance at a diagonal angle, his ears attuned for the slightest warning that Dobermans were on the prowl despite Novak's assurance to the contrary.

  He reached the entrance without seeing anyone, frozen by the wind blowing from the north. Without hesitation he mounted the steps, opened the first door, strode across the deserted verandah, threw open the inner door and two people turned to stare at him.

  Astrid was seated behind the counter. Novak, wearing a business suit ready for departure, was checking a file which lay open on the counter-top. Astrid stood up, astounded, then she recovered her poise and grabbed for the phone. Newman leaned over the counter and smashed his fist against her full, fleshy chin. She reeled over backwards, caught her head against the rear wall and sagged out of sight.

  `My God! You could have killed her…'

  `No such luck. Let's move, Novak. Open that door into the corridor. Come on! Is that your car outside?'

  `Yes, I…'

  `When you've opened the door, get behind the wheel and pretend it's Indianapolis…'

  Novak produced his card, inserted it inside the slot and the door slid back. Newman snatched the key card out of Novak's hand and walked into the deserted corridor. The door closed behind him He was wearing a dark padded windcheater and a pair of jeans – clothes he rarely used – and his tough walking shoes were rubber-soled.

  The only sound in the eerily silent corridor was the muted hum of the air-conditioning. He walked on rapidly, moving down the slope now. He paused where the corridor turne
d and the angle of descent increased, peering round the corner. A further stretch of empty corridor illuminated by overhead neon strips until it reached the hydraulically-operated steel door which was closed.

  As he walked up to the door he extracted from his pocket the six key cards Willy Schaub had handed to him. The first three cards he tried didn't work. He inserted the fourth card and there was a sound of whirring machinery as the steel slab elevated. He walked through quickly and again heard the door closing behind him.

  This section was different. At intervals in the green walls on both sides were windows. He paused to glance through one and there was something about the surface of the glass which suggested this was one-way glass – you could see outside but no one would be able to look inside from the grounds.

  He guessed he was very close to the laboratory – it was probably behind the closed door at the end of the passage. He was looking uphill towards the wall of dark fir forest which overlooked the Clinic. On top of a small mound uniformed figures moved slowly round some device perched on top of the mound. He couldn't see too clearly.

  By the side of the door at the end of this passage was a box with a slot exactly like the previous lock. The first card he chose operated the door which slid up, revealing what lay beyond. A dimly-lit chamber, very large and crammed with tables which supported wire cages. Inside these cages were housed animals. The chimpanzees turned round to stare silently at the intruder.

  The room was not only occupied)y animals. At the rear of the chamber behind the cages stood Professor Armand Grange. Two figures wearing the weird gas masks stepped forward, grabbed Newman by the arms as the door closed. A fourth man stood near Grange. Bruno Kobler. Newman ground his shoe down on the instep of the man on his left who grunted in pain but retained his grip. Kobler walked over, staring at the prisoner, not hurrying, and while the two men held Newman he searched him, running his hands over his padded windcheater, under his armpits and down the sides of his arms and legs.

  `He is carrying no weapon,' he reported.

  `But why should he carry a weapon, Bruno?' Grange asked as he padded closer. The poor lighting had the effect of blanking out the tinted glasses so he seemed eyeless. 'He is a reporter,' Grange continued. 'He works on the basis that the pen – the typewriter – is mightier than the sword. This may be an occasion when the old adage is proved wrong…'

  `How the hell did you know I was coming?' Newman enquired. His tone expressed disgust, his expression showed a hint of fear.

  `Through the medium of radar, of course! Also we have concealed television cameras sweeping the approaches. The security here has been brought to a fine art, Mr Newman…'

  `Along with gassing people to test those Soviet masks…'

  `A well-informed reporter, Bruno,' Grange commented, his tone mocking.

  `Except that isn't the real object – it's the gas which you're testing, the gas you manufacture at Horgen. You made a slip when you told me you manufacture your own cylinders at Horgen – you have the facilities to make the bombs which contain the gas you test here. Tous azimuts. All-round defence of Switzerland, isn't that it, Professor?'

  `Oh dear, he is too well-informed, Bruno…'

  `You have developed a new gas, haven't you?' Newman persisted. 'A gas which will penetrate the latest Soviet masks. Hence tous azimuts, the new strategy. If the Red Army does come you plan to encircle the whole of Switzerland with this wall of gas they will never get through – alive. But you had to be sure the latest Soviet masks were useless against it – so you used patients to test it…'

  `But Mr Newman, these patients are terminal…'

  `Hence the name of the operation which has puzzled so many people – because the word has different meanings. What kind of gas, Grange? Something developed from Tabun, the gas you grabbed out of Germany when you were a member of the special team sent in at the end of the war?'

  `Worse and worse, Bruno. So very well-informed. I repeat, the patients are terminal, so what difference does it make? We have a population of millions to defend. It is a question of numbers, Mr Newman. As to the gas, we have come a long way from Tabun. We now have the most advanced form of hydrogen cyanide in the world – and we have found a way to control its volatility. We can distribute belts of the gas as we wish – in the face of an advancing armoured division. They will be dead within thirty seconds, their tanks useless scrap metal. But the gas, Mr Newman, disperses very quickly – swiftly loses its toxicity…'

  `You think you'll get away with murder?'

  `We have triumphed…' Grange's voice rose to a pitch of ecstasy. Newman realized finally he was faced by a megalomaniac- Grange was a madman. He went on in the same tone of exhilaration. 'Signer has called a meeting of the General Staff for Wednesday night. The new policy will be adopted – with the aid of what we call the irregulars – those officers who support our determination to defend our country at all costs…'

  `And Nagel's conference of the bankers?'

  It is scheduled for Thursday morning. The meeting will be cancelled. A matter of military security. And now, since you know it all, we will convince you I am right. You will be our final experiment – a more virile specimen than those who went before you. Bruno! Proceed…!'

  `You dare not let me see inside the atombunker then?' `Of course you may see. Bring him inside..

  Grange led the way, a massive figure in the gloom. Newman estimated the half-open door to the atombunker was at least six inches of solid steel. They paused as a man wearing one of the masks emerged. He carried in each hand a small blue cylinder with a flow meter attached to its head. Stencilled along each cylinder were the words Achtung! Giftgas! Beware! Poison gas!

  Inside the vast windowless bunker piles of the blue cylinders were stacked against a wall. The man who had walked out wore a uniform which Newman briefly mistook for a Swiss Army uniform. Then he realized it was similar in appearance – but not the same. It was the outfit of a security unit designed to look superficially like the military version. The Swiss Army was not guarding the Clinic. Grange had been diabolically clever – he had given the impression he was being protected by the military.

  `The filters on top of the chimneys,' Newman asked Grange as they stood staring round the place. 'Why do you need them?'

  He knows everything, Bruno. The filters, Mr Newman, were designed by my top chemist at Horgen in case of an accident here – in case the gas escaped. It would not do to exterminate a dozen patients wandering round the grounds in summer. Those filters render the gas harmless. On the basis of that design we shall develop a mask to protect ourselves against a change in wind direction in wartime. But the gas comes first. Now, Bruno, time for Mr Newman to leave us…'

  Bruno Kobler supervised the operation. They held his arms by his sides and Kobler himself fastened the mask over Newman's head and face. He struggled but they held him firmly. Through the Plexiglas eyepieces he saw the tinted glasses of Professor Grange staring at him with no expression at all. It was a scientific experiment he was engaged on.

  Kobler led the way out of the atombunker across the laboratory chamber to a door one of the other masked figures had opened. Icy air crawled over Newman's hands. The straps round his neck chafed the skin. Kobler paused at the doorway, lifted the mask over one ear and gave instructions.

  `You run down the slope. It is your only chance of survival. Who knows? You are a fit man – you might just make it to the road. Not that anyone will believe what you have seen here. I will point the way you go..

  The two men held Newman in a vice-like grip as Kobler slipped on an overcoat. Then they led him into the night. He looked round quickly through the eyepieces, checking where everyone was positioned. The nearby mound overlooking the downward slope, the mound where the mortar was mounted, a stock of bombs by its side. The men grouped round it – one holding a bomb near the mouth of the barrel. The slope behind them, climbing up towards the forest.

  Hannah Stuart and Holly Laird had died running down that slope, doubtl
ess hoping to reach the road they would have seen earlier while sitting inside the enclosed verandah – Mrs Laird had even reached the road, but had then died.

  Kobler was pointing down the slope. On top of the mound a few yards away half-a-dozen masked figures watched him, watched their target. The two men on either side released him. Kobler gestured impatiently down the slope. Newman flexed his stiff arms, nodded his head to show he understood and walked slowly forward to the edge of where the slope started downhill. Kobler, wearing no mask, retreated inside the laboratory.

  Newman flexed each leg, easing the stiffness, then bent down to rub his left ankle. He jerked upright, the automatic Beck had given him, the weapon he had concealed behind his sock, gripped in his right hand. He aimed it at the men grouped round the mortar, firing over their heads.

  They scattered, abandoned the mound as Newman ran straight for it, kicking over the mortar barrel, running on uphill. The wind blew in his face. He knew they dare not fire the mortar even if they remounted it successfully. The gas would blow back in their faces. They could only pursue him up the steep incline on foot. He doubted they would risk the sound of any more shots. But he was handicapped by the bloody mask which was constricting his neck. No time to stop and try to tear it off – they'd be on top of him. God, the ascent was steep, the forest seemed so very far away.

  Blanche stood on the knoll above the Clinic, the knoll she had used when she had photographed the Clinic and its grounds. She had followed Newman's Citroen on her scooter along the motorway. She had watched through her pair of night-glasses from a distance when he vaulted the fence. She had ridden on to the knoll, the only point from where she might see what was happening.

  She had the night-glasses pressed to her eyes now, watching in horror as Newman kicked over something after scattering the men in Swiss uniform. She knew the running figure was Newman – his movements were familiar enough for her to be quite certain.

  The swine had recovered from their surprise, men who wore horror film masks, and they were running after Newman, gaining on him as, bunched together, they took the same route up a gulch below where she stood. Her mouth was tight as she bent down to pick up her helmet. Her hair was blowing in her face, confusing her vision. She rammed the helmet over her head. Reaching into her pocket, she brought out an egg-shaped object. The hand grenade.