TERMINAL

Colin Forbes served with the British Army during the war, mostly in the Mediterranean zone, and after the war had various occupations. He wrote his first book in 1965 and within two years of its publication he left the business world to become a full-time writer.

His books have been translated into fifteen languages and all have been published in the United States as well as in Britain.

Avalanche Express has been filmed and film rights have been sold for Tramp in Armour, The Heights of Zervos, The Palermo Ambush, Year of the Golden Ape, and The Stone Leopard, all of which, with Target Five, The Stockholm Syndicate and Double Jeopardy are available in Pan.

His main interest, apart from writing, is foreign travel, and this has taken him to the United States, Asia, Africa and most West European countries. Married to a Scots-Canadian, he has one daughter.

Colin Forbes

TERMINAL

Pan Books in association with Collins

First published 1984 by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd

This edition published 1985 by Pan Books Ltd,

Cavaye Place, London SW10 9PG

in association with William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 987

 ? Cohn Forbes 1984

ISBN 0 330 28813 X

Printed'and bound in Great Britain by

Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading

This book is sold subject to the condition that it

shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold,

hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior

consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

For Jane — who holds the fort

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Swiss clinics are among the finest and most advanced medical establishments in the world. They provide a standard of care without equal. The Berne Clinic, which plays a prominent part in this novel, does not exist. All characters are creatures of the author's imagination.

terminal — most concise form of an expression; fatal illness; point of connexion in electric circuit; railway or airway terminus...

The Concise Oxford Dictionary

PROLOGUE

No night should have been as cold as this one. No woman should have to endure what Hannah Stuart endured. She ran screaming down the snowbound slope — screaming when she wasn't choking and coughing her lungs out. Behind her she heard the snarling and barking of the ferocious Doberman dogs coming closer.

Wearing only a nightdress, over which she had thrown her fur coat, her feet shod in rubber-heeled sensible shoes which gripped the treacherous ground, she stumbled on towards the wire fence surrounding the place. As she ran, she tore the `thing' off her face and head, dropping it as she took in great gulps of icy air.

The night was dark but the whiteness of the snow showed her where she was going. Another few hundred yards and she would reach the fence which bordered the highway, the outside world — freedom. Now she could breathe the night air she wondered if it were even worse than the 'thing' she had discarded. With the temperature below zero it was like breathing in liquid ice.

`Oh, my God, no!' she gasped.

Something had landed just ahead of her, a shell-like projectile which quietly burst with a hissing sound. Desperately she tried to hold her breath while she ran through what billowed ahead. It was impossible. She absorbed more lungfuls of the filthy stuff and started choking again.

Behind the dogs they had released ran men in military-style uniforms, their heads and faces hideously disfigured by weird apparatus. Hannah Stuart didn't look back, didn't see them — she just knew they were coming for her.

At the point she was heading for a large wire gate bisected the fence. It was closed but she knew that under her feet lay the snow-covered road leading to that gate. It made her progress faster — such as it was. Still choking, she reached the gate, her hands clawing at the wire as she struggled to haul it open.

If only a car would come up the highway, if only the driver saw her. If only she could get this goddamned gate to open she might even survive. So many 'if s...' The panic she fought to hold in check was welling up. Frantically, she stared up and down the deserted road for sight of a pair of headlights. In the dark nothing moved. Except the dogs which were nearly on top of her and the men who, fanned out in an arc military fashion, came up behind the animals.

She gave one last choking gulp. Her hands, bleeding now as she went on clawing at the gate, lost their grip. Smears of red blood coated the ice-encrusted gate as she slipped down, and then fell the last few feet. The iron-hard ground smashed her face a savage blow.

She was dead when they reached her, eyes sightless, her complexion already showing signs of cyanosis poisoning. Two men with a stretcher took her back up the slope. The dogs were leashed. One man took out a piece of surgical gauze to remove all traces of blood from the gate, then followed his companions.

This was in Switzerland in the year 1984. On the gate a metal plate carried an engraved legend. KLINIK BERN. Wachthund! BERNE CLINIC. Guard Dog!

One

Tucson, Arizona. 10 February 1984. 75?. A sizzling tremor of heat haze. In the shimmer the harsh, jagged Tucson Mountains seemed to vibrate. Behind the wheel of her Jaguar, newly imported from England, Dr Nancy Kennedy let her frustration rip, ramming down on the accelerator.

Expertly, she corrected a rear wheel skid as she swung off Interstate Highway 10 and headed up the hairpin bends towards Gates Pass. Her passenger alongside her, Bob Newman, did not appreciate the experience. Clouds of dust from the road enveloped them and he began choking. He felt like yelling — even screaming.

`Do you have to drive your latest toy as though you're racing at Brands Hatch?' he enquired.

`Typical British understatement?' she asked.

`Typical American way of handling a new car. You're supposed to run it in,' he commented.

`That's what I'm doing...'

`What you're doing is ripping the guts out of it. Just because you're worried about your grandfather in that Swiss clinic you don't have to kill us...'

`I sometimes wonder why I got engaged to an Englishman,' Nancy snapped.

`You couldn't resist me. Christ, it's hot...'

Newman, forty years old, had thick, sandy-coloured hair, cynical blue eyes of a man who has seen too much of the seamy side of the world, a strong nose and jaw and a firm mouth with a droll, humorous expression. He knew it was 75?: he had seen the temperature register on a digital sign outside a bank as they left Tucson. He wore fawn slacks, an open- necked white shirt and his jacket with a small check design was folded in his lap. He was already sweating profusely. The dust was adhering to the sweat. It was eleven o'clock in the morning and they had just finished one row. Maybe it was time for another. He risked it.

`Nancy, if you want to check on why your grandfather was rushed off by air to that place in Switzerland you're going the wrong way. This road does not lead to the Berne Clinic...'

`Oh, shit!'

She rammed her foot on the brake and he would have gone through the windscreen but for the fact they both wore safety belts. A second earlier she had swung off the road into a lay-by. Flinging open the door, she stormed out of the car and stood with her back to him, arms folded, standing by a low wall.

He sighed. She had, of course, left the engine running. Turning off the ignition, he pocketed the keys and joined her, his jacket over one arm. He studied her out of the corner of his eye.

Twenty-nine years old, Nancy Kennedy was at her most attractive in a rage. Her smooth skin was flushed, her raven hair falling to her shoulders. He loved exploring that dense mane of hair, soothing the back of her neck, and then nothing could stop them.

Five feet eight, four inches shorter than Newman, she had legs your fingers itched to stroke and a figure which caused all men's eyes to stare when they walked into a restaurant. Angry, she tilted her head, emphasizing her superb bone structure, high cheekbones and pointed chin expressing self- will.

It constantly amazed him. He had seen her in a white coat practising her profession, supremely competent and self-controlled — but in her private life Nancy had the temper of a she-devil. Often he suspected it was the contrast which attracted him — apart from her physical assets.

`What does the famous foreign correspondent have in mind?' she enquired bitingly.

`Looking for facts — evidence — instead of flying off into the wild blue yonder...' He looked at the staggering view and corrected his description. 'The dirty grey yonder...'

Beyond the wall the road began to descend again in an even more terrifying series of twists and bends. Beyond that it looked like the mountains of Hell — a pile of gigantic cinder cones without a trace of green vegetation on the scarred rock faces.

'We were going to have a lovely day at the Desert Museum,' she pouted. 'They have a beaver lodge underground. You can go down a staircase and see the beavers nestled in the lodge...'

`And all the time you'll be worrying and talking about Jesse Kennedy...'

'He raised me after my mother and father were killed in a car crash. I don't like the way Linda secretly had him moved to Switzerland while I was at St Thomas's in London. There's an odd smell about the whole business...'

'I don't like Linda,' he remarked.

`You like her legs — you never stop looking at them...'

'I'm a connoisseur of good legs. Yours are almost as good...'

She thumped him, turned round and leaned against the wall, her expression serious. 'Bob, I really am worried. Linda could have phoned me when they diagnosed leukaemia. She had my number. I'm not happy at all. She may be my older sister but she's no right to take the law into her own hands. Then there's her husband, Harvey...'

'Don't like Harvey either,' he said easily, twirling an unlit cigarette in his mouth. 'You realize the only way to check this? Not that I think for a moment there's anything wrong — but you won't settle until I convince you...'

'So, convince me, Mr World Foreign Correspondent who speaks five languages fluently.'

'We proceed systematically as though I was checking out a big story. You're a doctor and a close relative of the man we're enquiring about — so the right people will have to talk to me as long as you're present. The family doctor is on my list — but first we interview the specialist who took the blood tests that showed it was leukaemia. Where do we find him?'

'A man called Buhler at Tucson Medical Center. It's in the city. I insisted on Linda telling me all the details — I say insisted because I had to drag the information out of her...'

'Doesn't prove a thing,' Newman commented. 'Knowing you're a doctor she might have been worried she hadn't done it your way. She might also have resented your questioning..

`We seem to be doing it backwards,' she objected. 'I can't see why you don't talk to Linda first, then our doctor, then the specialist at the Center...'

`Deliberately backwards. That way we get testimony and check what the others say later. It's the only technique which will show up any discrepancies. I still think it's a wild goose chase but...' He spread his hands. `... I just want to settle your mind and then we can get on with living.'

`It's queer — Linda not phoning me while I was doing my post-graduate work at St Thomas's..

`You said that before. Let's get some action. Specifically, let's get to the Center before Buhler goes to lunch. And no argument — I'm driving. Hop in the passenger seat...'

`Didn't you know, Nancy? No, of course not — you were away in London when Buhler was killed...'

They were at the Center talking to a slim man of fifty wearing a sweat shirt and slacks. Dr Rosen had taken them to his private office and Newman sat watching him and drinking coffee. Rosen had an alert, professional manner and was clearly glad to help Nancy in any way he could.

`How was he killed?' Newman asked casually.

`Killed was perhaps the wrong word...'

`But it was the word you used,' Newman pointed out. `Maybe you could fill us in on the details. I'm sure Nancy would appreciate that...'

Dr Rosen hesitated. He stroked his thinning hair with his right hand as though searching for the right words to express himself. Newman frowned at Nancy who was about to say something and she remained silent.

`It was very tragic. He went off the road near Gates Pass in his new Mercedes. He was DOA when we got him back here...'

`He must have earned a lot of money to afford a Mercedes,' Newman remarked.

`He told me he got lucky during the one trip he made to Vegas. He was that kind of man, Mr Newman — if he made a killing... I'm using that word again — don't read any significance into it. What I'm saying is, if Buhler came into a lot of money he would hang on to it.'

`You said "very tragic" and I noticed you emphasized the first word. He had a family?'

Rosen swivelled in his chair, gazed out of the window and then turned back to face Newman who had the impression Rosen was uncomfortable about the subject of their conversation. Clasping his hands, he leaned forward across his desk and looked at both his visitors.

`Buhler went off that road at speed because he was drunk. It was a shock to all of us because we'd never suspected he was an alcoholic..

`Driving off a road when you've had one too many doesn't make you an alcoholic,' Newman pressed. 'Why not complete the story?'

`Buhler had no family, wasn't married — except to his job. He had no relatives we were able to trace. When the police checked his home they found cupboards stacked with empty bottles of whisky. The evidence was conclusive — he'd been a secret drinker. That's why I said very tragic...'

And he was the specialist who checked my grandfather's blood sample and diagnosed leukaemia?' Nancy interjected.

`That's correct. Young Dr Chase brought them in himself for Buhler to check. Unfortunately, there was no doubt about it — if that's what you're wondering, Nancy.'

`I wasn't wondering that—why this Dr Chase? For years our doctor has been Bellman...'

`All this has to be in confidence, Nancy. Some of it I'm only telling you because of our long acquaintance — and to put your mind at rest about Jesse being sent to that clinic in Switzerland. Mrs Wayne changed your doctor — she never liked Bellman. Said she preferred someone younger...'

`Linda chose this Dr Chase!' Nancy's tone expressed near amazement. 'Someone entirely new — and young — advised her to shuttle Jesse off to Europe?'

`Well...' Rosen hesitated again, glancing at Newman, who gazed back with no particular expression. 'Frank Chase has gone up like a rocket — he's very popular. My guess is he'll soon have a string of wealthy patients. He has a way with... people.'

`The records,' Nancy persisted, 'the blood samples Buhler took to check my grandfather. They're here at the hospital?'

`They were destroyed...'

`That's not right,' Nancy protested.

`Wait a minute. Please!' Rosen held up a placating hand. `Let me finish. Buhler was an eccentric. As I told you, he lived for his work. He had a habit of carrying his files round with him so he could study them whenever he felt like it. They were inside the car when he went over the edge. There was a partial fire — all his records were incinerated...'

`How young is this Dr Frank Chase?' Newman enquired.

`Thirty-two. He still has a long way to go to get to the top of the tree, if that's what you were wondering. But he's climbing.'

`Could we have. Dr Chase's address?' Newman asked. `Sure. He's out on Sabino Canyon Road.'

`Very nice, too,' Nancy commented. 'Skyline Country Club territory. Linda is practically his neighbour if he's far enough out.'

Rosen said nothing as he took a pad and wrote carefully in a fine Italian script. Newman read the address upside down and for a member of the medical profession it was surprisingly legible. Something in Rosen's attitude puzzled him: the doctor had given Newman several close scrutinies as though trying to make up his mind about something, an aspect which was bothering him. He tore off the sheet, folded it neatly and handed it to Newman — which caused Nancy to raise her eyebrows.

He stood up and came round his desk to shake hands and escort them to the door, opening it to let Nancy leave first. His handclasp was warm and reassuring.

`I really don't think you have anything to worry about,' he told her. 'The Swiss are very good...'

He waited until Newman was half way along the corridor leading to the exit before he called him back. Newman told Nancy he would be with her in a minute and to wait in the car. Rosen closed the door once the Englishman was inside his office. He handed him a visiting card.

`That has my phone number here and at home. Could I meet with you this evening? Just the two of us over a drink for half an hour? Do you know the Tack Room?'

`Nancy took me there.' He slipped the card inside his wallet. 'It's a nice place...'

`MOBIL give it a five-star rating. Seven o'clock? Good. Maybe considerate not to mention this to Nancy. A few weeks before Jesse was shunted out of Tucson, we had an eminent Swiss medical personality here on a tour of the States. Linda, Nancy's sister, attended one of his lectures.'

`Any significance in that?'

`He happens to be head of the Berne Clinic …'

Two

`Where the hell have you been, Nancy?' Newman demanded. `I've sat here roasting in your Jag. for exactly forty-three minutes. At least I've got the smell of that place out of my system...'

`And how long were you with Rosen?' she flared. 'I might have sat here waiting forty-three minutes for you...'

`Three minutes,' snapped Newman.

`Well, how was I to know? I popped into another department to see an old friend and she had a lot to tell me. I've been away at St Thomas's for a year in case you've forgotten. And do you mind getting out of the driving seat?'

`I'm driving...'

He inserted the ignition keys and switched on the engine. She said something under her breath and her classic, pleated skirt swept high up her long legs as she sat in the passenger seat and slammed the door. She asked the question as he drove smoothly out of the Medical Center.

`What smell were you referring to — the one you got out of your system?'

`Disinfectant. Hospital disinfectant...'

`You hate anything medical, don't you? I can't imagine what you ever saw in me the night we first met in that place in Walton Street. Bewick's, wasn't it?'

`My favourite London restaurant. And I saw your lovely legs. You display them frequently..

`Bastard!' She thumped his shoulder. 'What did Rosen want to tell you that was too spicy for my delicate ears?'

`With my not being a doctor, being British, he wanted to emphasize the conversation had been strictly confidential. He's a careful type, very ethical and all that. Now, guide me to the mansion of Dr Frank Chase...'

Holding the slip of paper Rosen had given Newman in her hands and staring straight ahead, Nancy spoke only to give directions. Sabino Canyon Road starts in a well-populated area on the north-east outskirts of Tucson heading for the Catalina Mountains. It starts as a district for the well-off and progresses up the canyon into an oasis for the wealthy.

Newman noted the houses were getting bigger, the grounds more extensive, and again ahead the mountains danced in the heat dazzle. But the Tucson range was like a series of gigantic, broken-backed dinosaurs turned into rock. Like the Skyline Country Club, the Catalinas were opulent, welcoming and had vegetation.

He accelerated past the Wayne property in case Linda happened to be looking out of a window. Nancy glanced at him with a hint of amusement.

`Why the sudden burst of enthusiasm?'

`So Linda can't phone Chase and warn him we're coming.'

`Robert, you never miss a trick,' she needled him.

She always called him Robert when she was either annoyed or wanted to get under his skin, knowing he disliked his Christian name. He parried the thrust by grinning and not replying. The Jag. went on climbing and behind them the city of Tucson spread out in the bowl formed by three separate mountain ranges.

`Slow down, Bob,' she warned, 'we're close now. That place on the left must be Chase...'

A split rail fence enclosed the property, a large, L-shaped house with two storeys and a green pantile roof. Newman drove through the open gateway and along the drive which divided — one arm leading to the front porch, the second to the double garage at the side of the house. The wheels crunched as they pulled up.

In front of the house the 'garden' was a generous stretch of gravel out of which grew evil-looking saguaro cacti. Shaped like trees, they had a main trunk from which sprouted prickly branches stretching up towards the sky as though trying to claw it down. A man standing by the double garage pressed a button and Newman, who had switched off the engine, heard the purr of power-operated doors closing over the garage. In the the wing mirror he watched the man approaching with a wary tread.

Thirty-two, Rosen had said. The man wore tight blue jeans and an open-necked shirt with a large check design. His face was bony, the skin tanned under a mop of thick brown hair. Seeing only that much in the mirror, Newman took an instant dislike to him. He looked up as the man put a long-fingered hand on the door top. Manicured nails and a strong whiff of after-shave lotion.

`Dr Frank Chase?'

`Yes.'

The word hung in the hot air like a challenge and the brown eyes which stared down at Newman measured him for the operating table. Newman smiled amiably and said the one thing which he thought would throw Chase off balance.

`I don't think you've met Dr Nancy Kennedy. Sister of Linda Wayne. Grand-daughter of Jesse Kennedy. She's about to launch an investigation into why her grandfather was hustled off five-and-a-half thousand miles away without consulting her. This is a lovely place you've got here, Dr Chase.'

`Miss Kennedy, I'm afraid there was no question your grandfather was suffering from leukaemia..' Dr Chase laid a thin, bony hand on the arm of the reclining chair Nancy sat in at the rear of the house by the side of the oyster-shell-shaped swimming pool. His smile was sympathetic but Newman observed the smile did not reach the brown eyes which studied her. 'You see,' Chase continued, 'we had the top specialist in the state examine him. Dr Buhler...'

`Who conveniently died in a car accident,' Nancy interrupted him coldly. 'And even more conveniently had the records of those tests with him so they now no longer exist. The only real evidence, when you get to the bottom line, that he has this disease.'

`Conveniently?' Chase's smile became a little tight. 'I don't quite follow.' His hand clasped Nancy's gently. Here we go with the famous bedside manner, Newman thought as he stretched in his own chair and sipped his glass of bourbon. `Dr Kennedy,' Chase continued more formally, 'I do realize you must be overwrought. You were fond of your grandfather...'

'I am fond of my grandfather...'

She pulled her hand free and swallowed a large gulp of her own drink. Newman stood up and eased his shoulders as though stiff from sitting. He grinned as Chase glanced up at him sharply.

`Mind if I just wander round your place?' he suggested. 'I'll leave you and Nancy to talk this thing out alone.'

`That might be a very good idea,' Chase agreed. 'Feel free.

The obligatory swimming pool and its surrounding patio were tiled with marble. The walls of the house were plaster painted a dark sludge green. The picture windows looking down on Tucson were huge and triple plate glass doors slid open on to the patio. As he wandered towards the side of the house Newman peered inside.

The largest hi-fi system he had ever seen occupied the end wall of the sitting-room. The rest of the furniture reeked of money. He looked back before he disappeared round the garage end of the house and Chase had his back to him, crouched forward as he spoke earnestly to Nancy, whose expression was blank as she listened.

It intrigued Newman that Chase's first action on seeing them arrive had been to close the garage. He may well have recognized Nancy—the Wayne house was full of photographs of her with Linda. His shirt stuck to his back as he shuffled quietly over the gravel which had a gritty feel that seemed to compound the heat.

Holding his glass in one hand, he lifted the lid of the control box attached to the wall. Two buttons, one green, one red. He pressed green. The same purring sound of highly-efficient — and expensive — hydraulics as the doors elevated. He stood staring at the occupants. One red Ferrari. One red Maserati. Blood-red. Very new. A small fortune on eight wheels.

`You're interested in cars, Mr Newman?'

`I'm a car buff, Chase. So, apparently, are you,' Newman said easily.

The doctor had come after him silent as a cat. Even the sneakers he wore should have made some sound on the gravel. He stood looking at Newman and the smile was gone. His right hand held a refilled glass of bourbon. He swallowed half the contents in one gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand.

`You usually go creeping round people's homes, prying? That's the foreign correspondent coming out, I guess. Incidentally, I understood you and Nancy were engaged — but I notice no ring on the third finger of her left hand...'

Newman grinned amiably. He made a throwaway gesture with his hand. Chase did not respond. His mouth twisted in a faint sneer, he waited, his head tilted forward. Newman put a cigarette in his mouth before replying.

`Let's take that lot in sequence, shall we? You have something to hide because you can afford a couple of brand new sports jobs?'

`I don't like your tone...'

`I'm not crazy about yours, but as long as enough rich patients continue to love you what does it matter? As to Nancy, we have a trial engagement...'

`I'd just as soon you didn't light that cigarette, Newman. You should read the statistics...'

`You think I'll pollute the atmosphere out here?' Newman lit the cigarette. 'Did you know that in Britain a lot of doctors have given up smoking and preach the gospel? Did you also know that the graph showing the degree of alcoholism among British doctors shows a steady climb.' Newman glanced at Chase's glass. 'You should read the statistics.'

`I've heard of trial marriages...' Chase's sneer became more pronounced. 'But a trial engagement is a new sexual exercise...'

`So, I've broadened your experience. Hello, Nancy. I think we ought to leave now — unless you have more questions for your friendly family doctor...'

Tight-lipped, Nancy waited until they were driving back along Sabino Canyon Road before she spoke. Extracting the cigarette from Newman's mouth, she took a few puffs and handed it back to him. He knew then she was in a towering rage.

`The condescending bastard! God knows what Linda sees in a man like that. Our previous doctor, Bellman, is a nice man.'

`I've nothing against Frank Chase,' Newman remarked airily as he swung round a bend. 'He's a hyena — scooping up red meat wherever he can find it, holding rich old ladies by the hand as they tell him about their imaginary ailments. That doesn't make him a conspirator. Your sister's place next? I'd like to talk to her on her home ground rather than at the Smugglers Inn. In people's homes you see them as they really are. The other night when she brought Harvey over for dinner at my hotel she put on an act. Her public image.'

`Do you know the one thing Chase didn't suggest when we were out by the pool — the one thing he should have suggested if he had really wanted me reassured about Jesse?'

`Oddly enough, as I wasn't there all the time, I don't know.'

`He never suggested that we visit the Berne Clinic so I could see Jesse for myself. And yes, I think you should talk to Linda. I'll leave you alone. Mind she doesn't seduce you …'

`It all started when Jesse — we all called him that — had a bad fall from his horse, Bob...' The large dark eyes stared at Newman, the long lashes half-closed demurely over them. `You do prefer to be called Bob, don't you? Nancy calls you Robert when she wants to make you mad. My kid sister is full of little tricks like that. Is that the way you like your tea? Have I got it right?'

Linda Wayne sat beside Newman on the couch, her long legs sheathed in the sheerest black nylon and crossed with her skirt just above her shapely knees. She wore a high-necked cashmere sweater which emphasized her full figure. When she had shown him into the vast living-room her right breast had briefly touched his forearm. He had felt the firmness under the cashmere, a material quite unsuited to the temperature outside but perfect for the stark coolness of the air-conditioning.

Her hair was jet black, thick and shoulder-length like Nancy's. Thick, dark eyebrows made her slow-moving eyes seem even larger. Her voice was husky and she exuded sexuality like a heavy perfume. Newman stopped himself gazing at the sweep of her legs and tried to recall what she had just said.

`Your tea,' she repeated, 'is it the right colour?'

`Perfect...'

`It's Earl Grey. I bought it in San Francisco. I just love your English teas. We drink a lot of tea in the States now...'

`But you don't ride horses much down here any more.' He swallowed a gulp of the tea quickly. He hated Earl Grey. 'So what was Jesse doing on a horse?'

`He rode every day like they used to years ago, Bob. We put him to bed upstairs and called the doctor..

`Frank Chase?'

`That's right...' She had paused briefly before she replied. She began talking more quickly. `Bellman, our previous doctor, was getting out of touch with modern developments. I thought a younger man would be more likely to move with the times. It's a good job I took that decision — he gave Jesse a thorough examination, including blood tests. That's how we found out Jesse was suffering from leukaemia. You can imagine the shock...' She moved closer to him and clasped his free hand. She looked very soulful.

`It was a very big jump,' he said.

She looked puzzled, wary. 'Bob, I'm not following you.. `From Tucson, Arizona to Berne, Switzerland.'

`Oh, I see what you mean.' She relaxed, gave him a warm smile. 'Jesse was a mountaineer. He liked Switzerland. He discussed it with Frank — Dr Chase. He simply acceded to my grandfather's expressed wish, bearing in mind the patient's best interests...'

`Come again? No, forget it. No thanks, no more tea.'

He simply acceded to my grandfather's expressed wish, bearing in mind the patient's best interests.

Linda's dialogue had suddenly gone wrong — she would normally never talk like that. But Frank Chase would. It confirmed what Newman had expected to happen. During the time between driving away from Chase's place down Sabino Canyon Road to Linda's home the hyena had called Linda to report their visit — to instruct her.

She squeezed his hand gently to get his full attention and began talking again in her soft, soothing voice. 'Bob, I'd like you to do everything you can to settle my kid sister's mind. There's nothing she can do about Jesse except worry.

`The kid sister can fly to Berne to find out what the hell is really going on...' Nancy stood in the open doorway, her manner curt, her tone biting. 'And when you've finished with it you might give Bob back his hand — he's only got two of them …'

`Nancy, there's simply nothing to go on,' Newman said emphatically. 'As a professional newspaper man I look for facts when I'm after a story — evidence! There isn't any showing something's wrong...'

It was mid-afternoon and they were eating a late lunch at the Smugglers Inn where he had insisted on staying. It gave him independence and kept Linda Wayne at arm's length. Nancy slammed down her fork beside her half-eaten steak.

`Fact One. Nobody asked for a second opinion...'

`Buhler, who did the blood tests, was tops according to Rosen. I gather you respect Rosen?'

`Yes, I do. Let that one slide, for the moment. Fact Two. I never heard Jesse say a word about he wished he could live in Switzerland. Visit it, yes! But God, he was always so glad to get back home.'

`When a man is ill, he dreams, to blot out reality...'

`Fact Three!' Nancy drummed on. 'At the very moment Jesse is ill because he falls off his horse Linda calls in an entirely new doctor. Fact Four! The only man who can confirm this diagnosis of leukaemia, Buhler, is dead. And his records go up in smoke with him! So everything rests on Dr Chase's word, a man you called a hyena …'

`I didn't like him. That doesn't make him Genghis Khan. Look, I'm seeing Rosen this evening. If nothing comes of that, can we drop the subject? I have to decide whether to accept this pretty lucrative offer from CBS to act as their European correspondent. They won't wait forever for a decision...'

`You want the job?' she interjected.

`It's the only way we can get married — unless you agree that we both live in London or somewhere in Europe..

`I've given up years of my life to practise medicine and I want to live in the States. I'd feel lost and marooned anywhere else. And, Bob, I am going to Berne. The question is — are you coming with me? There might even be a big story in it...'

`Look, Nancy, I write about espionage, foreign affairs. Where in God's name is there that kind of story in this Berne business?'

`You've been there. You've done your job there. You speak all the languages — French, German, Italian, plus Spanish. You told me you have friends there. The bottom line is, are you going to help me?'

`I'll decide after I've seen Rosen.

`Bob, what does a woman take off first? Her earrings, isn't it?' She divested herself of each gold earring slowly, watching him with a certain expression. 'Let's go to your room...'

`I haven't finished my steak.' He pushed his plate away and grinned. 'It's underdone, anyway. I've just lost my appetite.'

`You ordered your steak rare. The experience I'm offering is rare too …'

Three

New York, Kennedy Airport. 10 February 1984. 0?. The slim, attractive Swissair stewardess in her pale blue uniform noticed this passenger the moment he came aboard Flight SR 111, bound for Geneva and Zurich. She escorted the man, over six feet tall and heavily-built, to his reserved first-class window seat and tried to help him take off his shaggy sheepskin jacket.

`I can do it myself...'

His voice was gravelly, the tone curt. He handed her the jacket, settled himself in his seat and fastened the belt. He inserted a cigarette between his wide, thick lips and stared out into the darkness. The flight was due to depart at 18.55.

As the stewardess arranged his jacket carefully on a hanger she studied him. In his early fifties, she estimated. A dense thatch of white hair streaked with black, heavy, dark eyebrows and a craggy face. Clean-shaven, his complexion was flushed with the bitter wind which sheared the streets of New York. His large, left hand clutched a brief-case perched on the adjoining seat. She straightened her trim jacket before approaching him.

`I'm very sorry, sir, but no smoking is permitted.

`I haven't lit the damned thing, have I! I am very familiar with the regulations. No smoking before the words up there say so...'

`I'm sorry, sir...'

She retreated, carrying on with her duties automatically as the Jumbo 747 took off and headed out across the Atlantic, her mind full of the tall American passenger. It was the blue eyes which worried her, she decided. They reminded her of that very special glacial blue you only saw in mountain lakes.

`Thinking about your boy friend?' one of her companion stewardesses enquired while they sorted out the drink orders.

`The passenger in Seat Five. He fascinates me. Have you noticed his eyes? They're chilling...'

The white-haired man was sipping bitter lemon, staring out of the porthole window, when a hand lifted the brief-case off the seat next to him and dumped it in his lap. He glanced sideways as a small, bird-like man with restless eyes settled into the seat and began talking chirpily, keeping his voice low.

`Well, if it isn't my old pal, Lee Foley. Off to Zurich on more Company business?'

`Ed Schulz, go back to your own seat.'

`It's a free country, a free aircraft — just so long as you've paid. And I've paid. You didn't answer my question. The senior roving foreign affairs correspondent for Time magazine always gets answers to his questions. You should know that by now, Lee...'

`I quit the CIA and you know it. I'm with one of the top international detective agencies in New York. You know that, too. End of conversation.'

`Let's develop this thing a bit..

`Let's not.' Foley leaned across Schulz. 'Stewardess, could I have a word?' He produced two airline tickets from his breast pocket as the girl bent forward attentively. 'I've reserved both these seats. These tickets say so. Could you kindly have this intruder removed? He's trying to sell me something.'

He settled back in his seat, slipped the tickets she had looked at into his pocket and resumed his gaze out into the night. His whole manner indicated the matter is settled, no more to say.

`I'm afraid this seat is reserved,' the girl told Schulz. 'If you could return to your own seat maybe I could bring you something more to drink?'

`Another large whisky.' Schulz, his normal chirpiness deserting him, stood up and glanced at the back of Foley's head. `See you in Zurich. Pal!' He walked off down the gangway.

`I hope that man didn't disturb you, sir,' the stewardess who had originally shown him to his seat said to Foley.

`You did the job,' he said without looking at her.

Shaken, Schulz sagged into his aisle seat and realized he was sweating. Ice-cold bastard! He mopped his damp forehead, adjusted his tie and glanced at the blonde creature alongside him. She gave him the same warm, welcoming smile he had experienced when he first sat down.

Forty years old, he guessed. Wedding ring on her finger. The right age — Schulz was forty-five. Once they got away from their husbands they were ready for a little dalliance. He hoped she was going all the way to Zurich. He hoped she'd go all the way with him! The unspoken joke felt a little sour. It was the encounter with Foley. He thanked the stewardess for the fresh drink and memories drifted through his mind.

Lee Foley. Executioner for the CIA. They shied away from that word. Special operative was the euphemism. The rumoured body count down to Foley's expertise was as high as twenty-five men — and women. Now the story was he had quit the CIA and was working for CIDA — the Continental International Detective Agency. Schulz thought he might radio a cryptic signal to the Zurich office to have a man waiting to follow Foley. He'd think about it when his nerves settled. He turned to the blonde woman.

`Going on to Zurich, I hope? I'm Ed Schulz of Time Magazine. I know a nice little restaurant in Zurich, the Veltliner Keller …'

No memories drifted through the mind of Lee Foley. He refused dinner and ordered more bitter lemon. Not from virtue, he seldom touched alcohol — it clouded the mind, slowed down the reflexes. How many people who used it as a pick-me-up realized it was a depressant? Cigarettes and the occasional woman were his relaxations. They had to be classy women and definitely not professionals. This thought triggered off another one.

`When I have to buy it I'll hang up my boots...'

Some Brit. had used that phrase when they were passing a brothel on the Reeperbahn in Hamburg. Bob Newman, foreign correspondent. The guy who had recently broken the Kruger case in Germany and earned himself another cluster of laurels. Now Ed Schulz could never have come within a mile of cracking that espionage classic. He wondered where Newman was tonight — and immediately pushed the irrelevant thought out of his head.

`Maximize your concentration,' was one of Foley's favourite phrases. 'And wait — forever if need be — until the conditions are right...'

Foley was waiting now, eyes half-closed in an apparent doze as he observed the progress of dinner round Ed Schulz's seat. The conditions were right now he decided as coffee was served. He felt inside the little pocket he had unzipped earlier and squeezed a single soluble capsule from the polythene envelope.

Standing up, he strolled along the corridor to where two stewards cluttered the aisle next to Schulz whose head was turned away as he talked to his travelling companion. He held a balloon glass of Remy Martin in the accepted manner, fingers splayed, and in front of him was a cup of black coffee which had just been poured.

Foley nudged the nearest steward's elbow with his left hand. As the man turned Foley flicked the capsule neatly into Schulz's cup. Alcoholic fumes drifted in the air, no one noticed a thing. Foley shook his head apologetically at the steward and went back to his seat.

He checked his watch. Another six hours to Geneva. After he'd drunk his coffee laced with the special barbiturate Schulz would sleep for eight hours. He'd stagger off the plane at its ultimate destination, Zurich. He wouldn't even notice an unfamiliar taste. And many times in his apartment Foley had practised the quick flip with his thumbnail, spinning capsule into empty cup.

Foley had bamboozled Schulz earlier when he had displayed two tickets for Zurich in front of him to the stewardess. At the check-in counter he'd told the girl to put Geneva tickets on his baggage. Whenever he was travelling, Foley always booked ahead of his real destination — or followed a devious route, changing aircraft. He glanced round before extracting the documents from his brief-case. He wouldn't be disturbed again tonight.

The night flight had reached the stage he knew so well. All the passengers were sleepy — or asleep, lulled by the monotonous and steady vibrations of the machine's great engines. He refused a pillow offered by a stewardess and opened the brief-case.

In the last few hours since the surprise phone call to CIDA his feet had hardly touched the ground. He had the typed record of his long phone conversation with Fordham at the American Embassy in Berne. It was headed, Case of Hannah Stuart, deceased, patient at Berne Clinic, Thun.

Nothing in the typed record indicated that Fordham was military attaché at the American Embassy. His eyes dropped to the comment at the end of the record.

We are extremely worried about the possible implications on the international situation about rumoured events and situation at this medical establishment.

Foley opened a large-scale map of Switzerland and concentrated on the Berne canton. His finger traced the motorway from the city of Berne running south-east to the town of Thun. In either Geneva or Berne he'd have to hire a car. He was certain he was going to need wheels for this job.

Four

Gmund, Austria. 10 February 1984. 1?. For Manfred Seidler, thousands of miles east of Tucson and New York, the day dawned far more grimly. The Renault station wagon was still inside Czechoslovakia as it moved swiftly towards the lonely frontier crossing point into Austria at Gmund — now less than two kilometres ahead. He glanced at the driver beside him, sixty-year-old Franz Oswald who, with his lined, leathery face and bushy moustache, looked seventy.

Seidler checked his watch. 6.25 am. Outside it was night and the deserted, snowbound fields stretched away into nothing. Despite the car heater it was cold but Seidler was used to cold. It was Oswald's nerve which bothered him.

`Slow down,' he snapped, 'we're nearly there. We don't want them to think we're trying to crash the border — to wake them up..

`We mustn't be late.' Oswald reduced speed and then confirmed Seidler's anxiety. 'Let's pull up for a second. I could do with a nip of Schnapps from my flask to get us through...'

`No! They mustn't smell drink on your breath. Any little delay and they may make a thorough search. And leave all the talking to me...'

`Supposing they have changed the guard earlier, Seidler? If fresh men are on duty...'

`They never change their routine.'

He replied curtly, forced himself to sound confident. He glanced again at Old Franz — he always thought of him as old. Oswald's chin was grizzled and unshaven. But Seidler needed him on these trips because Oswald carried frequent legal supplies over the border. To the men at the frontier post he was familiar. Just as the vehicle was a familiar sight. Now they could see the distant guard-post.

`Headlights full on,' Seidler ordered. The old boy was losing his grip — he had forgotten the signal to Jan. 'Dip them,' he snapped.

The stench of fear polluted the chilly atmosphere inside the Renault. Seidler could smell the driver's armpit sweat, a sour odour. Beads of perspiration began to form on the old man's forehead. Seidler wished to God Franz hadn't made that remark that they might have changed the guard earlier.

If the car was searched he could end up in Siberia. No! It wouldn't be Siberia. If he were tortured he knew he would tell them about the previous consignments. They would be crazy with rage. He'd face a firing squad. It was at that moment that Manfred Seidler decided that — if they got through this time — this would be the last run. God knew he had enough money in his Swiss numbered bank account.

Taking out a silk handkerchief, he told Franz to sit still and he gently mopped the moisture from the old man's brow. The car stopped. By the light shining through the open door of the guard but Seidler saw the heavy swing-pole which was lowered and barred their way into Austria.

`Stop!' he hissed. The old fool had nearly switched off the engine. Leaving the motor running was familiar, creating in the minds of the guards a reflex feeling that after a perfunctory check they would raise the barrier and wave the Renault on. A uniformed figure with an automatic rifle looped over his shoulder approached Seidler's side of the car.

Seidler tried to open the door and found the damned thing had frozen. Quickly, he wound down the window. Icy air flooded in, freezing the exposed skin on his face above the heavy scarf. The soldier bent down and peered inside. It was Jan.

`Sorry,' apologized Seidler, 'the handle's frozen.' He spoke in fluent Czech. 'I should check the wooden crate in the back. The wooden crate,' he emphasized. 'I'm not sure I'm permitted to take the contents out. Just take it and dump it if it's not allowed...'

Jan nodded understandingly and his boots crunched in the crusted snow as he walked with painful slowness to the rear of the hatchback. Seidler lit a cigarette to quiet his nerves. They were so close to safety he dared not glance at Franz. He knew he had committed a psychological error in emphasizing the wooden crate. But as on earlier trips he was taking a gigantic risk on the assumption that people are never suspicious of something under their noses. It was the much larger cardboard container alongside the crate Jan must not investigate.

Compelling himself not to look back, forgetting that his window was still open, he took a deep drag on his cigarette as he heard Jan turn the handle and raise the hatchback. Thank God that handle wasn't frozen! There was a scrape as Jan hauled out the crate — followed by the divine sound of the hatchback being closed.

A light flashed to his left through the open window. Someone with a torch must have emerged from the guard hut. He continued staring steadily ahead. The only sounds in the early morning dark were the ticking over of the motor, the swish of the windscreen wipers maintaining two fan-shapes of clear glass in the gently falling snow.

A returning crunch of boots breaking the hard snow. At the window Jan, his high cheekbones burnished by the wind, reappeared. The rifle still looped on one shoulder, the crate expertly balanced on the other. His expression was blank as he bent down and spoke.

`Until next time...'

`The same arrangement,' replied Seidler and smiled, stubbing out his cigarette in the ash-tray. A small gesture to indicate that this transaction was completed.

Jan vanished inside the but as Seidler wound up the window — God he was frozen stiff. With the feeble heater he'd be lucky to thaw out by the time they reached Vienna. The barrier pole remained obstinately lowered across their path. Franz reached for the brake and Seidler stopped him.

`For Christ's sake, wait! No sign of impatience...'

`It's not going as it usually does. We'd be away by now. I can feel it — something's wrong...'

`Shut up! Didn't you see Jan yawn? They're half-asleep at this hour. They've been on duty all night. Nothing ever happens at this Godforsaken spot. They're bored stiff. They've slipped into a state of permanent inertia...'

Seidler realized he was talking too much. He began to wonder whether he was trying to convince himself. He stared hypnotized by the horizontal pole. It began to,wobble. Christ! The tension was beginning to get to him.

The pole wasn't wobbling. It was ascending. Franz released the brake. The Renault slid forward. They were across! They paused briefly again while an Austrian official glanced without interest at Seidler's German passport, and then they were driving through the streets of the small town of Gmund.

`You realize you were photographed back at the frontier post?' Franz remarked as he accelerated along the highway beyond Gmund towards distant Vienna.

`What the hell are you talking about?'

`You were photographed by a man in civilian clothes. Didn't you see the flash-bulb go off? He had a funny camera with a big lens...'

`A civilian?' Seidler was startled. 'Are you sure? Someone with a torch came out of the guard but...'

`No torch. A flash-bulb. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. You were looking straight ahead.'

Seidler, a man in his late forties with a thatch of dark brown hair, slimly built, a bony face, a long, inquisitive nose and wary eyes, thought about it. It was the reference to a civilian which worried him Always before there had been no one there except uniformed guards. Yes, this was definitely the last run. He had just relaxed with this comforting thought when Franz said something else which disturbed him.

`I'm not helping you again,' the old man rasped.

Suits me to the ground, Seidler thought, and then glanced to his left sharply. Franz was staring straight ahead but there was a smug, conniving look in his expression. Seidler knew that look: Franz was congratulating himself on some trick he was going to pull.

`I'm sorry to hear that,' Seidler replied.

`That business back at the frontier post,' Franz went on. 'I felt certain they'd changed the guard. It's only a matter of time before they do change the guard. Jan won't be there to collect his Schnapps and wave you through. They'll search the car...'

He was repeating himself, talking too much, over-emphasizing the reasons for his decision. That plus the satisfied smirk. Seidler's devious and shrewd mind began searching for the real reason. His right hand thrust deep inside his coat pocket for warmth felt the flick knife he always carried in the special compartment he had had sewn into the pocket.

Money! Franz worshipped the stuff. But from what source could he obtain more money than the generous amount Seidler had always paid? The road to Vienna passes through some of the loneliest and bleakest countryside west of Siberia. Flat as a billiard table — a monotonous snow-covered billiard table — the bare fields stretched away on both sides, treeless.

It was still dark when they drove through one of the few inhabited places between Gmund and the Austrian capital. Horn is a single street walled by ancient, solid farmhouse-like buildings. Giant wooden double doors seal off entrances to courtyards beyond, entrances large enough to admit wagons piled high with hay and drawn by oxen.

What the devil could Franz be up to? Seidler, an opportunist par excellence, a man whose background and character dictated that he would always live by his wits, probed the problem from every angle. A Mittel-European, his father had been a Sudeten German in Czechoslovakia before the war, his mother a Czech.

Seidler spoke five languages — Czech, German, English, French, Italian. The Czechs — and Seidler was mostly Czech — have a gift for languages. It was this facility, plus the network of contacts he had built up across Europe — allied with a natural Czech talent for unscrupulousness — which had enabled him to make a good living.

Six feet tall, he sported a small moustache and had the gift of the gab in all five languages. As they approached Vienna he was still wrestling with the problem of Franz. He also had another problem: he had a tight schedule for the consignment inside the cardboard container resting at the tail of the Renault. The aircraft waiting for him at Schwechat Airport. His employers were sticklers for promptness. Should he risk a little time checking out Franz when they reached Vienna?

The first streaks of a mournful, pallid daylight filtered from the heavy overcast down on Vienna as Franz stopped the Renault in front of the Westbahnhof, the main station to the West. Here Seidler always transferred to is own car parked waiting for him. It wouldn't do to let Franz drive him to the airport — the less he knew about the consignment's ultimate destination the better.

`Here's your money. Don't waste it on drink and wild, wild women,' Seidler said with deliberate flippancy.

The remark was really very funny — the idea of Franz Oswald spending good money on girls instead of at the tavern. The old man took the fat envelope and shoved it into his inside pocket. His hands tapped the wheel impatiently, a gesture out of character Seidler noted as he went to the rear of the car, lifted the hatchback and grasped the large cardboard container by the strong rope handle. Slamming down the hatchback, he walked back to the front passenger window and spoke.

`I may have a different sort of job. No risk involved. A job inside Austria,' he lied. 'I'll get in touch...'

`You are the boss.' Franz released the brake without looking at his employer and the car slid past. Seidler only saw it by pure chance. On the rear seat a rumpled, plaid travelling rug had slipped half on to the floor, exposing what it had hidden. Seidler froze. Franz had stolen one of the samples from the consignment.

Early morning workers trailed out of the station exits below the huge glass end wall and down the steps as Seidler moved very fast. There was a jam-up of traffic just at the point where you drove out of the concourse and Franz's Renault was trapped.

Running to his parked Opel, Seidler unlocked the car, thrust the cardboard container onto the rear seat and settled himself behind the wheel. He was careful not to panic. He inserted the ignition keys first time, switched on the motor and pulled out at the moment Franz left the concourse, turning on to Mariahilferstrasse. Dreary grey buildings loomed in the semi-dark as Seidler followed. It looked as - though Franz was heading into the centre of the city — away from his home.

Seidler was in a state of cold fury and, driving with one hand, he felt again the flick knife in the secret pocket. The smirk on Franz's face was now explained. He was selling one of the samples. The only question in Seidler's mind now was who could be the buyer?

Stunned, Seidler sat in his parked Opel while he absorbed what he had just observed. A spare, brisk-looking man with a military-style moustache had been waiting for Franz. Outside the British Embassy!

Seidler had watched while Franz got out of his Renault, carrying the small cardboard container as he joined the Englishman. The latter had taken Franz by the arm, hustling him inside the building. Now it was Seidler who tapped his fingers on the wheel, checking his watch, thinking of the aircraft waiting at Schwechat, knowing he had to wait for Franz to emerge.

Ten minutes later Franz did emerge — without the container. He climbed in behind the wheel of the Renault without a glance in the direction of Seidler who sat slumped behind his own wheel, wearing a black beret Franz had never seen. Something in the way he had walked suggested to Seidler Franz was very satisfied with his visit to the British Embassy. The Renault moved off.

Seidler made his move when Franz turned down a narrow, deserted side street lined with tall old apartment buildings. Flights of steps led down to basement areas. Checking his rear view mirror, Seidler speeded up, squeezed past the slow- moving Renault and swung diagonally into the kerb. Franz jammed on his brakes and stopped within inches of the Opel. Jumping out of his car, he ran along the pavement in the opposite direction with a shuffling trot.

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 attaché 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, trimly- moustached, 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 attaché 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 attaché. 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 attaché 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 talking 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..

`You said "If Jesse had leukaemia..." '

`Slip of the tongue. You think a man like Jesse would crawl off to Switzerland when he loved the desert? A man who started from nothing and parleyed a bank loan into twelve million dollars?'

`Just how did he do it?'

`Vision. He was a crystal ball gazer — he looked into the future. When he came to Tucson from Texas over twenty years ago he guessed Tucson would expand one day. He bought options on land outside the city limits — and when that increased in value he used the extra collateral to buy more and more land further and further out.

`So,' Newman commented, 'Linda is worth eight million dollars when Jesse goes and Nancy gets four million?'

`His will is common knowledge. He made no secret of it. And if anything happened to Nancy first, then Linda collects the whole twelve million. Maybe you see why it worries me — that kind of money at stake.' Rosen played with his empty glass. 'No thanks. Two is my limit. You know, Newman, I thought you'd be just the man to check out this mystery. You cracked the Kruger espionage case in Germany — I read the book you wrote afterwards. That must have made you a pile...'

`Not four million dollars,' Newman said shortly.

`Oh! Now I get it — I sensed you couldn't make up your mind about marrying Nancy. The money worries you, which is to your credit. I still think you ought to go to Berne...'

`Now you sound like Nancy. She never stops...'

`Argue against her and it will just make her more determined.' Rosen smiled again. 'Or maybe you've found that out?'

`We've had our moments. Jesus, look what just walked in...'

`Harvey Wayne, Linda's husband. He's into electronics, as you doubtless know. He's another one greedy for a dollar …'

Rosen stopped talking as a fat, pasty-faced man in his early forties came over to them. He was wearing a cream-coloured dinner jacket, dark trousers and the oily smile Newman found so distasteful. He put an arm round the Englishman's shoulder.

`Hi, pal! Hear you and that cute sister-in-law of mine will soon be in Berne. Give my regards to that old coot, Jesse.. `You heard what?'

Newman's tone was cold. He glanced at his shoulder and Harvey reluctantly moved his hand. He gave Rosen a throwaway gesture of resignation with his hand, then shrugged.

`Did I say something I ought not to have?'

`You haven't answered my question,' Newman replied.

`You're not rousting Dr Rosen the way you did Frank Chase, I hope.' Harvey looked towards the entrance and smiled again. 'We have company. You have the opportunity- of getting a direct answer to your question.

Linda, wearing an off-the-shoulder cocktail dress and a come-hither smile, had entered the Tack Room and was heading towards them, her innocent eyes staring straight at Newman. Beside her walked Nancy, a few inches shorter, dressed in a cream blouse and a midnight blue skirt. Heads turned as the two women progressed across the room. Newman stood up, his expression bleak.

`Let's go somewhere quiet,' he said to Nancy. 'We have to talk and I do mean now …'

The blazing row took place in the lobby, carried on in low tones so the receptionist couldn't hear them. Newman opened the conversation, treading warily at first.

`I'm sure that creep, Harvey, has got it wrong. He's just told me we're going to Berne...'

`I have the tickets, Bob.' Nancy produced two folders from her handbag and handed them to him. 'It's a very direct route. An American Airlines 727 from Tucson to Dallas. One hour stopover in Dallas. Then an eight-hour flight — again American Airlines — to Gatwick in England from Dallas. The last lap is by Dan-Air from Gatwick to Belp. That's the airport just outside Berne …'

`I have actually heard of Belp,' Newman replied with deceptive calm.

`We take off on tomorrow's flight...'

`I can actually read an airline ticket...'

`Somebody had to take a decision.' She looked pleased with herself. 'And I've just got out of Linda that Jesse didn't go that route. He was flown to Belp by private jet...'

`So?'

`Jesse was careful with money. If he'd agreed to go he'd have travelled in a wheelchair on a scheduled flight rather than hire a jet. Don't you think I've done rather well'?'

`You'd have done a bloody sight better to consult me first. How do you think I felt when your louse of a brother-in-law comes up to me in front of Rosen to give me this news?'

`Really? Linda must have phoned him at the office. He was working late. She's planned a farewell dinner for us here...'

`Count me out...'

`Robert! It's all fixed.' Her temper began to flare. 'I'm all packed. You said you could pack anytime in ten minutes even to go to Tokyo...'

`That's when I want to go, to Tokyo. Look, Nancy — and don't interrupt. There's not a shred of evidence that there's anything wrong about Jesse being flown to the Berne Clinic. I've talked to Dr Chase. I've had two conversations with Rosen. I've stared at Linda's legs while she talked to me...'

`Is that what you're so anxious not to leave — Linda's legs?'

`Now you're getting nasty. Nancy, you can't just push me around like this. It's no basis for any kind of relationship — let alone marriage.'

`Oh, shit, Bob...'

`Look, Nancy, this argument has been going on practically since we first met in London three months ago...'

`That was when I tried to phone Jesse and heard from Linda that he'd been sent to Switzerland. I really do feel something's very wrong. Remember, I am a doctor...'

`And I'm a foreign correspondent who looks for evidence. I haven't found anything to justify your anxiety. Now you present me with this fait accompli, this package deal all wrapped up in pink ribbon.'

He waved the ticket folders under her shapely nose. She took both his wrists in her hands, leaned up to him and nestled her face alongside his, whispering in his ear.

`Bob, would you please come with me to Berne to quiet my fears. For my sake?'

`That's a better approach...'

`It's the approach I should have used first. You're right — I should never have bought those tickets without consulting you. I'm sorry. Truly.'

He freed one hand and reached under her hair to stroke her neck. The receptionist was putting on quite a performance at not noticing them. She nestled her head against his chest and purred contentedly. He freed his other hand, grasped her chin and lifted it up to kiss her full on the lips.

`Nancy, I have to go back to Dr Rosen to ask him one more question. We leave for Berne tomorrow..

Harvey Wayne had just left Rosen when Newman sat down opposite the doctor. Rosen nodded towards Harvey's retreating back with a grimace.

`He's been pumping me, trying to find out what we were talking about. How did the argument go?'

`The way I expected it to.' Newman's manner had changed. He was crisp, decisive. 'Have you any idea where the majority of patients in the Berne Clinic come from?'

`My impression — it was no more than that — was they mostly come from the States. Plus a few from South America where they can still afford the fees. Is it significant?'

`It could be the key to the whole operation.'

Seven

11 February 1984. The DC10 flew at 35,000 feet above the invisible Atlantic as the machine proceeded at 500 mph in a north-easterly direction for Europe. In her first-class seat Nancy was fast asleep, her head flopped on Newman's shoulder. He moved her carefully so he could leave his seat. No risk she would wake up: when Nancy fell asleep she went out cold.

Taking a pad from his pocket, Newman wrote the signal in capital letters so there could be no error in transmission. Standing up, he summoned a stewardess, put a finger to his lips and nodded towards Nancy. Taking the girl by the arm he guided her towards the pilot's cabin and spoke only when they were inside the galley.

`I'd like this message radioed immediately to London. Find out the cost while I wait here...'

The stewardess returned in less than a minute. An attractive girl, she studied Newman frankly. You weren't supposed to fraternize with passengers but... She found Newman's droll, easy manner irresistible. And her flat wasn't far from Gatwick. And he was English. And the female passenger he was travelling with wore no ring. A girl had to make the most of her opportunities. She told him the cost of the message and he took his time paying her in dollars.

`The radio operator is already transmitting, Mr Newman...'

`You're a helpful girl to have around...'

`I have two days off at Gatwick...'

`Give me the phone number?'

`I'm not supposed to...'

`But you will...'

He loaned her his pad and ballpoint pen, tucked a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and watched her while she wrote the figures on the pad. She added a name and upside down he read Susan. He took the pad off her and slipped out of sight as the curtain moved and a steward appeared. He gave her a little salute.

`Thank you for dealing with that for me,' he said for the benefit of the steward who was unnecessarily polishing glasses. 'When should it reach London?'

`Within a matter of minutes, sir...'

`Thank you again.'

He winked at her, pushed aside the curtain and went back to his seat. Nancy was awake, stretching her arms, thrusting out her well-rounded breasts against her tight cashmere sweater. He gave her a look of amiable resignation as he settled himself beside her.

`You're a dog,' she said. 'You've been chatting up that stewardess.' She wrapped a proprietary arm round his. 'You know, sometimes I think I should grab you for good while I can. You're not safe to leave roaming around loose.'

`What stewardess?'

`The one with the superb legs who showed us to our seats, the one you couldn't take your eyes off, the one whose eyes ate you up. Discreetly, of course...'

`Change of plan,' he said abruptly.

`Which means?'

`You'd better have some coffee to get you properly awake before I tell you.' He summoned the steward who had finished polishing glasses and gave the order. Then he relapsed into silence until she had drunk half the cup.

`I've been a good girl,' she said. 'What change of plan?'

`We don't take the Dan-Air flight from Gatwick to Belp. We take the bus from Gatwick to Heathrow. Then we catch a Swissair flight to Geneva. Going in via Geneva disguises our real destination.'

`Bob!' She straightened up so abruptly she almost spilt her coffee. 'You're taking this thing seriously. You do think there's something peculiar going on. God, you're a dark horse. Sometimes I feel I'll never really know you. Your whole manner has changed...'

`If we have to do the job we might as well do it professionally...'

`That isn't the reason,' she pounced. 'Rosen told you something which changed your whole attitude. So why the hell did we have to have that embarrassing row in the lobby of the Tack Room?'

`Rosen told me nothing. We're just doing it my way. You might call it a fait accompli,' he replied airily.

asked for that one,' she conceded. 'And I still don't believe you. Well, isn't that nice?'

She looked at him and Newman's head was rested against the back of the seat. His eyes were closed and he had apparently fallen into a catnap, something he was able to do anywhere at any time.

In the pilot's cabin the radio operator crumpled up the note from Newman's pad he had transmitted. The signal seemed innocuous enough and he didn't give it a second thought.

Addressed to Riverdale Trust Ltd with a PO Box number in London it was brief and to the point.

Aboard American Airlines Flight... ETA Gatwick... Proceeding to Heathrow to board Swissair flight to Geneva, repeat Geneva. Newman.

Manfred Seidler was running for his life. He used every devious means to throw a smokescreen in the eyes of those who would try to track him. Using a fake set of identity papers, he hired a car from the Hertz agency next door to the Bellevue Palace in Berne.

He drove only as far as Solothurn where he handed in the car. From the station he caught a train to Basle. If anyone did manage to trace him so far they would — with luck — think he had gone on to Zurich. He fostered this fiction by buying two separate one-way tickets — to Zurich and to Basle. He bought them at ten-minute intervals, using two different ticket windows. As the express slowed down and slid into the main station at Basle he was standing by the exit door, clutching his suitcase.

He phoned Erika Stahel from a booth in the huge station. He found himself staring at every passenger who lingered anywhere near the booth. He knew his nerves were in a bad way. Which was when a man made mistakes. Christ! Would the cow never answer? Her voice came on the line as if in response to his plea.

`It's Manfred...'

`Well, well, stranger. Isn't life full of surprises?'

Erika didn't sound welcoming, certainly not enthusiastic, he thought savagely. Women needed careful handling. He forced himself to sound confident, pleasant, firm. Any trace of the jitters and she wouldn't cooperate. She knew a little of what he did for a living.

`I need a place to rest, to relax...'

`In bed? Of course?'

Her melodious voice sounded sarcastic. He wondered if she had a man with her. That would be a disaster area. It was a few months since he'd last contacted her.

`I need you,' he said. 'As company. Forget bed …'

`This is Manfred Seidler I'm talking to?' But her voice had softened. 'Where have you come from?'

`Zurich,' he lied easily.

`And where are you now?'

`Tired and hungry — inside a phone booth at the Hauptbahnhof. You don't have to cook. I'll take you out. Best place in town.'

`You counted on me being here — just waiting for your call?' `Erika,' he said firmly, 'this is Saturday. I know you don't work Saturdays. I just hoped...'

`Better come on over, Manfred …'

Erika Stahel lived in a small, second-storey apartment near the Münsterplatz. Seidler lugged his suitcase through the falling snow, ignoring the cab rank outside the station. He could easily have afforded transport but cab-drivers had good memories. And often they were the first source the Swiss police approached for information.

It was ten o'clock in the morning when he pressed the bell alongside the name E. Stahel. Her voice, oddly recognizable despite the distortion of the speakphone, answered as though she had been waiting.

`Who is it?'

`Manfred. I'm freezing..

`Come!'

The buzzer zizzed, indicating she had released the front door which he pressed open as he glanced up and down the street. Inside he climbed the steps, ignoring the lift. You could get trapped inside a lift if someone was waiting for you. Seidler had reached that state of acute nervousness and alertness when he trusted no one.

Her apartment door was open a few inches and he had reached out to push it when he paused, wondering what might be on the far side. The door opened inward and she stood looking at him without any particular expression. Only five feet four tall, she was a trim brunette of twenty-eight with a high forehead and large, black steady eyes.

`What are you waiting for? You look cold and frightened — and hungry. Breakfast is on the table. A jug of steaming coffee. Give me your case and eat …'

She said it all in her calm, competent voice as she closed the door and held out her hand for the case. He shook his head, decided he was being too curt and smiled, conscious of a sense of relief. He was under cover.

`I'll put the case in the bedroom if you don't mind. A couple of minutes and I'll be myself..

`You know where the bedroom is. You should by now.' Her manner was matter-of-fact but she watched him closely.

Inside the bedroom with the door closed, he dropped the case on one of the two single beds and looked round quickly. He needed a hiding-place and only had minutes to find a safe one.

Moving a chair quietly against a tall cupboard, he stood on it and ran a finger along the top. His fingers came away with a thin film of dust. The rest of the place was spotless — but small women often overlooked the tops of tall cupboards. He stepped down and opened his suitcase.

The smaller, slim executive case was concealed beneath his shirts. He raised the catches quietly and took out several envelopes. All of them contained large sums of money — he had emptied his bank account in Berne on Friday just before the bank closed. Another envelope held the twenty five hundred-franc notes he had extracted from the dead Franz Oswald's wallet in the Vienna basement.

Clutching the envelopes, he climbed back on the chair and distributed them across the top of the cupboard which was recessed. His final touch was to put two shirts into the executive case — to explain its presence — and then he closed the larger case, locked it and shoved it under the bed nearest the window.

`One ravenous lodger gasping for that steaming coffee and your lovely croissants,' he told Erika cheerfully as he emerged into the comfortably and well-furnished living-room which served also for a dining-room.

`My!' Her dark eyes searched his. 'Aren't we suddenly the bright, suave man-about-town. Good to get off the streets, Manfred?'

He swallowed the cup of coffee she poured even though it almost scalded him. Then he sat down and devoured three croissants while she sat facing him, studying him. Like Seidler, her parents were dead and she had no close relatives. Erika had worked her way up to the post of personal assistant to the chief executive of the bank she worked for. And her background was modest. Probably only in Switzerland could she have risen so high on sheer hard work and application.

`I'm quite happy on my own,' she had once confided to a girl friend. 'I have a good job I like, a lover' (she meant Manfred, although she didn't identify him). 'So what more do I need? I can certainly do without being tied down at home, touring the supermarkets with some yelling brat — and a husband who, after three years, starts noticing the attractive secretaries in his office...'

`You were, glad to get in off the streets, Manfred?' she repeated.

`Look outside the window! It's snowing cats and dogs. And I have been working very hard. I feel like holing up — some place no one knows where I am. Where the telephone won't ring,' he added quickly.

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.

`Erika, if anything happens to me I want you to have this...'

He opened the executive case, revealing the neatly stacked Swiss banknotes inside. Her face, which always showed the pink flush Seidler had observed when women were pregnant, went blank as she stood up. Her deft fingers rifled through several of the stacks at random and replaced them. She stared at him.

`Manfred, there has to be half a million francs here...'

`Very close. Take them and put them into a safety deposit— not at the bank where you work. Call a cab. Don't walk through the streets with that — not even in Basle...'

I can't take this.' She grasped his hand and he saw she was close to tears. 'I'm not interested — you're the only one I'm interested in.'

`So, bank it for both of us. Under your own name. Under no circumstances under my name,' he warned.

`Manfred..' She eased herself into his lap. 'Who are you frightened of? Did you steal this money?'

`No!' He became vehement to convince her. 'It was given to me for services rendered. Now they no longer need me. They may regard me as a menace because of what I know. I shouldn't stay here much longer...'

`Stay as long as you like. Who are these people?'

`One person in particular. Someone who wields enormous power. Someone who may be able to use even the police to do his bidding.'

`The Swiss police?' Her tone was incredulous. 'You look so tired, so worn. You're over-estimating this person's power. If it will make you feel any better I will put that case in a safety deposit — providing you keep the key...'

`All right.' He knew it was the only condition under which she'd agree to do what he asked. They'd find some place inside the apartment to hide the key. 'You'd better hurry. You'll be late for work,' he told her.

She hugged him as though she'd never let go. He almost had tears in his own eyes. So decent, so nice. If only he'd met her years ago …'

Inside their bedroom at the Penta Hotel, situated amid the vast enclave of Heathrow Airport, Newman checked his watch again. Nancy had gone out hours ago on her own — she knew how he hated shopping expeditions. They still had plenty of time to catch Swissair Flight SR 837 which departed 19.00 hours and reached Geneva 21.30 hours local time. The door opened and she caught him looking at his watch.

`I've been hours, I know,' she said cheerfully. 'Think we were going to miss our flight? Have I enjoyed myself...'

`You've probably bought up half Fortnum's...'

`Just about. It's a marvellous shop — and they'll post off purchases anywhere in the world.' She looked at him coyly as she hung up her sheepskin in the wardrobe. 'I'm not showing you the bills. God, I love London …'

`Then why don't we settle down here?'

`Robert, don't start that again. And you've been out. Your coat is on a different hanger...'

`For a breath of fresh air. Tinged with petrol fumes. You're cut out to be a detective.'

`Doctors have to be observant, darling.' She looked at the bed. 'Do we eat now — or later?'

`Later. We have things to do.' He wrapped his arms round her slim waist. 'Afterwards we'll just have a drink. Dinner on the plane. Swissair food is highly edible …'

Belted in his seat aboard an earlier Swissair flight, Lee Foley glanced out of the window as the aircraft left Heathrow behind and broke through the overcast into a sunlit world. He was sitting at the rear of the first-class section.

Foley had reserved this particular seat because it was a good viewing point to observe his fellow-passengers. Unlike them, he had refused any food or drink when the steward came to put a cloth on his fold-out table.

`Nothing,' he said abruptly.

`We have a very nice meal as you can see from the menu, sir.'

`Take the menu, keep the meal...'

`Something to drink then, sir?'

`I said nothing.'

It was still daylight when the aircraft made its descent over the Jura Mountains, heading for Cointrin Airport. Foley watched the view as the plane banked and noted Lac de Joux, nestled inside the Juras, was frozen solid. At least, he. assumed this must be the case — the lake was mantled in snow, as were the mountains. He was the first passenger to leave the plane after it landed and he carried his only luggage.

Foley always travelled light. Hanging around a carousel, waiting for your bag to appear on the moving belt, gave watchers the opportunity to observe your arrival. Foley always regarded terminals as dangerous points of entry. He showed his passport to the Swiss official seated inside his glass box, watching him out of the corner of his eye. The passport was returned and, so far as Foley could tell, no interest had been aroused.

He walked through the green Customs exit into the public concourse beyond. For strangers there was a clear sign pointing to TAXIS, but Foley automatically turned in the right direction. He was familiar with Cointrin.

The chill air had hit him like a knife thrust when he came down the mobile staircase from the aircraft. It hit him again when he emerged from the building and walked to the first cab. He waited until he was settled in the rear seat with the door closed before he gave the instruction to the driver.

`Hotel des Bergues...'

Foley's wariness about terminals was closer to the mark than he realized when he walked swiftly across the concourse without turning his head. Looking back drew attention to yourself — betrayed nervousness. So he had not seen a small, gnome-like figure huddled against a wall with an unlit cigarette between his thin lips.

Julius Nagy had straightened briefly when he saw Foley, then he took out a bookmatch and pretended to light the cigarette without doing so — Nagy didn't smoke. His tiny, bird-like eyes sparkled with satisfaction as he watched the American pass beyond the automatic exit doors. His neat feet trotted inside the nearest phone box and closed the door.

Nagy, who had escaped from Hungary in 1956 when Soviet troops invaded his country, was fifty-two years old. Streaks of dark-oily hair peeped from under the Tyrolean-style hat he wore well pulled down. His skin was wrinkled like a walnut, his long nose pinched at the nostrils.

He dialled the number he knew by heart. Nagy had a phenomenal memory for three things — people's faces, their names, and phone numbers. When the police headquarters operator answered he gave his name, asked to be put through immediately, please, to Chief Inspector Tripet. Yes, he was well-known to Tripet and he was in a hurry.

`Tripet speaking. Who is this?'

The voice, remote, careful, had spoken in French. Nagy could picture the Sfiret6 man sitting in his second-floor office inside the seven-storey building facing the Public Library at 24 Boulevard Carl-Vogt, at the foot of the Old City.

`Nagy here. Didn't they tell you?'

`Christian name?'

`Oh, for God's sake. Julius. Julius Nagy. I've got some information. It's worth a hundred francs..

`Perhaps...'

`Someone who just came in from London off the flight at Cointrin. A hundred francs I want — or I'll dry up...'

`And who is this expensive someone?' asked Tripet in a bored tone of voice.

`Lee Foley, CIA man...'

`I'll meet you at the usual place. Exactly one hour from now. Eighteen hundred hours. I want to talk to you about this — see your face when I do. If it isn't genuine you're off the payroll for all time...'

Nagy heard the click and realized Tripet had broken the connection. He was puzzled. Had he asked too little? Was the information pure gold? On the other hand Tripet had sounded as though he were rebuking the little man. Nagy shrugged, left the booth, saw the airport bus for town was about to leave and started running.

At 24 Bd Carl-Vogt, Tripet, a thin-faced, serious-looking man in his late thirties, a man who had risen quickly in his chosen profession, hoped he had bluffed Nagy as his agile fingers dialled the Berne number.

`Arthur Beck, please, Assistant to the Chief of Federal Police,' he requested crisply when the operator at the Taubenhalde came on the line. 'This is Chief Inspector Tripet, Süreté, Geneva...'

`One moment, sir...'

Beck came to the phone quickly after first dismissing from his tenth floor office his secretary, a fifty-five-year-old spinster not unlike Tweed's Monica. Settling himself comfortably in his chair, Beck spoke with calm amiability.

`Well, Leon, and how are things in Geneva? Snowing?'

`Not quite. Arthur, you asked me to report if any odd people turned up on my patch. Would Lee Foley, CIA operative, qualify?'

`Yes.' Beck gripped the receiver a shade more firmly. 'Tell me about it.' He reached for pad and pencil.

`He may have just come in on a Swissair flight from London. I have a report from Cointrin.

`A report from who?' The pencil poised.

`A small-time informer we call The Mongrel, sometimes The Scrounger. He'll burrow in any filthy trash-can to make himself a few francs. But he's very reliable. If Foley interests you I'm meeting Julius Nagy, The Mongrel, shortly outside. Can you give me a description of Foley so I can test Nagy's story?'

`Foley is a man you can't miss ' Beck gave from memory a detailed description of the American, including the fact that he spoke in a gravelly voice. 'That should be enough, Leon, you would agree? Good. When you've seen The Mongrel, I would appreciate another call from you. I'll wait in my office...'

Tripet went off the line quickly, an action Beck, who couldn't stand people who wasted time, appreciated. Then he sat in his chair, twiddling the pencil while he thought.

They were beginning to come in, as he had anticipated. The crisis was growing. There would be others on the way, he suspected. He had been warned about the rumours circulating among various foreign embassies. Beck, forty years old in May, was a stockily-built man with a thick head of unruly brown hair and a small brown moustache. His grey eyes had a glint of humour, a trait which often saved his sanity when the pressure was on.

He reflected that he had never known greater pressure. Thank God his chief had given him extraordinary powers to take any action he thought fit. If what he suspected was true — and he hoped with all his Catholic soul he was wrong — then he was going to need those powers. Sometimes when he thought of what he might be up against he winced. Beck, however, was a loner. If necessary I'll fight the whole bloody system he said to himself. He would not be defeated by Operation Terminal.

Unlocking a drawer while he waited for Tripet to call him back, he took out a file with the tab, Classification One, on the front of the folder. He turned to the first page inside and looked at the heading typed at the head of the script. Case of Hannah Stuart, American citizen. Klinik Bern.

Nine

Geneva, 13 February 1984. —3?. 'On duty' again at Cointrin , Julius Nagy could hardly believe his eyes. This was Jackpot Day. After meeting Chief Inspector Tripet, who had asked for a detailed description of Lee Foley, who had been sufficiently satisfied with the information to pay him his one hundred francs, Nagy had returned to meet the last flights into the airport despite the bitter cold.

Flight SR 837 — again from London — had disgorged its passengers when Nagy spotted a famous face emerging from the Customs exit. Robert Newman had a woman with him and this time Nagy followed his quarry outside. He was just behind the Englishman when he heard him instructing the driver of the cab.

`Please take us to the Hotel des Bergues,' Newman had said in French.

Nagy had decided to invest twenty or so of the francs received from Tripet to check Newman's real destination. They were tricky, these foreign correspondents. He wouldn't put it past Newman to change the destination once they were clear of the airport. As he summoned the next cab Nagy glanced over his shoulder and saw Newman, on the verge of stepping inside the rear of his cab, staring hard at him. He swore inwardly and dived inside the back of his own cab.

`Follow my friend in that cab ahead,' he told the driver.

`If you say so...'

His driver showed a little discretion, keeping another vehicle between himself and Newman's. It was only a ten- minute ride — including the final three-sided tour round the hotel to reach the main entrance because of the one-way system.

He watched the porter from the Hotel des Bergues taking their luggage and told his driver to move on and drop him round the corner. Paying off the cabbie, he hurried to the nearest phone box, frozen by the bitter wind blowing along the lake and the Rh6ne which the des Bergues overlooked. He called Pierre Jaccard, senior reporter on the Journal de Genêve. His initial reception was even more hostile than had been Tripet's.

`What are you trying to peddle this time, Nagy?'

`There are plenty of people in the market for this one,' Nagy said aggressively, deliberately adopting a different approach. You had to know your potential clients. 'You have, I presume, heard of the Kruger Affair — the German traitor who extracted information from the giant computer at Düsseldorf ?'

`Yes, of course I have. But that's last year's news...'

Nagy immediately detected the change in tone from contempt to cautious interest — concealing avid interest. He played his fish.

`Two hundred francs and I'm not arguing about the price. It's entirely non-negotiable. You could still catch tomorrow's edition. And I can tell you how to check out what I may tell you — with one phone call.'

`Tell me a little more...'

`Either another Kruger case, this time nearer home, or something equally big. That's all you get until you agree terms. Is it a deal? Yes or no. And I'm putting down this phone in thirty seconds. Counting now...'

`Hold it! If you're conning me...'

`Goodbye, Jaccard...'

`Deal! Two hundred francs. God, the gambles I take. Give.'

`Robert Newman — you have heard of Robert Newman? I thought you probably had. He's just come in on Flight SR 837 from London. You think he arrives late in the evening anywhere without a purpose? And he looked to be in one hell of a hurry...'

`You said I could check this out,' Jaccard reminded him.

`He's staying at the Hotel des Bergues. Call the place — ask to speak to him, give a false name. Christ, Jaccard, you do know your job?'

`I know my job,' Jaccard said quietly. 'Come over to my office now and the money will be waiting …'

Arthur Beck sat behind his desk, a forgotten cup of cold coffee to his left, studying the fat file on Lee Foley. A good selection of photos — all taken without the subject's knowledge. A long note recording that he had resigned from the CIA, that he was now senior partner in the New York outfit, CIDA, the Continental International Detective Agency. 'I wonder...' Beck said aloud and the phone rang.

`I'm so sorry I didn't phone earlier.. Tripet in Geneva was full of apologies. 'An emergency was waiting for me when I got back to the office... a reported kidnapping at Cologny... it turned out to be a false alarm, thank God...'

`Not to worry. I have plenty to occupy myself with. Now, any developments?'

`The Mongrel — Julius Nagy — confirmed exactly your description of Foley. He is somewhere in Geneva — or he was when he left Cointrin at seventeen hundred hours...'

`Do something for me, will you? Check all the hotels — find out where he's staying, if he's still there. Let me give you a tip. Start with the cheaper places — two and three-star. Foley maintains a low profile.'

`A pleasure. I'll get the machinery moving immediately …'

Beck replaced the receiver. He rarely made a mistake, but on this occasion he had badly misjudged his quarry.

Foley, who had dined elsewhere, approached the entrance to the Hotel des Bergues cautiously. He peered through the revolving doors into the reception hall beyond. The doorman was talking to the night concierge. No one else about.

He pushed the door and walked inside. Checking his watch, he turned left and wandered up to the door leading into one of the hotel's two restaurants, the Pavillon which overlooks the Rhone. At a banquette window table he saw Newman and Nancy Kennedy who had reached the coffee stage.

Newman had his back to the door which had a glass panel in the upper half. Foley had a three-quarter view of Nancy. Newman suddenly looked over his shoulder, Foley moved away quickly, collected his key and headed for the elevator.

The Pavillon, a restaurant favoured by the locals as well as hotel guests, was half-empty. Newman stared out of the window as several couples hurried past, heads down against the bitter wind, the women wearing furs — sable, lynx, mink — while their men were clad mostly in sheepskins.

`There's a lot of money in this town,' Nancy observed, following his gaze. 'And Bob, that was a superb meal. The chicken was the best I've ever eaten. As good as Bewick's in Walton Street,' she teased him. 'What are you thinking about?'

`That we have to decide our next move — which doesn't mean we necessarily rush on to Berne yet...'

`Why not? I thought we were leaving tomorrow...'

`Maybe, maybe not.' Newman's tone was firm. 'When we've finished do you mind if I take a walk along the lake. Alone. I have some thinking to do.'

`You have an appointment? You've checked your watch three times since the main course...'

`I said a walk.' He grinned to soften his reply. 'Did you know that Geneva is one of the great European centres of espionage? It crawls with agents. The trouble is all the various UN outfits which are here. Half the people of this city are foreigners. The Genevoises get a bit fed up. The foreigners push up the price of apartments — unless you're very wealthy. Like you are...'

`Don't let's spoil a lovely evening.' She checked her own watch. 'You go and have your walk — I'll unpack. Whether we're leaving tomorrow or not I don't want my dresses creased.' Her chin tilted at the determined angle he knew so well. 'Go on — have your walk. Don't spend all night with her...'

`Depends on the mood she's in.' He grinned again.

Newman, his sheepskin turned up at the collar, pushed through the revolving doors and the temperature plummeted. A raw wind slashed at his face. Across the road, beyond iron railings, the Rhone chopped and surged; by daylight he guessed it would have that special greenish colour of water which was melted snow from peaks in the distant Valais.

By night the water looked black. Neon lights from buildings on the opposite shore reflected in the dark flow. Oddly British-sounding signs. The green neon of The British Bank of the Middle East. The blue neon of Kleinwort Benson. The red neon of the Hongkong Bank. Street lamps were a zigzag reflection in the ice-cold water. Thrusting both hands inside his coat pockets he began walking east towards the Hilton.

Behind him Julius Nagy emerged, frozen stiff, from a doorway. The gnome-like figure was careful to keep a couple between himself and Newman. At least his long wait had produced some result. Where the hell could the Englishman be going at this hour, in this weather?

Sitting in Pierre Jaccard's cubby-hole office at the Journal de Genêve, Nagy had received a pleasant shock. Jaccard had first pushed an envelope across his crowded desk and then watched as Nagy opened it. Thirty-year-old Jaccard, already senior reporter on the paper, had come a long way by taking chances, backing his intuition. Thin-faced with watchful eyes which never smiled even when his mouth registered amiability, he drank coffee from a cardboard cup.

`Count it, Nagy. It's all there. Two hundred. Like to make some more?'

`Doing what?' Nagy enquired with calculated indifference.

`You hang on to Newman's tail for dear life. You report back to me where he is, where he goes, whom he meets. I want to know everything about him — down to the colour of the pyjamas he's wearing...'

`An assignment like that costs money,' Nagy said promptly.

It was one of the favourite words in Nagy's vocabulary. He never referred to a job — he was always on an assignment. It was the little man's way of conferring some dignity on his way of life. A man needed to feel he had some importance in the world. Jaccard was too young to grasp the significance of the word, too cynical. Had he understood, he could have bought Nagy for less.

`There's another two hundred in this envelope,' Jaccard said, pushing it across the desk. 'A hundred for your fee, a hundred for expenses. And I'll need a receipted bill for every franc of expenses...'

Nagy shook his head, made no effort to touch the second envelope. Despite Jaccard's expression of boredom he sensed under the surface something big, maybe very big. He clasped his small hands in his lap, pursed his lips.

`Newman could take off for anywhere — Zurich, Basle, Lugano. I need the funds to follow him if I'm to carry out the assignment satisfactorily...'

`How much? And think before you reply...'

`Five hundred. Two for myself for the moment. Three for expenses. You'll get your bills. Not a franc less.'

Jaccard had sighed, reached for his wallet and counted five one-hundred franc notes. Which cleaned him out. Tomorrow he'd been on his way to Munich — but he was gambling again, gambling on Newman who had cracked the Kruger case. Christ, if he could only get on to something like that he'd be made for life.

Which was how Nagy, shivering in his shabby overcoat and Tyrolean hat, came to be following Newman who had now reached the lakeside. Earlier, just before crossing the rue du Mont Blanc, the Englishman had glanced back and Nagy thought he'd been spotted. But now Newman continued trudging along the promenade, his head bent against the wind.

As he approached the Hilton, which faces the lake, the street was so deserted that Newman heard another sound above the whine of the wind. The creaking groan of a paddle steamer moored to one of the landing stages, the noise of the hull grinding against the wood of the mooring posts. A single-funnel paddle steamer going no place: it was still out of season. Waiting for spring. Like the whole of the northern hemisphere. No more neon signs across the broadening expanse of the lake. Only cold, twinkling lights along some distant street. He stopped by the outside lift and pressed the button.

A small version of the external elevators which slide vertiginously up the sides of many American hotels, the lift arrived and Newman stepped inside, pressing another button. It occurred to him how exposed he was as the small cage ascended — the door was of glass, the lift was lit inside, a perfect target for any marksman.

Nagy timed it carefully, running up the staircase to the first floor so he saw Newman vanishing inside the restaurant. He waited, then followed. Before entering the restaurant, Nagy removed his shabby coat, stuffed his Tyrolean hat inside a pocket, smoothed his ruffled hair and walked inside. A wave of heat beat at his bloodless face.

The restaurant is a large rectangle with the long side parallel to the lake. Newman was sitting down at a window table at the far end, a table for two. The other chair was already occupied by a girl who made Nagy stare.

The little man sat at a table near the exit, ordered coffee from the English waitress who appeared promptly — the waitresses here are of various nationalities. He studied Newman's companion surreptitiously. Some people had all the luck he thought without envy.

The girl was in her late twenties, Nagy decided, memorizing her appearance for Jaccard. Thick, titian- (Nagy called it red) coloured hair with a centre parting, a fawn cashmere (at a guess) sweater which showed off her ample figure and tight black leather pants encasing her superb legs from crotch to ankle as though painted on her. Gleaming leather. The new `wet' look. Very good bone structure — high cheekbones.

A stunner. At first Nagy thought she was a tart, then decided he was wrong. This girl had class, something the little man respected. Exceptionally animated, their conversation gradually developed so she listened intently while Newman talked, drinking his cup of coffee at occasional intervals.

At one stage she reached across to straighten his tie, a gesture Nagy duly noted. It suggested a degree of intimacy. Something else for Jaccard. Nagy had the impression Newman was instructing her, that she asked a question only to clarify a point.

When Newman paid the bill and left she remained at the table. Nagy had a moment of indecision — who to watch now? But only a moment. Newman walked towards Nagy — and the exit, putting on his sheepskin as he walked past the little man without even a glance in his direction. Nagy, who had paid his own bill as soon as his coffee had arrived, followed.

This time Newman jibbed at the exposed elevator. He ran down the staircase and walked back briskly along the Siberian promenade. He dived inside the revolving doors of the Hotel des Bergues and went straight up to Room 406. Nancy, wearing a transparent nightdress, opened the door a few inches, then let him inside.

Was she good?' was her first question.

`You think I'm some kind of stud?' he replied genially.

`I'll tell you something — when we arrived and you had to register, I was like a jelly inside with embarrassment. Mr and Mrs R. Newman..

`The Swiss are discreet. I told you...' He had already taken off his tie. `.. they only want to see the man's passport. And it's bloody freezing outside. I walked miles.'

`Come to any decisions?'

`Always sleep on decisions. See how they look in the morning.'

It was in the morning that the world blew up in Newman's face.

Ten

Geneva, 14 February 1984. -2?. The concierge called out to Newman as they made their way to the Pavillon for breakfast. Nancy had tried to persuade him to use Room Service and he had refused point-blank.

`You Americans can't think of any other war of living except Room Service...'

He excused himself, stopping at the concierge's desk. With a broad smile the concierge spread out the front page of the Journal de Genêve. Newman's photograph stared back at him inside a box headed Sommaire. The text was brief, not a wasted word.

M. Robert Newman, famous foreign correspondent (author of the bestseller KRUGER: THE COMPUTER THAT FAILED) has arrived in Geneva. He is staying at the Hotel des Bergues. We have no information as to his ultimate destination or the new story he is now working on.

`It is good to be famous, yes, no?' the concierge remarked. `Yes, no,' Newman replied and gave him a franc for the paper.

His face was grim as he pushed open the door into the restaurant. Nancy had chosen the same window table, sitting in the banquette. Newman sat in the chair opposite and stared out of the window. At eight in the morning Geneva was hurrying to work, men and girls heavily muffled against the chilling breeze.

`I've ordered coffee,' Nancy said, breaking a croissant as she studied him. 'Bob, what's wrong?'

He passed the newspaper across without a word, steepled his fingers and went on staring at the swollen Rhone. She read the news item and glowed, waiting until the waitress had arranged their coffee pots.

`I'm going to marry a real celebrity, aren't I? Where did they get the photo? I rather like it...'

`From their files. It's appeared often enough before, God knows. This changes everything, Nancy. It could be dangerous. I think I'd better leave you here for a few days. Go on to Berne alone. I'll call you daily...'

`Like hell you will! I've come to see Jesse and I won't be left behind. Why dangerous?'

`Sixth sense...'

He paused as a small man in a shabby coat and a Tyrolean hat walked past, glancing briefly inside the restaurant and away as he caught Newman looking at him. A titian-haired girl strolled past in the same direction. She wore a short fur coat, the collar pulled up at the neck, and clean blue jeans tucked inside her leather boots. Newman winked at her and she turned her head to stare ahead.

`You're starting early today,' Nancy observed. 'I saw that...'

Did you see the little man who was walking ahead of her?'

`No. Why?'

`Julius Nagy, a piece of Europe's drifting flotsam.' `Flotsam?' Nancy looked puzzled.

`One of the many losers who live on their wits, by their contacts, peddling information. He was at the airport last night. He followed us here in a cab. He could be responsible for that piece of dynamite...'

His finger tapped the Sommaire box and then he poured coffee and broke a hard roll, covering a piece with butter and marmalade. Nancy, her mind in a whirl, kept quiet for a few minutes, knowing he was always in a better mood when he'd had his breakfast.

`You're not going off on your own,' she told him eventually. 'So, what are we going to do together?'

`Finish our breakfast. Then I'll decide...'

But by the time he'd swallowed his fourth cup of coffee, his orange juice and consumed two rolls, the decision was taken out of his hands.

Berne. Inside a large mansion in Elfenau, the district where the wealthy live, Bruno spread out the front page of the Journal de Genêve on an antique drum table. He studied the picture of Newman carefully.

`So they have arrived,' he said in French.

`We knew they were on the way, Bruno. The question is, will they pose a problem? If so, they will have to be dealt with — you will have to deal with them.'

The large man with tinted spectacles who stood in the shadows spoke with a soft, persuasive voice. The huge living-room was dark even in the morning. Partly due to the overcast sky — and partly because heavy net curtains killed what pallid illumination filtered from the outside world.

Bruno Kobler, a hard-looking man of forty, five feet ten tall, heavily built and in the peak of physical condition, glanced towards the massive silhouette. Light from the desk lamp glinted on the dark glasses. He was trying to gauge exactly what his employer had in mind. The man in the shadows continued speaking.

`I recall so well, Bruno, that when I was building up my chemical works it looked as though a rival might upset my calculations. I didn't wait to see what he would do. I acted first. We are on the eve of a total breakthrough with Terminal. I will allow nothing to stand in my way. Remember, we now have the support of the Gold Club.'

`So, I set up close surveillance on Newman and his woman?'

`You always come to the correct conclusion, Bruno. That is why I pay you so well …'

Arthur Beck of the Federal Police sat with the receiver to his ear, waiting while the operator at Geneva police headquarters put him on to Tripet. A copy of the Journal de Genêve lay in front of him. As he had anticipated, the momentum was accelerating. They were coming in. First Lee Foley, alleged detective with the CIDA, now Newman. Beck didn't believe in coincidences — not when events were moving towards a crisis. And this morning his chief had warned him.

`Beck, I'm not sure how much longer I'm going to be able to give you carte blanche. Very powerful interests are at work — trying to get me to take you off the case...'

`I'm getting to the bottom of this thing whatever happens,' Beck had replied.

`You can't fight the system...'

`You want to bet? Sir?'

Tripet came on the line and they exchanged brief courtesies. Beck then told the Geneva chief inspector what he wanted, how to handle it with finesse. As the conversation proceeded he detected a note of worry in Tripet's manner. He's unsure of his position, Beck judged.

`Between you and me, Tripet, this comes right from the top. And that's just between you and me. I just hope you can pick him up before he leaves town. You know where he's staying. Call him, send over a car right away if you'd sooner handle it that way. I leave it to you, but do it, Tripet...'

Beck replaced the receiver and picked up the paper, studying the photograph. He was going to need all the help he could muster — even unorthodox help. If it came to the crunch the press was one thing they couldn't muzzle. Yes, he needed allies. His face tightened. Christ! He wasn't going to let the bastards get away with it just because they had half the money in the western world.

Basle. Erika Stahel closed her apartment door and leaned her back against it for a moment, clutching the armful of newspapers. Seidler guessed she had been running as he looked up from the table. Her face was flushed an even higher colour than usual.

`We've time for another cup of coffee before I go to work,' she told him.

`That would be nice...'

She placed the papers in a neat pile on the table. She was such a tidy, orderly girl, he reflected. It would be marvellous to settle down with her for ever. She danced off into the kitchen, expressing her joy that he was back. He could hear her humming a small tune while she prepared the coffee. He opened the first paper.

`You cleared the table for me,' she called out. 'Thank you, Manfred. You're getting quite domesticated. Do you mind?'

`It could become a habit...'

`Why not?' she responded gaily.

The moment she returned to the living-room she sensed a major change in the atmosphere. Sitting in his shirt-sleeves, Seidler was staring at the front page of the Journal de Genêve. She placed his cup of black coffee within reach — he never took sugar or milk and drank litres of the stuff, another indication that he was living on his nerves. She stood close to his shoulder, peering over it.

`Something wrong?'

`My lifeline. Maybe...'

He took the gold, felt-tipped pen she had given him and used it to circle the box headed Sommaire. She was so generous — God knew how much of her month's salary she had squandered on the pen. He'd have liked to go out and buy her something. He had the money. But it meant going out ….'

`Robert Newman,' she read out and sipped coffee. 'The Kruger case. Newman was the reporter who tracked his bank account to Basle. We still don't know how he managed that. Why is he so important?'