Terminal tac-2 Page 3

  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 attache 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 Cz
ech. '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 F
ranz'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.