Terminal tac-2 Read online

  `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, Surete, Genev
a…'

  `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 Geneve. 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 Dusseldorf?'

  `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 th
e 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.