Terminal tac-2 Page 8

  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 Geneve, 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 Geneve. 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 Geneve 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 Geneve 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 Geneve. 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?'

  `Because, Erika…' He wrapped an arm round her slim waist, 'he's such an independent bastard. No vested interest in the world can buy him once he gets his teeth into a story. No one can stop him.'

  `You know this Newman?'

  `Unfortunately, no. But I can reach him. You see it even says where he's staying. I'd better call him – but I'll use that public phone box just down the street…'

  `You didn't want to be seen outside…'

  `It's worth the risk. I have to do something. Newman might even be working on the Gold Club story. Terminal…'

  `Manfred!' There was surprise, a hint of hurt in her voice. `When I told you about that you gave me the impression you'd never heard of either the Gold Club or Terminal.'

  He looked uncomfortable. Taking the cup of coffee out of her hand he hauled her on
to his lap. She really weighed nothing at all. He stared straight at her. He was about to break the habit of a lifetime – to trust another human being.

  `It was for your own protection. That's God's truth. Don't ask me any more – knowledge can kill you when such ruthless and powerful forces are involved. Whatever happens, say nothing to Nagel, your boss…'

  `I wouldn't dream of it. Can't you go to the police?' she asked for the third time, then desisted as she caught his look of fear, near-desperation. She saw the time by his watch and eased herself off his lap. 'I simply have to go, Manfred. My job…'

  `Don't forget to deposit that case. In your own name.. `Only if you sign this card. I collected it yesterday. No argument, Manfred – or I won't take the case…'

  `What is it?'

  `A deposit receipt for a safety box. We both have to be able to get access to it. Those are the only terms on which I'll take that case.'

  He sighed, signed it with his illegible but distinctive signature and gave back the card. When she had left the apartment he sat there for some time, amazed at his action. A year ago he'd have laughed in the face of anyone who told him that one day he would entrust half a million francs to a young girl. The nice thing was he felt quite contented now he had taken the plunge.

  The real effort, he knew, would be to phone Newman.

  They were waiting for him when Newman followed Nancy out of the Pavillon. Two men in plain clothes seated in the reception hall who stood up and walked straight over to him. A tall man with a long face, a shorter man, chubby and amiable.

  `M. Newman?' the tall man enquired. 'Could you please accompany us.' It was a statement not a question. 'We are police officers…'

  `Nancy, go up to our room while I sort this out,' Newman said briskly. He stared at the tall man. 'Accompany you where – and why?'

  `To police headquarters…'

  `Address,' Newman snapped.

  `Twenty-four Boulevard Carl-Vogt…'

  `Show me some identification, for Christ's sake.'

  `Certainly, sir.' Ostrich, as Newman had already nicknamed the tall one, produced a folder which Newman examined carefully before handing it back. As far as he could tell it was kosher.