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
