`I'm going to get inside that clinic. Now, have one of your rare cigarettes, stop fiddling with that glove, here's the pack.'
They passed under a fresh sign which indicated two different destinations. THUN – SUD, THUN – NORD. Newman signalled to the huge trailer truck coming up behind him and swung up the turn-off to Thun-Nord. Nancy lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Now they were crossing the motorway which was below them and from this extra elevation she had a view of grim, saw-toothed mountains to the south, mountains only dimly seen in a veil of mist so for a moment she wasn't sure whether she was watching a mirage.
`Those must be pretty high,' she observed.
`They rise to the far side of Thun, to the south and the east. One of them is the Stockhorn. Probably that big brute towering above the rest…'
They were climbing a gradual but continually-ascending slope up a hillside between more fields. An isolated farm here and there, a glimpse of neatly-stacked and huge bales of hay inside barns with steep roofs. The lowering sky created an ominous sense of desolation. Over to the east a great castle perched on a hilltop with turrets capped with what looked like witches' hats.
`That's the famous Thun Schloss,' Newman remarked. `The town is below it, out of sight…'
`You do know the way?'
`We turn off this road somewhere higher up according to that helpful concierge at the Bellevue. Check it on the map I put in the glove compartment if you like – he marked the route…'
`It's creepy up here, Bob…'
`It's just a lousy afternoon.'
But there was something in her remark. They were very close to the snow-line. Earlier sun had melted the snow blanket on the lower fields facing south. Beyond the snow line houses were dotted at intervals towards Thun. Near the top of the ridge a dense forest of dark firs huddled like an army waiting to march. Then they reached the snow-line and here no ploughs had cleared the road. Newman reduced speed, slowed even more as he saw a sign- post. The sign read Klinik Bern. He swung right on to a narrower road, corrected a rear-wheel skid, drove on.
`Do you think that's it?' Nancy asked.
`I imagine so…'
A large, two-storey mansion with a verandah running round the ground floor was perched in an isolated position on the wide plateau which extended to the group of private houses several kilometres to the east. The grounds, which looked extensive, were surrounded by a wire fence and ahead Newman saw a gatehouse. Close behind the mansion the forest stood, a solid wall of firs mantled with snow. He pulled up in front of the stone, single-storey gatehouse beside double wire gates which were closed. Before he could alight from the car large, black dogs appeared and came leaping towards the gate.
`Dobermans,' Newman commented. 'Charming…'
A heavy wooden door leading from the gatehouse direct on to the road opened. A lean man in his early thirties, wearing jeans and a windcheater, walked out towards the Citroen. Glancing over his shoulder he called out a curt order in German. The dogs stopped barking, backed away reluctantly and disappeared.
`This is private property,' the lean man began in German.
`Not where I'm standing, it isn't,' Newman snapped back. `This is the public highway. My passenger is Nancy Kennedy. She's here to visit her grandfather, Jesse Kennedy…'
`You have an appointment?'
`She has flown from America for the precise purpose of visiting her grandfather…'
`No admittance without an appointment…'
`You're the boss here?' Newman's tone dripped sarcasm. `You look like paid help to me. Get on the phone and tell the Clinic we're here. And tell them I'm a newspaper man – it would make a very good story, don't you think'? Granddaughter flies all the way from America and is refused admission to see her sick grandfather. What are you running here – a concentration camp? That's the impression I'm getting – a wire fence and Dobermans…'
And you are?'
`Robert Newman. I'm getting pretty chilled standing here yacking to you. I'll give you two minutes – then we'll drive back to Berne and I'll file my story…'
`Wait!'
'For two minutes…'
Newman made an elaborate pantomime of looking at his watch and went back to the car. The lean man disappeared inside the gatehouse while Newman settled behind the wheel and lit a cigarette. Nancy took the pack and lit one for herself.
`It might have been better to make an appointment,' she said.
`Now I've seen the set-up I think not. This place smells very peculiar. While I was talking to Lanky I saw another man peer through that open doorway, a man wearing a uniform which looked very much like the Swiss Army…'
Bob, that's crazy! You must have been mistaken…'
`I'm only telling you what I saw. The whole goddamned place is laid out like a military encampment. Surprise, surprise – here comes Lanky, looking even more sour than before…'
`You may go up to the Clinic. Someone will meet you there…'
The lean man spoke curtly, then walked away before there was time for a reply. Newman guessed that someone inside the gatehouse had pressed a button – the double gates opened inward automatically. Remembering the dogs, he closed his window before he drove forward and up the long curving drive to the distant building. No sign of a Doberman. They had been locked inside the gatehouse until the Citroen was clear.
He drove slowly, taking in the wintry landscape, and realized the grounds were even more vast than he had first thought. The wire fence at the front ran away across the white world, disappearing down a dip in the hillside. As he approached the Clinic the whole place seemed deserted. He could now see the verandah was glassed in and six steps led up to the entrance door.
Parking the car facing the exit drive, he locked it when Nancy had alighted and they went up the steps together. Grasping the handle of the door, he opened it and they went inside on to the verandah. It stretched away in both directions, the floor tiled and spotless, a few pots with plants at intervals. The inner door led into a large tiled lobby. The smell of antiseptic hit Newman and he wrinkled his nostrils. Nancy noticed his reaction and her lips tightened.
At the back of the large lobby was a heavy, highly-polished wooden counter and behind this, sitting on a high stool with an adjustable back, was a large, fat middle-aged woman, dark hair tied at the back in a bun and with small, darting eyes. She put down the pencil she had been writing with on a printed form, clasped her pudgy hands and stared at them.
`You know who we are,' Newman said in German, 'and I want to see the man in charge of this place..'
`Please to fill in the forms,' she replied in English, her tone of voice flat as she pushed a pad across the counter.
`Maybe, after I've seen your superior. We've come to see Jesse Kennedy. You know that already from the lackey on the gate…'
`I am very much afraid that without an appointment that will not be possible…' The man who had appeared from a side door spoke quietly but firmly in excellent English. Something in the tone of voice made Newman turn quickly to study the speaker. He had an impression of authority, supreme self-confidence, a human dynamo. 'We have to consider the patient,' the voice continued. 'I also should tell you that at the moment Mr Kennedy is under sedation.'
A man almost his own height, Newman estimated. More heavily-built. A man of about forty with dark brown hair streaked with grey shafts. The eyes stared at Newman and expressed force of character. Eyes which assessed his visitor, weighing up a possible opponent. A very self-controlled, formidable man.
`I am Dr Bruno Kobler,' he added.
`And I am Dr Nancy Kennedy,' Nancy interjected. 'The fact that my grandfather is sedated makes no difference. I wish to see him immediately.'
`Without a doctor in attendance that would be irregular…'
`You're a doctor,' Newman snapped. 'You just told us…'
`I am the chief administrator. I have no medical qualification.'
