`Please use one of your sophisticated, infra-red cine cameras. The danger – the evidence to be obtained- probably is during the night. Hannah Stuart died after dark. So did Mrs Holly Laird…'
`I have kept all reference to Mrs Laird out of the papers,' Beck said sharply.
`Certain individuals inside Military Intelligence are as uneasy about this business as we are,' Tweed observed and sat back to drink his coffee.
`Who are you going to see?' Nancy asked as Newman put down the phone inside their bedroom. 'You didn't mention a name.'
`I'm stirring the pot to boiling point before that reception tonight – hoping to break someone's nerve. Then they may make a mistake. I'm on my way now to start the process. You wait here till I get back..
Two minutes later he walked out of the main entrance of the Bellevue. There was the smell of fog in the heavy air. The clammy damp of mist caressed his cheeks. He went straight inside the Bundeshaus Ost and was taken to Captain Lachenal's second-floor office. When the attendant closed the door and Lachenal, dark circles under his eyes, rose from behind his desk, Newman unbuttoned his coat but made no attempt to take it off.
`Manfred Seidler is dead,' was his opening shot.
`My God! I didn't know, I swear to you…'
`He was murdered up in the Juras. You were looking for him. I was there when a marksman blew off half his head-and so was Colonel Signer. Do you take orders from Signer?'
`Have you gone crazy? Of course not…'
`Maybe indirectly – through a complex chain of command whose ultimate origin even you don't know…'
`That's impossible. Bob, you don't know what you're saying…'
`That rifle with a sniper scope that was stolen from the Thun district was probably the murder weapon. Who are the marksmen in Thun? There can't be too many of them- and you hold a record of such things. Care to let me look at that record? Or are you going to try and cover up? We are talking about cold-blooded murder, Lachenal.'
`Two such rifles have been stolen – both from the Thun district,' Lachenal said quietly. 'We tried to keep the second theft quiet. It reflects on the Swiss Army…'
`So you will have consulted that record of marksmen very recently – probably still have it in this office,' Newman pounded on. 'May I see it? I might believe in you if you show it to me.'
`You are telling me the truth about Seidler?'
`You really didn't know? There's the phone. Call Beck and ask him…'
`There is a temporary hitch in liaison.'
Which, Newman thought, was a neat way of saying they were no longer speaking to each other. Lachenal looked worried sick, close to the end of his tether. Without another word he went over to a steel filing cabinet, produced a ring of keys, unlocked the cabinet, took out a red file and brought it back to his desk.
`This is classified information…'
`Since when did brutal assassination become classified?'
Lachenal rifled through the typed sheets inside the file. He stopped at a page near the end and Newman guessed it was arranged alphabetically by district. 'T' for `Thun'.
The Intelligence chief gestured for Newman to join him on his side of the desk. He used the flat of both hands to prevent Newman flipping over to another page. There were five marksmen in Thun, a high proportion, Newman guessed. Alongside one was an asterisk. He pointed to this name. Bruno Kobler.
`What's the asterisk for? Or is that top secret?'
`Expert with both rifle and handgun. A crack shot…'
`Get the link?' Newman queried. `Kobler, deputy to Professor Grange. And Grange's closest financial supporter is Victor Signer – present at the execution of Manfred Seidler…'
`Execution?' Lachenal was shocked.
`By a one-man firing squad, a marksman. And Signer may have given the order. Think about it, check it, Lachenal. And I'm leaving now…'
`There are questions I would like to ask…'
Newman shook his head. He buttoned up his coat. He had turned the handle of the door when he fired his closing shot over his shoulder.
`And at long last. I know what Terminal means – yesterday in conversation with someone they told me by chance.'
Thirty-One
`I'll be there if I'm needed,' Lee Foley said, gripping the phone with his left hand while he reached for the lighted cigarette with his other hand. 'All those people at that reception means something's going to break. I'll be there like I said – to watch it happen…'
Inside Room 214 the American replaced the receiver, checked his watch and stretched out on the bed. 11.30 am. Today he was staying in the bedroom which had already been cleaned. On the outside door handle a notice hung. Please Do Not Disturb.
He had used Room Service to order lunch. The fox was in its hole – and would remain there until the moment came to act. Closing his eyes, he fell fast asleep.
Newman walked out of the phone booth and headed along the familiar route to the Junkerngasse. Blanche was waiting for him, clad in a beige sweater and her wet-look black pants, the outfit she wore when she thought she might need to ride her scooter.
`I have a big favour to ask,' Newman told her, 'and very little time to spare. Would you be willing to evacuate your flat for a day or two – I've provisionally booked you a room at the Bellevue. I may need a hideaway – this would be ideal geographically…'
`Of course you can have it…'
`Not for myself. If you agree, lock up any valuables or confidential papers. Your temporary lodger might be nosy. I just don't know…'
`When do I move to the Bellevue? And here is a spare key.'
`By one o'clock. About clothes, pack what you're wearing. And something dressy – for a reception. This has two plusses for me. I have what the pros call a safe house. And I have you where I can keep an eye on you. People are getting killed. A lot of people.'
Inside the Bellevue Tweed knocked gently on the door after first making sure the corridor was deserted. The door to the suite was opened by a small, very broad-shouldered man with a large head, thick black hair and a wide, firm mouth. He was smoking a Havana cigar and he wore an expensive and conservative dark grey business suit.
`Come in, Tweed,' said Dr Max Nagel. 'On time to the minute, as always.'
`We may be getting somewhere,' Tweed replied as Nagel shut the door and ushered him to a deep arm-chair which enveloped the small Englishman.
`Tell me,' Nagel continued in English, drawing up a similar chair to join his guest. 'You saved me a lot of embarrassment over that Kruger affair when you traced the funds he'd embezzled to my bank.'
`That was only achieved by keeping track of that newspaperman, Newman's, activities. I've manoeuvred all the pieces on the Terminal board as best I could. Now we hope and we pray…'
`Maybe not.' Nagel, who spoke in a hoarse growl, reached for his brief-case, unlocked it and handed a file to Tweed. `Those are photocopies of highly intricate banking transactions covering the movement of no less than two hundred million Swiss francs. At one stage they went out of the country to a company in Liechtenstein – then, hey presto! they come back again and end up, guess where?'
`In a bank account accessible to Professor Armand Grange?'
`Where else? You can keep that set of accounts. What is your strategy? When you phoned me before you left London telling me you were coming here you didn't say too much…'
`Not over an open line…'
Tweed then told Nagel all he had discovered – including the gas mask 'an emissary' had brought from Vienna
