'Excuse me, I have to radio a message to the rear car. We were followed from the airport by an Impala – significant, possibly, that it is an American car…'
Picking up the microphone slung from the side of the car he spoke in Switzer-Deutsch, the dialect understood only by the Swiss. Tucking the microphone back on its hook, he explained after again glancing through the rear window, 'I ordered interception. The third car has just stopped that Impala. They'll think up some fictitious traffic regulations the driver's broken to delay him. And all these cars are bulletproof. Your story, Tweed, is very strange, but of course I believe you. It might interest you to know there are too many Americans arriving in Switzerland - especially in Zurich.'
Too many?' Paula leaned forward. 'How do you know that?'
Beck smiled cynically. 'Oh, we do know what is going on in our country. In late February you might expect a few businessmen, even the odd wealthy tourist from the States. But these men – and we don't like the look of them – all carry diplomatic passports. From my headquarters in Berne I've already phoned their embassy and complained that they're exceeding their complement of diplomatic staff. The Ambassador, an old friend – and one of the few President March has not replaced by some of his cronies and backers – was embarrassed. I found it significant. He told me these men were soon to be routed to other embassies in Europe. Both of us knew he was not telling the truth.'
'So Zurich could be dangerous?' Paula suggested.
'Yes, it could.' He smiled again. 'But not as dangerous as Britain, from what Tweed has told me. How are you going to proceed, Tweed? Or is that top secret?'
'Not at all. I want to locate three men. Joel Dyson – I think it may have all started with him. Then Special Agent Barton Ives and Cord Dillon. One of them has to tell me what the blazes is happening.'
'I do find' – Beck paused to ruminate – 'the most unexpected of those three people to be running is this Barton Ives. FBI – why should someone be after his blood?'
That mystifies me too,' Tweed admitted.
'A pity you don't know what this Norton looks like,' Beck commented.
'I gather no one knows that. Which I find sinister…'
Tweed, carrying his bag, led the way into the Schweizerhof, where he had stayed on previous visits. The same concierge greeted him warmly. As they went up in the lift after registering, Tweed told Paula to come and see him urgently when she'd left her bag in her room.
'I have room 217,' he reminded her as he left the elevator.
She was tapping on his door within three minutes of his arriving in the large corner room overlooking the main station at the front. The side windows looked down on the famous Bahnhofstrasse – the street of great banks and some of the most luxurious shops in the world. He went out of the spacious living-cum-bedroom into the lobby to let Paula in.
'I'm afraid I've got rather a lot for you to do,' he said.
'Fire away!'
'All of us must leave in our rooms here convincing evidence that this is where we are staying. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, shaving kit, et cetera in the bathrooms…'
'The ones we're using now would be most convincing…'
'Agreed. Plus about half our clothes in the wardrobes. Now that means I want you to…'
'Go out and buy six toothbrushes, six tubes of paste, five electric shavers, more make-up for myself,' she interjected.
'Why more make-up?'
'Because you expect to find some in a room occupied by a woman. While I'm buying I'll have to collect a load of large carrier bags. Presumably we need those to sneak out of here to the Gotthard with the clothes we take. I foresee one other problem.'
'Which is?' Tweed enquired.
'We would look suspicious turning up at the Gotthard without suitcases. I know – two of the men wait with new suitcases we buy in the men's lavatory down in Shopville.' Paula peered out of the side window at the escalator leading down into the underground shopping centre. Two more of us, say Bob and Philip, can take the carriers with the clothes into the lavatory and they can be put inside the cases in cubicles.'
'I don't know why I bother planning things like this out,' Tweed said, raising his hands in mock frustration. 'Not when I have you with me.'
'I'll be away for a while on my shopping expedition,' she warned. 'It would look funny if I bought six of everything at one shop.'
'I'm not letting you go alone,' Tweed said firmly. 'I'm calling Butler to accompany you as bodyguard.'
'Harry is a perfect choice. And he can help to carry my purchases. What about the suitcases?'
'I'll phone Newman and Cardon. They can buy the suitcases and call me back when they've done the job. Then they can get coffee at Sprungli and call me again. By then you and Harry should have done your shopping. I'll fix a precise time for Pete Nield and myself to meet you, collect the carriers and make the switch in Shopville. Have you got enough Swiss money?'
'You gave me sufficient at London Airport to go out and buy an outfit Elizabeth Taylor would be happy to wear. Come to think of it, I rather fancy a Chanel suit,' she teased him and left the room.
Tweed summoned Newman and Cardon and gave them their instructions. As they left, the phone rang. Tweed frowned, lifted the receiver cautiously.
'Yes. Who is it?'
'Beck here,' the familiar voice opened. 'I have bad news. Remember that Impala my men stopped on the way from the airport? They found him just ending a conversation on a mobile phone. He undoubtedly warned his chief that a competitor had arrived.' Beck was phrasing his message carefully, knowing it was passing through a hotel switchboard. 'You might have company from the opposition earlier than you expected. Keep in touch. I'm staying in Zurich.'
'Thank you.'
Tweed put down the phone with a sense of foreboding.
16
The move to the Hotel Gotthard, only a short distance behind the Schweizerhof, had been completed by eight in the evening. Tweed arrived in his room, threw back the lid of his case, went down to the bar. He ordered a glass of champagne, paid for it and began exploring the hotel.
With the glass in his hand he appeared to be looking for someone. He tipped some of the contents into a plant pot and continued checking on the few people who sat in the lounge area. No one suspicious anywhere, no sound of an American voice.
Strolling slowly along he passed a man sitting in a chair reading a paper. A slim individual, smartly dressed, he glanced up, folded his paper, followed Tweed to a quiet area near the cheaper restaurant fronting on the Bahnhofstrasse.
'Excuse me, sir. Have you a light?'
Tweed tensed, turned round slowly. The slim man was clean-shaven, his dark hair slicked back over his head. About thirty years old, he held a cigarette in his hand. Tweed continued staring at him as he reached for the lighter he carried for other people's cigarettes.
As he ignited it the man leaned forward, holding one hand to shield the flame although there wasn't a current of air in the place. The man took his time getting his cigarette lit and it was then Tweed saw the open folder held in the palm of the extended hand, the printing inside below a photo of himself.
Federal Police. P. Schmidt. A visiting card had been attached in the lower half with Sellotape. With the compliments of Arthur Beck.
'Thank you, sir,' the slim man said. 'It's very quiet here. February, I expect…'
Tweed went back up in the lift with mixed feelings. It was very good of Beck to post one of his men inside the hotel. But it also indicated that Beck was worried about their safety.
