Lee Foley walked along Piccadilly, his expression bleak, hands thrust inside the pockets of his duffel coat. Christ, it was cold in London, a raw, damp cold. No wonder the Brits. had once conquered the world. If you could stand this climate you could stand anywhere across the face of the earth.
He checked his watch. The timing of the call was important. The contact would be expecting him at the appointed number. He glanced round casually before descending into Piccadilly underground station. No reason why anyone should be following him – which was the moment to check.
Inside the phone booth he checked his watch again, waited until his watch registered precisely 11 am, then dialled the London number, waited for the bleeps, inserted a ten-penny coin and heard the familiar voice. He identified himself and then listened before answering.
`Now let me do the talking. I'll catch an early flight to Geneva today. I'll wait at the Hotel des Bergues. When the time comes I'll proceed to Berne. I'll reserve a room at a hotel called the Savoy near the station – you can get the number from the Berne directory. We'll keep in close touch as the situation develops. You must keep me informed. Signing off…'
It was 12.30 pm when Tweed returned to his office, hung up his coat by the loop and settled himself behind his desk. Monica, checking a file with Mason, frowned. He should have put the coat on a hanger – no wonder he always had such a rumpled look. She carefully refrained from so doing. Tweed had been away for over two hours.
`I've booked Mason on Swissair Flight SR 805. Departs Heathrow fourteen forty-five, arrives Zurich seventeen twenty, local time…'
`He'll catch it easily,' Tweed agreed with an absent-minded expression. 'What are you two up to?'
`Looking through hundreds of photos. We've found the man he saw boarding that Swiss jet at Schwechat Airport. Manfred Seidler…'
`You're sure?'
`Positive,' Mason replied. 'Look for yourself.'
He handed across the desk the photo he had taken and which the photographic section in the basement of Park Crescent had developed and printed. Monica – pushed Seidler's file across the desk open at the third page to which another photo was pasted.
`Poor old Manfred,' Tweed said half to himself. 'It looks as though this time he's mixed up in something he may not be able to handle.'
`You know him?' Mason queried.
' Knew him. When I was on the continent. He's on what we used to call the circuit…'
`Not an electric circuit?' Monica pounced. 'Remember Howard asking Mason what Terminal suggested to him?'
Tweed stared at her through his glasses. Monica didn't miss a trick: he would never have thought of that himself. He considered the idea. 'There could be a connection,' he conceded eventually. 'I'm not sure. Seidler is a collector – and seller – of unconsidered trifles. Sometimes not so trifling. Lives off his network of contacts. Just occasionally he comes up with the jackpot. I've no idea where he is now. Something for you to enquire about, Mason.'
`I'm going to be busy. Searching for Manfred Seidler, building up a file on this Professor Grange. We've nothing on him here.'
`The computer came up with zero,' Monica added.
`Computer?' An odd expression flickered behind Tweed's glasses and was then gone. He relaxed again. 'Mason, from the moment you leave this building I want you to watch your back. Especially when you've arrived in Switzerland.'
`Anything particular in mind?'
`We've already had one murder – Franz Oswald. People will kill for what I've got in that locked drawer…' He looked at Monica. 'Or has the courier from the Ministry of Defence collected it?'
`Not so far…'
`They must be mad.' Tweed drummed his thick fingers on the desk. 'The sooner their experts examine it…'
`Charlton is a careful type,' Monica reminded him. 'He's very conscious of security. My bet is the courier will arrive as soon as night has fallen.'
`You're probably right. I shan't leave my office until the thing is off our hands. Now, Mason,' he resumed, 'another unknown factor is the attitude of the Swiss authorities – the Federal police and their Military Intelligence. They could prove hostile…'
`What on earth for?' Monica protested.
`It worries me – that Lear executive jet Mason watched leaving Schwechat. The fact that it bore a flag on its side with a white cross on a red ground, the Swiss flag. Don't accept anyone as a friend. Oh, one more thing. We've reserved a room at the Bellevue Palace in Berne.'
Mason whistled. 'Very nice. VIP treatment. Howard will do his nut when he finds out…'
`It's convenient,' Tweed said shortly. 'I may join you later.'
Monica had trouble keeping her face expressionless. She knew that Tweed had his own reservation at the Bellevue Palace a few days hence: she had booked the room herself. Tweed, naturally secretive, was playing this one closer to the chest than ever before. He wasn't even letting his own operative know about his movements. For God's sake, he couldn't suspect Mason?
`Why convenient?' enquired Mason.
`It's central,' Tweed said shortly and left it at that. 'We're getting things moving,' he went on with that distant look in his eyes, 'placing the pieces on the board. One thing I'd dearly like to know – where is Manfred Seidler now?'
Basle, 13 February 1984. 0?. Seidler still felt hunted. He had spent the whole weekend inside Erika Stahel's apartment and the walls were starting to close in on him. He heard a key being inserted in the outer door and grabbed for his 9-mm Luger, a weapon he had concealed from Erika.
When she walked in, carrying a bag of groceries, the Luger was out of sight under a cushion. She closed the door with her foot and surveyed the newspapers spread out over the table. She had dashed out first thing to get them for him. Now she had dashed back from the office – only one hour for lunch – to prepare him some food.
`Anything in the papers?' she called out from the tiny kitchen.
`Nothing. Yet. You don't have to make me a meal…'
`Won't take any time at all. We can talk while we eat…'
He looked at the newspapers on the table. The Berner Zeitung, the main Zurich morning, the Journal de Geneve and the Basle locals. He lifted one of them and underneath lay the executive case. He'd made up his mind.
Since he was a youth Seidler had involved himself in unsavoury activities – always to make money. Brought up by an aunt in Vienna – his mother had been killed by the Russians, his father had died on the Eastern Front – Seidler had been one of the world's wanderers. Now, when he had the money, when he felt like settling down, the whole system was trying to locate him
He felt a great affection for Erika because she was such a decent girl. He laid the table, listened to her chatting with animation while they ate, and only brought up the subject over coffee.
`Erika, if anything happens to me I want you to have this…'
He opened the executive case, revealing the neatly stacked Swiss banknotes inside. Her face, which always showed the pink flush Seidler had observed when women were pregnant, went blank as she stood up. Her deft fingers rifled through several of the stacks at random and replaced them. She stared at him.
`Manfred, there has to be half a million francs here…'
`Very close. Take them and put them into a safety deposit- not at the bank where you work. Call a cab. Don't walk through the streets with that – not even in Basle…'
I can't take this.' She grasped his hand and he saw she was close to tears. 'I'm not interested – you're the only one I'm interested in.'
`So, bank it for both of us. Under your own name. Under no circumstances under my name,' he warned.
`Manfred..' She eased herself into his lap. 'Who are you frightened of? Did you steal this money?'
`No!' He became vehement to convince her. 'It was given to me for services rendered. Now they no longer need me. They may regard me as a menace because of what I know. I shouldn't stay here much longer…'