`Stay as long as you like. Who are these people?'
`One person in particular. Someone who wields enormous power. Someone who may be able to use even the police to do his bidding.'
`The Swiss police?' Her tone was incredulous. 'You look so tired, so worn. You're over-estimating this person's power. If it will make you feel any better I will put that case in a safety deposit – providing you keep the key…'
`All right.' He knew it was the only condition under which she'd agree to do what he asked. They'd find some place inside the apartment to hide the key. 'You'd better hurry. You'll be late for work,' he told her.
She hugged him as though she'd never let go. He almost had tears in his own eyes. So decent, so nice. If only he'd met her years ago…'
Inside their bedroom at the Penta Hotel, situated amid the vast enclave of Heathrow Airport, Newman checked his watch again. Nancy had gone out hours ago on her own – she knew how he hated shopping expeditions. They still had plenty of time to catch Swissair Flight SR 837 which departed 19.00 hours and reached Geneva 21.30 hours local time. The door opened and she caught him looking at his watch.
`I've been hours, I know,' she said cheerfully. 'Think we were going to miss our flight? Have I enjoyed myself…'
`You've probably bought up half Fortnum's…'
`Just about. It's a marvellous shop – and they'll post off purchases anywhere in the world.' She looked at him coyly as she hung up her sheepskin in the wardrobe. 'I'm not showing you the bills. God, I love London…'
`Then why don't we settle down here?'
`Robert, don't start that again. And you've been out. Your coat is on a different hanger…'
`For a breath of fresh air. Tinged with petrol fumes. You're cut out to be a detective.'
`Doctors have to be observant, darling.' She looked at the bed. 'Do we eat now – or later?'
`Later. We have things to do.' He wrapped his arms round her slim waist. 'Afterwards we'll just have a drink. Dinner on the plane. Swissair food is highly edible…'
Belted in his seat aboard an earlier Swissair flight, Lee Foley glanced out of the window as the aircraft left Heathrow behind and broke through the overcast into a sunlit world. He was sitting at the rear of the first-class section.
Foley had reserved this particular seat because it was a good viewing point to observe his fellow-passengers. Unlike them, he had refused any food or drink when the steward came to put a cloth on his fold-out table.
`Nothing,' he said abruptly.
`We have a very nice meal as you can see from the menu, sir.'
`Take the menu, keep the meal…'
`Something to drink then, sir?'
`I said nothing.'
It was still daylight when the aircraft made its descent over the Jura Mountains, heading for Cointrin Airport. Foley watched the view as the plane banked and noted Lac de Joux, nestled inside the Juras, was frozen solid. At least, he. assumed this must be the case – the lake was mantled in snow, as were the mountains. He was the first passenger to leave the plane after it landed and he carried his only luggage.
Foley always travelled light. Hanging around a carousel, waiting for your bag to appear on the moving belt, gave watchers the opportunity to observe your arrival. Foley always regarded terminals as dangerous points of entry. He showed his passport to the Swiss official seated inside his glass box, watching him out of the corner of his eye. The passport was returned and, so far as Foley could tell, no interest had been aroused.
He walked through the green Customs exit into the public concourse beyond. For strangers there was a clear sign pointing to TAXIS, but Foley automatically turned in the right direction. He was familiar with Cointrin.
The chill air had hit him like a knife thrust when he came down the mobile staircase from the aircraft. It hit him again when he emerged from the building and walked to the first cab. He waited until he was settled in the rear seat with the door closed before he gave the instruction to the driver.
`Hotel des Bergues…'
Foley's wariness about terminals was closer to the mark than he realized when he walked swiftly across the concourse without turning his head. Looking back drew attention to yourself – betrayed nervousness. So he had not seen a small, gnome-like figure huddled against a wall with an unlit cigarette between his thin lips.
Julius Nagy had straightened briefly when he saw Foley, then he took out a bookmatch and pretended to light the cigarette without doing so – Nagy didn't smoke. His tiny, bird-like eyes sparkled with satisfaction as he watched the American pass beyond the automatic exit doors. His neat feet trotted inside the nearest phone box and closed the door.
Nagy, who had escaped from Hungary in 1956 when Soviet troops invaded his country, was fifty-two years old. Streaks of dark-oily hair peeped from under the Tyrolean-style hat he wore well pulled down. His skin was wrinkled like a walnut, his long nose pinched at the nostrils.
He dialled the number he knew by heart. Nagy had a phenomenal memory for three things – people's faces, their names, and phone numbers. When the police headquarters operator answered he gave his name, asked to be put through immediately, please, to Chief Inspector Tripet. Yes, he was well-known to Tripet and he was in a hurry.
`Tripet speaking. Who is this?'
The voice, remote, careful, had spoken in French. Nagy could picture the Sfiret6 man sitting in his second-floor office inside the seven-storey building facing the Public Library at 24 Boulevard Carl-Vogt, at the foot of the Old City.
`Nagy here. Didn't they tell you?'
`Christian name?'
`Oh, for God's sake. Julius. Julius Nagy. I've got some information. It's worth a hundred francs..
`Perhaps…'
`Someone who just came in from London off the flight at Cointrin. A hundred francs I want – or I'll dry up…'
`And who is this expensive someone?' asked Tripet in a bored tone of voice.
`Lee Foley, CIA man…'
`I'll meet you at the usual place. Exactly one hour from now. Eighteen hundred hours. I want to talk to you about this – see your face when I do. If it isn't genuine you're off the payroll for all time…'
Nagy heard the click and realized Tripet had broken the connection. He was puzzled. Had he asked too little? Was the information pure gold? On the other hand Tripet had sounded as though he were rebuking the little man. Nagy shrugged, left the booth, saw the airport bus for town was about to leave and started running.
At 24 Bd Carl-Vogt, Tripet, a thin-faced, serious-looking man in his late thirties, a man who had risen quickly in his chosen profession, hoped he had bluffed Nagy as his agile fingers dialled the Berne number.
`Arthur Beck, please, Assistant to the Chief of Federal Police,' he requested crisply when the operator at the Taubenhalde came on the line. 'This is Chief Inspector Tripet, Surete, Geneva…'
`One moment, sir…'
Beck came to the phone quickly after first dismissing from his tenth floor office his secretary, a fifty-five-year-old spinster not unlike Tweed's Monica. Settling himself comfortably in his chair, Beck spoke with calm amiability.
`Well, Leon, and how are things in Geneva? Snowing?'
`Not quite. Arthur, you asked me to report if any odd people turned up on my patch. Would Lee Foley, CIA operative, qualify?'
`Yes.' Beck gripped the receiver a shade more firmly. 'Tell me about it.' He reached for pad and pencil.
`He may have just come in on a Swissair flight from London. I have a report from Cointrin.
`A report from who?' The pencil poised.
`A small-time informer we call The Mongrel, sometimes The Scrounger. He'll burrow in any filthy trash-can to make himself a few francs. But he's very reliable. If Foley interests you I'm meeting Julius Nagy, The Mongrel, shortly outside. Can you give me a description of Foley so I can test Nagy's story?'