`Excellent, Emil. You see that little man with the absurd Tyrolean hat, the one buying his own ticket? That's Nagy. He is scum. The police once threw him out of Berne. He followed Newman in a cab from the hotel.' Kobler checked his watch. `Your next job is Julius Nagy. Hang on to his tail. Wait your opportunity. Get him in the train lavatory – or some alley when he gets off. Find out who he is working for. Break a few arms, legs, if necessary. Scare the hell out of him Then put him on our payroll. Tell him to continue following Newman, to report all his movements and contacts to you.'
`It's done.'
Kobler picked up his brief-case and watched Graf trotting away with his holdall. The contents might come in useful to persuade Nagy where survival lay. Kobler checked the departure board and headed for the platform where the Zurich Express was due to leave in five minutes.
In the far corner of the station Lee Foley watched all these developments with interest from behind the newspaper he held in front of his face. He had left the Hotel des Bergues only five minutes ahead of Newman and Nancy, anticipating this would give him a ringside seat. After buying a one-way first-class ticket to Berne he had taken up his discreet viewing point where he could watch all the ticket windows. As Kobler disappeared he folded the paper, tucked it inside the pocket of his coat, picked up his bag and made his own way towards the same platform.
The passenger everyone – including Foley – missed noticing was a titian-haired girl. A porter carried her scooter inside the luggage van. She boarded the next coach and the express bound for Berne and Zurich glided out of the station.
Twelve
Berne! A city unique not only in Switzerland but also in the whole of Western Europe. Its topography alone is weird. Wrapped inside a serpentine bend of the river Aare, it extends eastward as a long peninsula – its length stretching from the main station and the University to the distant Nydeggbrucke, the bridge where it finally crosses the Aare.
Its width is a quarter of its length. At many points you can walk across the peninsula, leaving the river behind, only to find in less than ten minutes, the far bend of the river barring your way.
Berne is a fortress. Built on a gigantic escarpment, it rears above the surrounding countryside. Below the Terrasse behind the Parliament building, the ground slopes steeply away. Below the Plattform at the side of the Munster the massive wall ramparts drop like a precipice one hundred and fifty feet to the Badgasse. Beyond, the noose of the Aare flows past from distant Lake Thun.
The escarpment is at its peak near Parliament and the station. As the parallel streets wind their way east they descend towards the Nydeggbrucke.
Berne is old, very old. The Munster goes back to 1421. And because it is centuries since it endured the curse of war, it has remained old. It is a city for human moles. The streets are lined with a labyrinth of huddled arcades like burrows. People can walk through these arcades in the worst of weathers, secure from snow and rain.
When night falls-even during heavily overcast days-there is a sinister aspect to the city. Few walk down the stone arcades of the Munstergasse, which continues east as the Junkerngasse until it reaches the Nydeggbrucke. All streets end at the bridge.
Backwards and forwards across its waist, a network of narrow alleys thread their way, alleys where you rarely meet another human being. And when the mist rolls in across the Aare, smoky coils drift down the arcades, increasing the atmosphere of menace.
Yet here in Berne are located – principally in buildings close to the Bellevue Palace – centres of power which do not always see eye to eye with the bankers. Swiss Military Intelligence, the Federal Police of which Arthur Beck is a key figure – are housed either next door to or within minutes' walk of one of the greatest hotels in Europe.
At the station a keen observer sees that Berne is where German Switzerland meets its French counterpart. The station is BahnhofGare. At the foot of the steps leading to pairs of platforms the left-hand platform is Voie, the right-hand Gleis. The express from Geneva arrived on time at precisely 1.58 pm.
During the journey from Geneva Newman, facing Nancy in her own window seat, had not moved. Gazing out of the window while the express sped from Geneva towards Lausanne he watched the fields covered in snow. The sun shone and frequently he had to turn away from the harshness of the sun glare.
`It's not non-stop as I thought,' he told Nancy. 'Lausanne, Fribourg and then Berne…'
`You look very serious, very concentrated. Too many things happened in Geneva?'
`Keep your voice down.' He leaned forward. 'Police headquarters for a start, then our friend on the phone. A lot to open the day…'
He was careful not to tell her he had seen Julius Nagy board the second-class coach immediately behind them. Who was Nagy really working for? The problem bothered him. At least they were heading for Berne. At the first opportunity he would go and talk to Arthur Beck. If anyone could – would – tell him what was going on, that man was Beck.
Several seats behind him Bruno Kobler sat facing Nancy, his brief-case perched on the seat beside him to keep it unoccupied. Kobler had also observed Nagy boarding the express. He hoped that Graf had accomplished his mission of persuading – forcing – the little creep to switch his allegiance.
Kobler was dressed so perfectly as the Swiss businessman that neither Newman nor Nancy had noticed him. But someone else had observed Kobler's interest in them, someone Kobler himself had overlooked.
Lee Foley had taken a seat in the non-smoking section of the coach, a section separated from the smokers by a door with a glass panel in the upper half. Twice, on the way to Lausanne, Foley had stood up and taken time extracting a magazine from the suitcase he had perched on the rack.
Foley was the only man who saw it all. Through the panel he observed Newman's grim expression as he stared out at the countryside. He also caught the fleeting glances of the Swiss business type behind the correspondent – glances always at Newman and the woman seated opposite. He would remember that hard face.
He observed more. At the far end of the smoking section Nagy appeared and looked inside. Only for a moment. A small, stocky man appeared beside him. Foley saw Nagy's startled expression. Both men disappeared inside the lavatory. Foley reacted at once.
Walking into the smoking section, staring straight ahead, he slid aside the end door, waited for it to shut automatically, and listened outside the lavatory. He heard choking noises. He reached out a hand to rattle the handle and then withdrew it. He could not afford to advertise his presence on the express. He went back to his own seat.
Inside the lavatory Graf had one hand round Nagy's throat as he extracted the Army rifle from the holdall with the other hand. Bending the little man back over the wash-basin, he put the rifle muzzle under his chin. Nagy's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets with stark terror.
`Now,' said Graf, 'you can end up being tossed off this train. People do fall off expresses. Or you can tell me – first time please, there will be no second chance – who you are working for. We know you're following Newman…'
`You can't get away with this,' Nagy gasped.
`I said first time…'
Nagy heard a click, guessed it was the safety catch coming off. He nearly filled his pants. The remote, glassy look on his attacker's face was almost more frightening than the rifle.
`Can't speak…' The vicious grip of the hand on his throat relaxed. A little. `Tripet,' he said. 'I am following Newman. For Tripet…'
`Who the hell is Tripet?' Graf asked quietly, his eyes never leaving Nagy's.
`Chief Inspector Tripet. Surete. Geneva. I've worked for him before. I'm his snout…'
Nagy, almost universally despised, a man you used, had guts. He was determined not to give away Pierre Jaccard of the Journal de Geneve. There was more money there. And Jaccard had always kept his word. In Nagy's world trust was credit beyond price.