`Watch it on that motorway,' his contact had informed him as he handed over the Porsche which he had brought to the Savoy. 'It's a favourite place for the police to set up speed-traps…'
Foley had driven away from the Savoy so fixed on getting to his destination in time that he for once omitted to check that no one was following him. So he completely missed noticing the helmeted figure who jumped on a scooter parked further along the pavement. The scooter was still with him, little more than a dot behind the Porsche, when he spotted the Citroen ahead.
He kept up his speed, pulling closer to the Citroen until he had a good view of the two occupants. Newman behind the wheel, his woman seated alongside him. Foley breathed a sigh of relief and reduced speed, widening the distance between the two vehicles. Behind him the scooter rider-going flat-out – also slowed down.
Foley drove under a large destination indicator board, one of several at regular intervals. The board carried the legend THUN – NORD.
Inside the Citroen the warmth from the heater had dispelled the bitter cold and Nancy removed her gloves. Her right hand played with the fingers of one glove in her lap. The motorway was in superb condition, its surface clear of snow. But as they left Berne behind, passed the turn-off to Belp, the snow in the fields on both sides lay deeper. Here and there an occasional naked tree stretched gnarled branches towards the dark grey pall overhead. The atmosphere was sullen, unwelcoming. Newman glanced at her restless hand.
`Nervous? Now we're so close?'
`Yes, I am, Bob. I keep thinking about Jesse. And I'm not at all sure they're going to let us in, just dropping on them like this…'
`Leave me to do the talking when we arrive. You're a close relative. I'm a foreign correspondent. A lethal combination for a clinic which wants to preserve its reputation. There's no publicity like bad publicity…'
`What are you going to do?' She sounded worried.
`I'm going to get inside that clinic. Now, have one of your rare cigarettes, stop fiddling with that glove, here's the pack.'
They passed under a fresh sign which indicated two different destinations. THUN – SUD, THUN – NORD. Newman signalled to the huge trailer truck coming up behind him and swung up the turn-off to Thun-Nord. Nancy lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Now they were crossing the motorway which was below them and from this extra elevation she had a view of grim, saw-toothed mountains to the south, mountains only dimly seen in a veil of mist so for a moment she wasn't sure whether she was watching a mirage.
`Those must be pretty high,' she observed.
`They rise to the far side of Thun, to the south and the east. One of them is the Stockhorn. Probably that big brute towering above the rest…'
They were climbing a gradual but continually-ascending slope up a hillside between more fields. An isolated farm here and there, a glimpse of neatly-stacked and huge bales of hay inside barns with steep roofs. The lowering sky created an ominous sense of desolation. Over to the east a great castle perched on a hilltop with turrets capped with what looked like witches' hats.
`That's the famous Thun Schloss,' Newman remarked. `The town is below it, out of sight…'
`You do know the way?'
`We turn off this road somewhere higher up according to that helpful concierge at the Bellevue. Check it on the map I put in the glove compartment if you like – he marked the route…'
`It's creepy up here, Bob…'
`It's just a lousy afternoon.'
But there was something in her remark. They were very close to the snow-line. Earlier sun had melted the snow blanket on the lower fields facing south. Beyond the snow line houses were dotted at intervals towards Thun. Near the top of the ridge a dense forest of dark firs huddled like an army waiting to march. Then they reached the snow-line and here no ploughs had cleared the road. Newman reduced speed, slowed even more as he saw a sign-post. The sign read Klinik Bern. He swung right on to a narrower road, corrected a rear-wheel skid, drove on.
`Do you think that's it?' Nancy asked.
`I imagine so…'
A large, two-storey mansion with a verandah running round the ground floor was perched in an isolated position on the wide plateau which extended to the group of private houses several kilometres to the east. The grounds, which looked extensive, were surrounded by a wire fence and ahead Newman saw a gatehouse. Close behind the mansion the forest stood, a solid wall of firs mantled with snow. He pulled up in front of the stone, single-storey gatehouse beside double wire gates which were closed. Before he could alight from the car large, black dogs appeared and came leaping towards the gate.
`Dobermans,' Newman commented. 'Charming…'
A heavy wooden door leading from the gatehouse direct on to the road opened. A lean man in his early thirties, wearing jeans and a windcheater, walked out towards the Citroen. Glancing over his shoulder he called out a curt order in German. The dogs stopped barking, backed away reluctantly and disappeared.
`This is private property,' the lean man began in German.
`Not where I'm standing, it isn't,' Newman snapped back. `This is the public highway. My passenger is Nancy Kennedy. She's here to visit her grandfather, Jesse Kennedy…'
`You have an appointment?'
`She has flown from America for the precise purpose of visiting her grandfather…'
`No admittance without an appointment…'
`You're the boss here?' Newman's tone dripped sarcasm. `You look like paid help to me. Get on the phone and tell the Clinic we're here. And tell them I'm a newspaper man – it would make a very good story, don't you think'? Granddaughter flies all the way from America and is refused admission to see her sick grandfather. What are you running here – a concentration camp? That's the impression I'm getting – a wire fence and Dobermans…'
And you are?'
`Robert Newman. I'm getting pretty chilled standing here yacking to you. I'll give you two minutes – then we'll drive back to Berne and I'll file my story…'
`Wait!'
'For two minutes…'
Newman made an elaborate pantomime of looking at his watch and went back to the car. The lean man disappeared inside the gatehouse while Newman settled behind the wheel and lit a cigarette. Nancy took the pack and lit one for herself.
`It might have been better to make an appointment,' she said.
`Now I've seen the set-up I think not. This place smells very peculiar. While I was talking to Lanky I saw another man peer through that open doorway, a man wearing a uniform which looked very much like the Swiss Army…'
Bob, that's crazy! You must have been mistaken…'
`I'm only telling you what I saw. The whole goddamned place is laid out like a military encampment. Surprise, surprise – here comes Lanky, looking even more sour than before…'
`You may go up to the Clinic. Someone will meet you there…'
The lean man spoke curtly, then walked away before there was time for a reply. Newman guessed that someone inside the gatehouse had pressed a button – the double gates opened inward automatically. Remembering the dogs, he closed his window before he drove forward and up the long curving drive to the distant building. No sign of a Doberman. They had been locked inside the gatehouse until the Citroen was clear.
He drove slowly, taking in the wintry landscape, and realized the grounds were even more vast than he had first thought. The wire fence at the front ran away across the white world, disappearing down a dip in the hillside. As he approached the Clinic the whole place seemed deserted. He could now see the verandah was glassed in and six steps led up to the entrance door.