`It is my pleasure, Mr Newman. I will be in my office if you need me,' she told Beck.
`She works all hours,' Beck commented as he poured the coffee. 'Black, if I recall? And it is a swine of a night – on more accounts than one. So, we will treat ourselves to some cognac. I welcome you to Berne and drink your health, my friend. You must excuse my earlier reception.'
`Which was about what?'
`That bloody anonymous phone call to Pauli reporting you were seen in the vicinity. Someone wants you off the streets. We have procedures – and my immediate purpose was to close off the cantonal police. I can now tell Pauli I cross-examined you and am fully satisfied you had nothing to do with the death of our late lamented Julius Nagy. He minutes the file – sends it over to me and I lock it away for good.'
He wheeled his swivel chair round the desk to sit alongside Newman. They drank coffee and sipped their cognac in silence until Beck started talking, the words pouring out in a Niagara.
`Bob, in the last twelve hours there have been no less than five incidents all of which worry me greatly. They form no clear pattern but I am convinced all these incidents are linked. First, a mortar was stolen from the military base at Lerchenfeld near Thun-Sud. The second mortar stolen within a month…'
`Did they take any ammo. – any bombs?'
`No, which in itself is peculiar. Just the weapon. The second incident also concerns the theft of a weapon. You know that all Swiss have to serve military service up to the age of forty-five, that each man keeps at his home an Army rifle and twenty-four rounds of ammunition. A house was broken into while the owner was at work and his wife was out shopping. A rifle – plus the twenty-four rounds- has disappeared. Also the sniper-scope. He was a marksman…'
`Which area? Or can I guess?'
`Thun-Sud. Late this afternoon the third incident occurred on a motorway. The driver of a snowplough was viciously attacked and his machine later found on the motorway. You want to guess the area?'
`Somewhere near Thun?'
`Precisely. Always Thun! The fourth incident you know about. The murder of Julius Nagy…'
`And Number Five?'
Tee Foley, alleged ex-CIA man, has disappeared today from the hotel we traced him to. The Savoy in the Neuengasse. Bob, this American is one of the most dangerous men in the west. I rang a friend in Washington – woke him up, but he's done the same to me. I wanted to know whether Foley really has left the CIA and he said he had. I'm still not totally convinced. If the job was big enough Foley could get cover right to the top. He's a member – a senior partner – in the Continental International Detective Agency in New York, so I'm told…'
`For argument's sake,' Newman suggested, 'let's suppose for a moment that is true. What then?'
`It does nothing to ease my anxiety. Foley is a skilled and highly-trained killer. That poses two questions. Who has the money to pay a man like that?'
`The Americans…'
`Or the Swiss,' Beck said quietly.
`What are you hinting at?'
Beck glanced at Newman and said nothing. He took out of his jacket pocket a short pipe with a thick stem and a large bowl. Newman recognized the pipe and watched as the police chief extracted tobacco from a packet labelled Amphora. He began packing tobacco into the bowl.
`Still wedded to the same old pipe,' Newman remarked.
`You are very observant, my friend. It's made by Cogolet, a firm near St Tropez. And the tobacco is the same – red Amphora. The second question Foley's presence poses is Who is the target? Identify his paymaster and that may point to who he has come to kill…'
`You're convinced that is why he is really here?'
`It is his trade,' Beck observed. 'Why have you come to Berne?'
So typical of Beck. To throw the loaded question just when you least expected it. He had his pipe alight and sat puffing at it while he watched Newman with a quizzical expression. The Englishman, who knew Beck well, realized the Swiss was in a mood he had never seen him display before. A state of fearful indecision.
`I'm here with my fiancee, Nancy Kennedy, who wanted to visit her grandfather.' Newman paused, staring straight at Beck behind the blue haze of smoke. 'He's in the Berne Clinic.'
`Ah! The Berne Clinic!' Beck sat up erect in his chair. His eyes became animated and Newman sensed a release of tension in the Swiss. 'Now everything begins to come together. You are the ally I have been seeking…'
Beck had poured more coffee, had freshened up their glasses of cognac. All traces of irresolution had vanished: he was the old, energetic, determined Beck Newman remembered from his last visit to Berne.
`I noticed something strange when we were at the Clinic this afternoon,' Newman said. 'Is that place by any chance guarded by Swiss troops?'
The atmosphere inside the bare, green-walled office illuminated by overhead neon strips changed again. Beck gazed at his cognac, swirling the liquid gently. He took a sip without looking at his guest.
`Why do you say that?' he asked eventually.
`Because I saw a man inside the gatehouse wearing the uniform of a Swiss soldier.'
`You had better address that question to Military Intelligence. You know where to go…'
Beck had withdrawn into his shell again. Newman was aware of a sense of rising frustration. What the hell was wrong with Beck? He allowed his irritation to show.
`If you want my cooperation – you mentioned the word "ally" – I need to know what I'm getting into. And how much freedom to act has the Chief of Federal Police given you? Refuse to answer that question and I'm walking away from the whole damned business.'
`Plenipotentiary power,' Beck replied promptly. 'Incorporated in a signed directive in that locked cabinet.'
`Then what are you worrying about?'
`The Gold Club…'
Newman drank the rest of his cognac slowly to hide the shock Beck had given him. He placed the empty glass carefully back on the desk top and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief.
`You have heard of the Gold Club? Not many have.. commented Beck.
`A group of top bankers headed by the Zurcher Kredit Bank. Its base is in Zurich. The only other group capable of standing up to them are the Basle bankers. Where does the Gold Club fit in with the Berne Clinic?'
`A director on the board of the Zurcher Kredit Bank is Professor Armand Grange who, as you doubtless know, controls the Berne Clinic. He also has a chemical works on the shores of Lake Zurich near Horgen. I am under extreme pressure to drop my investigation of a project code-named Terminal…'
`Which is?'
`I have no idea,' Beck admitted. 'But there are rumours – unpleasant rumours which have even reached the ears of certain foreign embassies. Incidentally, a fellow-countryman of yours who is also staying at the Bellevue Palace is making enquiries about Professor Grange. A dangerous pastime – especially as news of his activities has already started circulating. Switzerland is a small country…'
`This fellow-countryman of mine – he has a name?'
`A Mr Mason. He flew in via Zurich. That is where he started his investigation – and that is where news of what he was doing leaked out. Now, as I have told you, he is here in Berne.'
`Anything else I should know?'
`Have you ever heard of a man called Manfred Seidler?' 'No, I haven't,' Newman lied. 'Where does he fit into the picture?'
Beck's pipe made bubbling noises. He was a wet smoker. He stirred in his chair restlessly as though bracing himself for a major decision.
`Everything about our conversation is confidential, classified. Now we are coming to the guts of the whole crisis. I have been asked by Military Intelligence to put out a dragnet for Manfred Seidler. They say he stole something vital from the chemical works at Horgen. Once I find him I am supposed to hand him over to Military Intelligence. Immediately! No questioning.'