`Walking the arcades, trying to make some sort of sense out of this apparently disconnected series of events. One stolen mortar, one stolen rifle with its ammunition, the disappearance of Lee Foley. No news about him yet, I suppose?'
`None at all. Would you like some coffee?'
`That would be nice. Then, talking about going home, you push off to your apartment. As you said, it's very late…'
When she had left the room Beck pushed the file away. Sitting gazing blankly into the distance, he began drumming the fingers of his right hand on the desk.
Behind the wheel of the Porsche Lee Foley was careful to keep inside the speed limit as he drove along N6, even though the motorway from Berne to Thun was deserted. He had divested himself of his English outfit and now wore jeans and a windcheater. Pulled well down over his thick thatch of white hair he wore a peaked sailor-style cap of the type favoured by Germans.
He would spend the night at a small gasthof outside Thun. By the time the registration form reached the local police in the morning – or maybe even twenty-four hours later as he would be registering so late – he planned to be away from Thun.
When he got up in the morning he would use a public booth to make the agreed phone call at the agreed hour. This, Foley was convinced, could be the first decisive day. And very shortly he would surface, come out into the open again. It was all a question of getting the timing right. Foley was very good at sensing timing: he had established the right contacts.
He drove on, his profile like that of a man carved in stone. Taken all round, it had been a strange day. He dismissed it from his mind. Always tomorrow – the next move – was what counted.
In Basle it was well past midnight as Seidler paced back and forth across the sitting room. On a sofa Erika Stahel stifled a yawn. She made one more effort.
`Manfred, let's go to bed. I have been working all day…'
`That bastard Newman!' Seidler burst out. 'He's playing me like a fish. People don't do that to me. If he knew what I've got in that suitcase he'd have seen me when I first called him in Geneva…'
`That locked suitcase. Why won't you let me see what you have got inside it?'
`It's a sample, a specimen…'
`A sample of what?'
`Something horrific. Best you don't know about it. And it's the key to Terminal. It's worth a fortune,' he ranted on, 'and I'll end up giving it to Newman for a pittance, if I'm not dead before then. A pittance,' he repeated, 'just to gain his protection…'
`I've banked a fortune for you in that safety deposit,' she reminded him. 'Surely you don't need any more. And when you talk about it being horrific you frighten me. What have you got yourself involved in?'
`It will soon be over. Newman said he'd meet me. The rendezvous will have to be a remote spot. I think I know just the place…'
Erika realized he could go on like this for hours. He was nervy, strung up, maybe even close to a breakdown. She stood up, walked into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water and a bottle of tablets.
`A sleeping tablet for you tonight. You'll need to be fresh for your meeting, all your wits about you. We're going to bed now. To sleep…'
Ten minutes later Seidler was sprawled beside her in a deep sleep. It was Erika who stared at the ceiling where the neon advertising sign perched on the building opposite flashed on and off despite the drawn curtains Horrific. Dear God – what could the suitcase contain?
The same atmosphere of restlessness, of moody irritability which infected Basle was also apparent all day in Berne. Gisela had noticed it in her chief, Arthur Beck, and both Newman and Nancy had found the day a trial. They had felt lethargic and everything seemed such an effort they passed the whole day trying not to get on each other's nerves. Before going to bed, Newman went out for a long walk by himself.
Returning, he tapped on their bedroom door and heard Nancy unlock it. She was wearing her bathrobe. The second thing Newman noticed as he walked into the bedroom and threw his coat on the bed was a fresh pot of coffee, two cups and a jug of cream on a tray.
`I've had a bath,' Nancy said as she lit a cigarette. Did you enjoy your walk? You've been out ages…'
`Not especially. Enjoy your bath?'
`Not especially. Trying to bathe myself was one hell of an effort. Like paddling through treacle. What's wrong with us?'
`Two things. The concierge explained one cause – the fohn wind is blowing. You get edgy and tired. Yes, I know – you don't feel any sense of a wind but it drives people round the bend. And the suicide rate goes up…'
`Charming. And the other thing?'
`I sense this whole business about the Berne Clinic is moving towards a climax. That's what is getting to us…'
The unmarked police car with the two plain clothes Federal policemen drove slowly along the Aarstrasse towards the lofty span of the Kirchenfeld bridge. The river was on the far side of the road to their left. Leupin sat behind the wheel with his partner, Marbot, alongside him. They were the two men Beck had earlier in the week sent to the Bahnhof to watch for Lee Foley. It was Marbot who saw the sluice.
In the middle of the night it was freezingly cold. Because they had the heater on full blast the windscreen kept misting up with condensation. Leupin cleared it with the windscreen wipers while Marbot lowered the side window at intervals to give him a clear view.
`Slow down, Jean,' Marbot said suddenly. 'There's something odd over there by that sluice…'
`I can't see anything,' Leupin replied but he stopped the car.
`Give me the night-glasses a sec…'
Shivering, rubbing his hands as the night air flooded in through the open window, Leupin waited patiently. Marbot lowered the binoculars and turned to look at his companion.
`I think we'd better drive over there – where we can get on to the walkway to the sluices…'
As the car was driven away to cross the Aare, Mason's battered, waterlogged body continued to be churned against the sluice, a sodden wreck of a man with the head lacerated in a score of places.
Eighteen
Thursday, 16 February. The headquarters of Army Intelligence in Berne is located in the large square stone building next to the Bellevue Palace if you turn left on emerging from the hotel. This is Bundeshaus Ost.
Newman entered the large reception hall beyond glass doors, walked up to the receptionist and placed his passport on the counter. His manner was brisk, confident and he spoke while his passport was being examined.
`Please inform Captain Lachenal I have arrived. He knows me well. I am also rather short of time…'
`You are expected, M. Newman. The attendant will escort you to Captain Lachenal's office…'
Newman gave no indication of his astonishment. He followed the attendant up a large marble staircase. He was escorted to Lachenal's old office on the second floor, an office at the rear of the building with windows overlooking the Aare and the Bantiger rising beyond on the far bank of the river.
`Welcome to Berne again, Bob. You come at an interesting time – which no doubt is why you are here…'
Lachenal, thirty-five years old, tall and thin-faced with thick black hair brushed over the top of his head, exposing an impressive forehead, came round his desk to shake hands. The Swiss was an intellectual and in some ways – with his long nose, his commanding bearing, his considerable height and his aloof manner – he reminded Newman of de Gaulle. He was one of the world's greatest authorities on the Soviet Red Army.
`You expected me,' Newman remarked. 'Why, Rene?'
`The same old Bob – always straight to the point. Sit down and I will help you as far as I can. As to expecting you, we knew you had arrived in Berne, that you are staying at the Bellevue Palace. What could be more natural than to expect a visit from you? Does that answer your question?'