`Newman has just got back. He's gone inside the hotel with a woman. About two minutes ago. Hold on. I think he's come out again. By himself? Yes. He's walking towards me. Now he's crossed the street. He's heading for a silver Citroen parked by a meter. He's opening the door. I can't do a thing about it. He's driving off any second…'
`I can,' the voice replied. 'We have cars waiting for just such a development. I must go. And thank you…'
Driving down the N6 motorway to Thun, Newman felt tired. It had been a full day and it was only just starting. A lot of enjoyable walking round Berne, but still tiring.
He switched off the heater, lowered his window. Icy night air flooded in. He welcomed it. He had to be alert when he met Novak. The four-lane highway – two lanes in either direction separated by a central island – swept towards him in the beams of his headlights. He immediately began to feel better, sharper.
The red Porsche appeared from a slip road, headlights dipped as it followed him at a proper distance. He idly noticed it in his wing mirror. No attempt to overtake. Newman was driving close to the limit. The Porsche was behaving itself.
Bridge spans flashed past overhead. Occasional twin eyes of other headlights came towards him in the lanes heading back towards Berne. He checked his watch. As planned, he should arrive at the Freienhof before 7 pm. Ahead of Waldo Novak. He drove on. He would know about the Porsche when he reached Thun. If it was still with him…'
Behind the wheel of the Porsche, Lee Foley had two problems to concentrate on. The Citroen ahead. The black Audi behind his car. He had first noticed the Audi as two specks of light a long way back. It attracted his attention because the two specks swiftly became large headlamps. It was coming up like a bat out of hell.
Then it lost a lot of speed, began to cruise, keeping an interval of about a hundred yards between itself and his tail-lights. Foley swivelled his eyes alternately between the Citroen and the Audi in his rear-view mirror.
Why break all records – and the speed limit – and then go quiet? He came to a point where the normally level motorway reached- a gentle ascent at the very point where it curved. A car heading for Berne beyond the central island came over the brow of the rise. Headlights full on.
Foley blinked, looked quickly again in the rear-view mirror as the other vehicle's undipped lamps hit the Audi like a searchlight. Two men in the front. He thought there were two more in the back. Full house.
Turning off the motorway, Foley came into Thun behind the Citroen along the Bernstrasse, then turned down the Grabenstrasse as Newman continued along the Hauptgasse. He pulled in to a parking slot almost at once, switched off his motor and watched his rear-view mirror.
The Audi paused at the corner turn, as though its driver was unsure of his bearings. Two men got out of the rear of the car which then drove on quickly along the Hauptgasse, the route the Citroen had taken. Foley still waited, hands on the wheel.
One of the men – something about his manner, a man in his forties with a moustache, suggested he was in charge – let an object slip from his right hand. His reflexes were very good. He caught the object in mid-air before it hit the cobbles. An object which looked exactly like a walkie-talkie.
Foley smiled to himself as he climbed out of his car and locked it. He thought he knew their profession.
Unlike Berne, the town of Thun is as Germanic as it sounds. The river Aare, flowing in from Thunersee – Lake Thun, too far from the town to be seen – bisects it. The river also isolates the central section on an island linked to both banks by a series of bridges.
Arriving in Thun, as with Berne, is an excursion back to the Middle Ages. Ancient buildings hover at the water's edge. Old covered bridges, roofed with wood, span stretches of the Aare which, leaving Thun behind, flows on to distant Berne.
Driving along the Hauptgasse, Newman saw the red Porsche as it turned down the Grabenstrasse and decided his suspicions were groundless. He drove on, turned right on to the island over the Sinnebrucke and parked the Citroen in the Balliz. He then walked back through the quiet of the dark streets to the Freienhof Hotel which overlooks a stretch of the Aare. The first surprise was Waldo Novak had got there before him.
Taking off his coat and hanging it on a hook in the lobby, he studied the American who sat at a corner table in the public restaurant. Two empty glasses on the table told Newman that Novak had arrived early to tank up, to brace himself to face the Englishman, which suited Newman very nicely.
`Another Canadian Club,' Novak ordered from the waiter and then saw Newman.
`I'll have the same…'
`Don't forget – doubles,' Novak called out to the waiter's back. 'Okay, Newman, so you made it. Where do we go from here?'
`Why did you take that job at the Berne Clinic?' Newman enquired casually.
He sat waiting while Novak downed half his fresh glass and sipped at his own. The American wore a loud check sports jacket and grey flannel slacks. His face was flushed and he fiddled with the glass he had banged down on the table.
`For money. Why does anyone take any job?' he demanded.
`Sometimes because they're… dedicated is the word I'm seeking, I think.'
`Well, you found it – the word! Found anything else recently I should know about?'
`A couple of bodies.'
Novak stiffened. The high colour left his young-looking face. He gripped his glass so tightly, the knuckles whitened, that Newman thought he was going to crush it. Although the tables close to them were unoccupied he stared round the restaurant like a hunted man.
`What bodies?' he said eventually.
`First a little man called Julius Nagy. There's an ironclad link between him and Dr Kobler. Someone shoved Nagy off the Munster Plattform in Berne the other night. It's a drop of at least a hundred feet, probably more. He ended up on top of a car. Mashed potato.'
`You trying to frighten me?'
`Just keeping you informed of developments. Don't you want to know about the second body?'
`Go ahead, Newman. You're not scaring me…'
`An Englishman called Bernard Mason. He had been investigating Swiss clinics – which I'm sure we'll find was a cover for checking on the Berne Clinic. He ended up in the river – his body pounded to pulp by a sluice. It doesn't seem to be too healthy an occupation – taking an interest in the Berne Clinic. Waiter, another two doubles. We like reserves…'
`I don't think I want to talk to you, Newman.'
`You have someone else you can trust? What makes it worth your while to work for Professor Armand Grange?' `Two hundred thousand bucks a year..
He said it with an air of drunken bravado, to show Newman he counted for something, that even at his comparatively early age he was a winner. Newman discounted the enormous salary – Novak had to be exaggerating. Wildly. He paid the waiter for the fresh round of drinks and Novak grabbed for his glass, almost spilling it in the process.
`What kind of a boss is Grange to work for?' Newman enquired.
`I've come to a decision, Newman.' He made it sound like Napoleon about to issue orders for the battle of Austerlitz. `I'm not talking to you any more. So why don't you just piss off?'
That was the moment Newman knew he had lost him. It was also the moment Lee Foley chose to walk in and sit down in the chair facing Novak.
`I'm Lee Foley. You are Dr Waldo Novak of New York. You are at present assigned to the Berne Clinic. Correct?'
Bare-headed, Foley wore slacks and a windcheater. His blue eyes stared fixedly at the doctor. He had not even glanced in Newman's direction. There was something about Foley's manner which caused Novak to make a tremendous effort to sober up.