Terminal (12 page)

`You think I'm some kind of stud?' he replied genially.

`I'll tell you something — when we arrived and you had to register, I was like a jelly inside with embarrassment. Mr and Mrs R. Newman..

`The Swiss are discreet. I told you...' He had already taken off his tie. `.. they only want to see the man's passport. And it's bloody freezing outside. I walked miles.'

`Come to any decisions?'

`Always sleep on decisions. See how they look in the morning.'

It was in the morning that the world blew up in Newman's face.

Ten

Geneva, 14 February 1984. -2
?
. The concierge called out to Newman as they made their way to the Pavillon for breakfast. Nancy had tried to persuade him to use Room Service and he had refused point-blank.

`You Americans can't think of any other war of living except Room Service...'

He excused himself, stopping at the concierge's desk. With a broad smile the concierge spread out the front page of the
Journal de Genêve
. Newman's photograph stared back at him inside a box headed
Sommaire
. The text was brief, not a wasted word.

M. Robert Newman, famous foreign correspondent (author of the bestseller KRUGER: THE COMPUTER THAT FAILED) has arrived in Geneva. He is staying at the Hotel des Bergues. We have no information as to his ultimate destination or the new story he is now working on.

`It is good to be famous, yes, no?' the concierge remarked. `Yes, no,' Newman replied and gave him a franc for the paper.

His face was grim as he pushed open the door into the restaurant. Nancy had chosen the same window table, sitting in the banquette. Newman sat in the chair opposite and stared out of the window. At eight in the morning Geneva was hurrying to work, men and girls heavily muffled against the chilling breeze.

`I've ordered coffee,' Nancy said, breaking a croissant as she studied him. 'Bob, what's wrong?'

He passed the newspaper across without a word, steepled his fingers and went on staring at the swollen Rhone. She read the news item and glowed, waiting until the waitress had arranged their coffee pots.

`I'm going to marry a real celebrity, aren't I? Where did they get the photo? I rather like it...'

`From their files. It's appeared often enough before, God knows. This changes everything, Nancy. It could be dangerous. I think I'd better leave you here for a few days. Go on to Berne alone. I'll call you daily...'

`Like hell you will! I've come to see Jesse and I won't be left behind. Why dangerous?'

`Sixth sense...'

He paused as a small man in a shabby coat and a Tyrolean hat walked past, glancing briefly inside the restaurant and away as he caught Newman looking at him. A titian-haired girl strolled past in the same direction. She wore a short fur coat, the collar pulled up at the neck, and clean blue jeans tucked inside her leather boots. Newman winked at her and she turned her head to stare ahead.

`You're starting early today,' Nancy observed. 'I saw that...'

Did you see the little man who was walking ahead of her?'

`No. Why?'

`Julius Nagy, a piece of Europe's drifting flotsam.' `Flotsam?' Nancy looked puzzled.

`One of the many losers who live on their wits, by their contacts, peddling information. He was at the airport last night. He followed us here in a cab. He could be responsible for that piece of dynamite...'

His finger tapped the
Sommaire
box and then he poured coffee and broke a hard roll, covering a piece with butter and marmalade. Nancy, her mind in a whirl, kept quiet for a few minutes, knowing he was always in a better mood when he'd had his breakfast.

`You're not going off on your own,' she told him eventually. 'So, what are
we
going to do
together
?'

`Finish our breakfast. Then I'll decide...'

But by the time he'd swallowed his fourth cup of coffee, his orange juice and consumed two rolls, the decision was taken out of his hands.

Berne
. Inside a large mansion in Elfenau, the district where the wealthy live, Bruno spread out the front page of the
Journal de Genêve
on an antique drum table. He studied the picture of Newman carefully.

`So they have arrived,' he said in French.

`We knew they were on the way, Bruno. The question is, will they pose a problem? If so, they will have to be dealt with — you will have to deal with them.'

The large man with tinted spectacles who stood in the shadows spoke with a soft, persuasive voice. The huge living-room was dark even in the morning. Partly due to the overcast sky — and partly because heavy net curtains killed what pallid illumination filtered from the outside world.

Bruno Kobler, a hard-looking man of forty, five feet ten tall, heavily built and in the peak of physical condition, glanced towards the massive silhouette. Light from the desk lamp glinted on the dark glasses. He was trying to gauge exactly what his employer had in mind. The man in the shadows continued speaking.

`I recall so well, Bruno, that when I was building up my chemical works it looked as though a rival might upset my calculations. I didn't wait to see what he would do. I acted first. We are on the eve of a total breakthrough with Terminal. I will allow nothing to stand in my way. Remember, we now have the support of the Gold Club.'

`So, I set up close surveillance on Newman and his woman?'

`
You always come to the correct conclusion, Bruno. That is why I pay you so well …'

Arthur Beck of the Federal Police sat with the receiver to his ear, waiting while the operator at Geneva police headquarters put him on to Tripet. A copy of the
Journal de Genêve
lay in front of him. As he had anticipated, the momentum was accelerating. They were coming in. First Lee Foley, alleged detective with the CIDA, now Newman. Beck didn't believe in coincidences — not when events were moving towards a crisis. And this morning his chief had warned him.

`Beck, I'm not sure how much longer I'm going to be able to give you
carte blanche
. Very powerful interests are at work — trying to get me to take you off the case...'

`I'm getting to the bottom of this thing whatever happens,' Beck had replied.

`You can't fight the system...'

`You want to bet? Sir?'

Tripet came on the line and they exchanged brief courtesies. Beck then told the Geneva chief inspector what he wanted, how to handle it with
finesse
. As the conversation proceeded he detected a note of worry in Tripet's manner. He's unsure of his position, Beck judged.

`Between you and me, Tripet, this comes right from the top. And that's just between you and me. I just hope you can pick him up before he leaves town. You know where he's staying. Call him, send over a car right away if you'd sooner handle it that way. I leave it to you, but do it, Tripet...'

Beck replaced the receiver and picked up the paper, studying the photograph. He was going to need all the help he could muster — even unorthodox help. If it came to the crunch the press was one thing they couldn't muzzle. Yes, he needed allies. His face tightened. Christ! He wasn't going to let the bastards get away with it just because they had half the money in the western world.

Basle
. Erika Stahel closed her apartment door and leaned her back against it for a moment, clutching the armful of newspapers. Seidler guessed she had been running as he looked up from the table. Her face was flushed an even higher colour than usual.

`We've time for another cup of coffee before I go to work,' she told him.

`That would be nice...'

She placed the papers in a neat pile on the table. She was such a tidy, orderly girl, he reflected. It would be marvellous to settle down with her for ever. She danced off into the kitchen, expressing her joy that he was back. He could hear her humming a small tune while she prepared the coffee. He opened the first paper.

`You cleared the table for me,' she called out. 'Thank you, Manfred. You're getting quite domesticated. Do you mind?'

`It could become a habit...'

`Why not?' she responded gaily.

The moment she returned to the living-room she sensed a major change in the atmosphere. Sitting in his shirt-sleeves, Seidler was staring at the front page of the
Journal de Genêve
. She placed his cup of black coffee within reach — he never took sugar or milk and drank litres of the stuff, another indication that he was living on his nerves. She stood close to his shoulder, peering over it.

`Something wrong?'

`My lifeline. Maybe...'

He took the gold, felt-tipped pen she had given him and used it to circle the box headed
Sommaire
. She was so generous — God knew how much of her month's salary she had squandered on the pen. He'd have liked to go out and buy her something. He had the money. But it meant going out ….'

`Robert Newman,' she read out and sipped coffee. 'The Kruger case. Newman was the reporter who tracked his bank account to Basle. We still don't know how he managed that. Why is he so important?'