Terminal (45 page)

A variety of animals occupied the cages: mice, rats and a lot of chimpanzees which chattered incessantly, their faces grinning hideously at him seen through the Plexiglas of the eyepieces. This section of the laboratory was dimly lit by low-power neon strips which cast an eerie light over the horrific scene.

Still swaying, stooping, Jesse noticed a giant door which was open, the door to the
atombunker
. A fourth man appeared from inside, a man carrying a metal cylinder in each hand, cylinders which reminded Jesse of mortar bombs he had once seen in a war film. Graf took hold of the side of Jesse's mask and eased it upwards so he could speak.

`This is the final stage of treatment, a revolutionary technique invented by Professor Grange. It may cure you — but you must fallow instructions. When we take you outside you run
down
the slope —
down
. I will point the way...'

Could the chimpanzees sense that something evil was about to be perpetrated, Jesse wondered. They were going wild, their chattering increasing in volume as they scrambled up and down inside their cages, clutching at the wires, staring at Jesse as the two men grasped him firmly by both arms and led him to a door Kobler had opened. Icy cold night air flooded into the laboratory and Jesse shivered. They had slipped walking shoes on to his feet, his own shoes, while he had lain unconscious.

He dragged his feet, slumped, a dead weight between the two masked men. They went outside into the bitter night. Jesse shook his head slowly, glancing all round. On top of a small rocky hill men in uniform crouched round a squat barrel like a piece of sawn-off drainpipe, a barrel aimed at a trajectory across a declining slope. A mortar. Jesse again recognized the weapon from a war film. And Christ! It was manned by men in uniform, army uniform. Grange was a puppet of the Swiss Army...

`You run
down
that slope,' Munz yelled in his ear. 'Go!'

They released his arms and Jesse stood swaying. Beside the mortar was a neat pile of bombs, bombs like those carried by the man who had emerged from the
atombunker
. Behind the mortar a windsock billowed from a small mast, a windsock like those seen on small airstrips. The windsock was whipping parallel to the ground showing the direction the wind was blowing. Down the slope.
Away from
the mortar position.

Jesse staggered towards the edge of the slope. Masked figures like robots watched him. One man held a bomb over the mouth of the mortar. Ready to open fire as the target moved on to the range. The target. Himself...'

Bastards!
The adrenalin was flowing fast through Jesse. He paused at the edge of the slope and stared down it to check for obstacles, to accustom his eyes to the darkness. The slope was blind territory, could not be seen from the road, was concealed under a fold in the ground. They were waiting for him now. He thought he heard Munz shout again. He took a step forward, stumbled like a man on the verge of collapse. They couldn't fire their infernal machine yet. Suddenly he took off, running like mad.

He caught them off balance. As he ran with long strides, stretching his legs, increasing speed, he heard the thump of a bomb exploding
behind
him. A long way off the clouds parted briefly and he caught a glimpse of a huge mountain, a flat-topped butte, like the buttes of Utah. He was heading for the distant road. That butte was the Stockhorn. He had watched it when they had let him sit for brief periods inside the enclosed verandah.

Despite his age he was a virile man, strong from so many hours of riding in the saddle. His legs were gaining power, flexibility. He paced himself like a professional runner, knowing he would cover the ground faster that way. He wished Nancy could see him — he was giving the swine one hell of a surprise. He heard a thud. The ground quavered under his feet. Closer, that one.

He made no attempt to tear off the mask. He could feel the tightness of the straps round his neck, over his head. Stopping to attempt that would be fatal. And they had made another mistake. By tying the cord tightly round his waist they had obviated the danger that he might be slowed down by the flapping of the dressing gown. He ran on.

The bomb landed ten feet in front of him. It burst. A cloud of mist-like vapour drifted across his face as he ran through it. Too late to run round it. He began coughing, choking. Another bomb landed ahead of him, another cloud spread. He was choking horribly, his eyes trying to force themselves through the Plexiglas. He reached out with both hands and crashed to the ground. His gnarled hands scrabbled, twitched once more and then he lay still.

Five minutes later the stretcher bearers took him away.

Thirty-Four

By 7.30 pm. there was a mellow, relaxed atmosphere at the reception. Over a hundred people were present and the room was crowded, shoulder to shoulder. With Newman following her, Nancy threaded her way through the mob to where Professor Grange stood in deep conversation with Victor Signer. She walked straight up to Grange.

`I'm Dr Nancy Kennedy. My grandfather is a patient at the Berne Clinic...'

`If you care to make an appointment, my dear,' the soft voice intoned. Blank eyes stared down at her from behind the tinted glasses. 'This is hardly the moment...'

`And this is an intrusion on a private conversation,' Victor Signer informed her in a tone which suggested women were an inferior species.

`Really?' Nancy turned on him, raising her voice so that people nearby stopped talking to listen, which made their conversation carry an even greater distance. 'Maybe you would like to talk about the convenient execution of Manfred Seidler up in the Juras last night? After all, Colonel, you were there. Alternatively, perhaps you could kindly shut up while I talk to Professor Grange...'

`Gross impertinence...' Signer began.

`Watch it,' Newman warned. 'Remember me? Let her talk.'

`Your suggested appointment is not helpful,' Nancy continued in the same clear, carrying voice, staring straight at the tinted glasses. 'You hide behind Bruno Kobler at the Clinic. You are never available. Just exactly what is it you fear, Professor?'

An expression of fury flickered behind the glasses. The hand holding the champagne glass shook. Grange tightened his pouched lips, struggling for control while Nancy waited. The silence was spreading right across the room as people realized something unusual was happening: a woman was confronting the eminent Professor Armand Grange.

`I fear nothing,' he said eventually. 'What exactly is it you want, Dr Kennedy?'

`Since I have no confidence in your Clinic and the secretive way it is run, I wish to transfer my grandfather, Jesse, to a clinic near Montreux. I wish to arrange this transfer within the next twenty-four hours. That is what I want, what I am going to get. You have no objection, I assume?'

`You question my competence?'

Nancy sidestepped the trap. 'Who was mentioning your competence — except yourself?' Nancy's voice rose and now every person in the room could hear her loud and clear. 'Are you saying it is against the law — or even medical etiquette — in this country to ask for a second opinion?'

Possibly for the first time in his life — and in public—the head of the Berne Clinic was checkmated. Newman could see it in the rigid way he held himself. There were even beads of moisture on his high-domed forehead and the tinted glasses stared round at the silent assembly which stood gazing at him.

`Of course,' Grange replied eventually, 'I agree to your request. May I, with the greatest possible courtesy, remind you that we are here to enjoy ourselves tonight?'

`Then start enjoying yourself, Professor...'

On this exit line Nancy turned and made her way between the crowd which parted to let her through. Watched by Grange and Signer she went straight up to Beck and started talking to the police chief, giving the impression she was seeking further backing for the decision she had prised out of the Professor. Newman seized his opportunity, guessing that Grange would not welcome a fresh public row.

`I'm glad to meet you at last.' He smiled amiably without offering to shake hands. 'I'm writing a series of articles on Swiss industry and I understand you have at Horgen one of the most advanced factories in the world for the production of commercial gases?'

`That is so, Mr Newman...' Grange seemed relieved at the change of subject, by the prospect of conversing with someone in normal tones. `Horgen is totally automated, the only type of plant in that field in the whole world...'

`Except that, naturally, the containers are supplied from outside...'

`But they are not, Mr Newman. We manufacture our own cylinders.'

`Some photographs would help...'

`I will send some to you here by special courier. It will be a pleasure...'

`Thank you so much. And now I had better... circulate.'

Newman smiled and withdrew. He joined Nancy who was still chatting with Beck. The police chief looked quizzically at Newman and then glanced across the room to where Signer was talking rapidly to Grange.

`You had a pleasant conversation?' he enquired.

`Grange just made one of his rare — and possibly fatal — mistakes. He gave me the last piece of information I was seeking …'

`You know Dr Novak has arrived?' Nancy said to Newman as soon as they were alone. 'I think he tanked up in the bar before he decided to join us...'

She stopped speaking as a hush fell on the guests. The silence was so pronounced that Newman turned towards the entrance to see what had caused every head to turn in that direction. A short man with a large head and a wide mouth, smoking a cigar, stood surveying the assembly.

`My God!' he heard someone behind him say in French. 'Dr Max Nagel has arrived. Now we'll see some real fireworks.'

Nagel, whose dinner jacket emphasized the great width of his shoulders, carried two large envelopes tucked under his arm. He dipped his head, acknowledging a waiter and taking a glass of champagne from the proffered tray, then walked across the room slowly, his mouth tightly clamped on the cigar.

There was a feeling of tension, hardly anyone was talking as Grange and Signer watched him coming. Nagel paused, thanked another waiter who held a tray with an ash-tray for him. He carefully dropped the ash from his cigar, increasing the tension. The man was a superb actor, Newman reflected.

He held the entire gathering in the palm of his large hand. `Good evening, Grange. Colonel Signer. I have something for you both...'

`This is a medical reception,' Grange said coldly. 'I was not aware you had joined the profession...'

`Signer is a doctor?' Nagel's voice was a rumbling growl.

Newman glanced over his shoulder. Signer had switched his gaze to someone behind him. Blanche was watching the scene with a frown. Not Blanche. Lee Foley, one of the few men present not in evening dress, who was wearing a dark blue business suit with matching tie, a cream shirt and gold links fastening his cuffs, was now standing, staring at Signer. Close to him stood the small Englishman, Tweed, who was gazing intently through his spectacles. Newman had the impression of a stage manager studying the actors performing in a play he had rehearsed. Newman heard the growl continuing and faced the other way.

`I think we're near the end of the line,' Nagel pronounced. `It has taken two months for the most brilliant accountants to trace the movement of two hundred million francs to its ultimate destination. A copy of the report for you, Professor Grange, one for you Colonel Signer. Terminal is terminated.

`What is this to do with me?' Signer asked with a sneer as he took the sheaf of stapled papers from the envelope and gave them a mere glance.

`They are photocopies,' Nagel rumbled on, 'the original is in my vault. And I expect you're capable of recognizing your own signature, Colonel. It appears three times on those documents. And you might care to know, Grange, I have called a meeting of bankers to take place in Zurich. We will travel to meet you from Basle. The main item on the agenda? Those complex transactions. I bid you good night. Enjoy your medical ruminations, gentlemen...'

Newman turned round again as the banker left, smoking his cigar. He saw Dr Novak leaning up against a wall, holding a glass at a precarious angle. Novak was watching the drama like a man hypnotized. It seemed a good moment to persuade the American to fall in with his plans. He excused himself and the buzz of many voices talking started up as Nagel let himself out through the revolving doors and climbed into the rear of a waiting limousine.

`Novak,' Newman said, 'they're all watching Grange and Signer. Go to the lift — I'll join you there in a second. We have to talk. Don't argue — the whole thing is collapsing and they'll be looking for scapegoats. You could fit the part beautifully. And dump that glass on the table...'