`Newman, do you know this man?'
Beck was hostile again. His manner was stiff. His voice was flat, toneless. His official voice. Three people stood in the morgue. The room was cold. The floor and walls were tiled. The place had all the comfort and cheerful atmosphere of a public lavatory, a spotless public lavatory.
The third person was Dr Anna Kleist, Federal Police pathologist. A tall, dark-haired woman in her late thirties, she wore a white gown and watched Newman through tinted glasses with interest and a sympathetic expression. He had felt she liked him from the moment they had been introduced.
Newman gazed down at the body lying on the huge metal drawer Dr Kleist had hauled out for his inspection. The sheet covering the corpse had been partly pulled back to expose the head and shoulders. The head was horribly battered but still recognizable – mainly from the sodden moustache. Newman suddenly felt very angry. He turned on Beck.
`Am I the first person you have asked to identify him?' `Yes…'
`Well, Beck, you had better know I am getting fed up. Why choose me? This is the second time you've dragged me to view the wreck of a corpse…'
`Just answer the question. Do you know this man?'
`He told me his name was Tommy Mason. That he was engaged on market research. Medical. Something to do with clinics – Swiss clinics…'
`You do know this man then? You were using him as a contact?'
Tor Christ's sake, Beck, shove it. I was brought here without a hint as to what was waiting for me. I've answered your question. If you want to ask me anything else we'll go straight back to the Taubenhalde…'
`As you wish…'
Beck turned away to leave the room but Newman lingered. Dr Kleist had considerately closed the drawer. A tag was attached to the handle by a piece of string, a tag bearing a number. Tommy Mason was no longer a person, only a number.
`Dr Kleist,' Newman requested in a normal voice, 'have you any idea how he died – or is it too early?'
`He was found floating…'
`Anna!' Beck broke in. 'No information…'
`And why not, Arthur?' She removed her glasses and Newman saw she had large pale blue eyes with a hint of humour. 'Mr Newman has answered your question. And remember, I am in control here. I intend to answer Mr Newman…'
`You have the independence of the devil,' Beck grumbled. `Which is why you had me appointed to this position.' She turned her attention to Newman. 'The body was found in the river. His injuries are due in part to the fact that for some time before he was found he was caught in one of the sluices below the Munster.'
`Thank you, Dr Kleist.'
As he left the room Newman hoped she would get married and leave this place before her emotions became as dead as the body she had just shown him.
He said nothing to Beck during the drive back to the Taubenhalde. Inside the building the same routine. The ascent to the tenth floor. Beck producing the key which unlocked the lift. Outside Newman gestured towards a punch-time clock on the wall.
`Do you still clock in and out morning and night? The Assistant to the Chief of Police?'
`Every time. It is the regulation. I am not exempt…'
Beck was still stiff and unbending but once inside the office he did ask Gisela to make them coffee and then please leave them on their own. Newman, his mind still focused on his interview with Captain Lachenal, made a great effort to push that into the past. He needed all his concentration on this new development. Beck stared out of the window, hands clasped behind his back, until Gisela brought the coffee on a tray and left the office.
`I'm sorry, Bob,' he said, walking wearily round his desk and sagging into his chair before attending to the coffee. 'You see, this is the second body you have been directly linked with. First, Julius Nagy…'
`You said that was an anonymous phone call to Pauli…'
`This was an anonymous phone call to Gisela. A man. Someone who spoke in broken German – or pretended to. Last night you were seen with Bernard Mason, or so the caller alleged…'
`Bernard?'
`Yes, I noticed you called him Tommy in the morgue. When we fished him out we found he carried his passport in a cellophane folder which protected it to some extent against the water. He is – was – Bernard Mason. How did you come to know him, Bob?'
`In the bar at the Bellevue Palace. I went in for a drink and he turned round with his glass in his hand and bumped into me. The contents of the glass spilt over my jacket and he insisted on buying me one to compensate. We sat talking for maybe five minutes. That's how I know him. It's also how I know the data I gave you on him back at the morgue. He told me. A chance acquaintance…'
I wonder…'
`And what do you mean by that?'
`Could he have spilt his drink over you deliberately – to contrive this chance acquaintance? Chance always worries me.'
How could he have contrived anything?' Newman demanded. only decided to pop in there for a drink at the last moment. Any more questions?'
`I'm only doing my job, Bob. And I'm getting a lot of flak from the British Embassy. A chap called Wiley. He's a British citizen and was apparently an influential businessman. First, this Wiley wants to know exactly how he died…'
`How did he die?'
I think it was murder. I called the Embassy to see if they had any information on him. Wiley asks a lot of questions – then he puts in an urgent request for the minimum of publicity. So who was Mason is what I keep asking myself. And, like it or not, two men have now died in peculiar circumstances – both less than a kilometre from the Bellevue Palace, both who had links, however tenuous, with you..
Newman emptied his coffee cup and stood up. Beck watched while he slipped on his coat, buttoned it up. The Swiss also stood up.
`You haven't asked me why I think this Mason was murdered.'
`That's your job…'
`He's number two. Julius Nagy ends up at the bottom of the Plattform wall, which faces the sluice where Mason was found floating. Mason was thirty-three – I got that from the passport. He ends up in the river. You think he stumbled into the Aare? Two very convenient accidents. Were you outside the Bellevue late last night?'
`Yes, as a matter of fact I was. I went for a walk along the arcades. I couldn't sleep. And no one saw me. May I go now?'
`Gisela, what is it?' Beck asked his assistant who had opened the door to the connecting office where she worked most of the day.
`He's on the phone. Would you like to take it in here?'
Newman waited while Beck disappeared into the next room. He would be the Chief of Police, he imagined. Gisela asked if he would like more coffee but he refused and asked her a question, keeping his voice low.
`Mr Beck tells me you took that mysterious call reporting that I knew Mason, the man they dragged out of the river. I gather the caller spoke in broken German?'
`Yes, I had only just arrived. I ran to the phone, expecting it to stop ringing before I got there. The voice sounded muffled – like someone talking through a handkerchief. I had to make him repeat what he said, then he rang off. I've just realized something – I think I detected a trace of an American accent.'
I should tell your boss that,' Newman suggested. 'Had Beck arrived in the building when the call came through?'
`No. He came in about a quarter of an hour later.,,'
`Thanks. Don't forget that bit about an American accent. I was leaving – tell Beck I couldn't wait any longer. I'm in a rush…'
Lee Foley was humming Glenn Miller's In the Mood as he drove the Porsche back along the motorway towards Berne. He had spent the night in a gasthof, had breakfasted in Thun, made the agreed call to Berne, and now he was coming into the open.
Despite his almost infinite capacity for patience, he found it highly stimulating that the time for action had arrived. He had most of the data he needed, the equipment, he thought he knew at long last what was going on. The moment had come to stir things up, to raise a little hell. He pushed his foot down on the accelerator and let the Porsche rip.
`Who was that on the phone?' Newman asked as he came into the bedroom. 'And you left the door unlocked again…'
`A wrong number.' Nancy had replaced the receiver. She came towards him with an anxious expression. 'Forget about the door – I've been worried sick. What did the police want?'
`Pour some of that coffee. Sit down. And listen!' `Something is wrong,' she said as she handed him his cup and sat down, crossing her legs.
`Everything is wrong,' he told her. 'On no account are you to take the car and visit the Berne Clinic on your own…'
`I'll do so if I want to. And I do want to see Jesse today. You have your date with Dr Novak tonight in Thun. You won't want two trips…'
`Nancy, listen, for God's sake. There's been another killing. At least, that's the theory the police are working on. This time some Englishman – and he was staying at this hotel. They hauled his drowned body out of the river in the middle of the night. A man called Mason. There's something odd about him – the British Embassy is making too much fuss.'
`That's dreadful. But that is a problem for the police…'
`Nancy! We can no longer trust the Swiss police. I have also visited an old friend in Swiss Army Intelligence – counter-espionage it comes to the same thing. We can no longer trust Army Intelligence. They're both trying to manipulate me. I'm almost certain they're using me as a stalking horse – and that is very dangerous. For you as well as for me.'
`A stalking horse?' She wrinkled her smooth brow. Nancy really did have a superb complexion Newman thought. He had a vivid recall of the state of Tommy Mason's complexion in the morgue. 'I don't understand,' Nancy said.
`Then I'll try and explain it, so you'll understand, so maybe just for once you'll listen to me. And – no maybe – do as I tell you…'
`Give me one good reason.'
She annoyed him by standing up and walking over to gaze out of the window. It was another overcast day. A cloud bank like a grey sea pressed down on Berne. A white mist drifted closer along the river, heading in towards the city off the Bantiger.
`There's some kind of conspiracy,' Newman began. 'It's very widespread. I'm still vague on the details but I sense that it affects the whole of Switzerland – what you'd call in America the industrial-military complex. The police – the Federal lot – may be mixed up in it. Do you realize what that means?'
`I'm sure you're going to tell me…'
`I'm sure as hell going to do just that. You didn't understand my reference to a stalking horse. I happen to be a well-known foreign correspondent. I can't convince anyone I'm not here after another big story. The Kruger thing has caused them to think like that. So if we make one wrong move, take one step that disturbs them, the whole Military Intelligence and police machine will crash down on our heads. Are you with me so far?'
`I think so. The weather is beginning to look fantastic…'
`Bugger the weather. There appear to be two rival power groups fighting each other for supremacy. One group may be trying to use me to break the other – by exploding the whole conspiracy in a sensational expose story in Der Spiegel. The group working underground is very powerful – I think it may have millions of Swiss francs at its disposal. Money means power – power to infiltrate the security organs of the state…'
Newman stopped in mid-sentence. When she turned round he was staring at the bottom of his cup. She went to him and placed her arm round his neck.
`What is it, Bob?'
`I may have missed something. What if we are dealing with patriots? Not villains in the normal sense of the word – men who sincerely believe they are protecting their country, who will go to any lengths to achieve their purpose?'
`And if that is the case?'
`It makes things far worse, more dangerous.' Newman put the cup on the tray and started pacing the room, hands clasped behind his back. 'I'm right, Nancy. There is no one we can trust. We're on our own. There are only two men who could crack this thing wide open…'
`Waldo Novak?'
`Yes. And Manfred Seidler. The police have put out a dragnet for Seidler. I have to reach him first. You make no trips to the Berne Clinic on your own. A certain Army officer went cold on me when I mentioned the place. So, we only visit the Clinic together. And when I'm out on my own – as I will be tonight when I see Novak – you stay in this hotel. Preferably in one of the public rooms…'
`You make me feel like a prisoner,' she objected.
He grabbed her by both arms and pulled her close to him. She stood quite still when she saw his expression.
`One more thing you'd better prepare yourself for. We might have to make a run for the border. I know places where it's possible to slip across quietly…'
`I won't go without Jesse…'
`Then we may have to take him with us. I don't like that remark he made to you about "experiments". God knows what is happening inside that place. Swiss Army guards. Dobermans. It's abnormal.'
`Bob, listen to me. In two days' time they're holding a reception here for that medical congress. I made some enquiries on my own from the concierge. He has a list of guests expected. One of them is Professor Armand Grange. Why don't we wait for him to come to us?'
He released his grip and she rubbed her upper arm. He had held her so tightly she felt bruised. She had never known him so alarmed and yet so determined at the same time. He went to the window. She had been right about the view. It was fantastic. The drifting wall of white mist now blotted out the lower slopes of the Bantiger so the flat summit appeared to be an island floating on a white sea.
`You could have an idea there,' he said slowly. 'So tonight it's Novak. Seidler as soon as we can arrange a rendezvous. Then I believe we shall know…'
A heavy grey overcast also shrouded lunchtime London, but here there was no mist creeping in. Inside the Park Crescent office Monica inserted the documents into the folder and handed it to Tweed who was checking the small suitcase he always kept packed ready for instant departure.
`Here are your air tickets for Geneva,' she said. 'A return flight booked for tomorrow. If anybody is checking at Cointrin they'll assume it's an overnight visit. You have that note with the train times to Berne?'
`In my wallet…'
Tweed looked up as Howard strolled into the office, again without knocking on the door first. He snapped the catches on his case shut and dumped it on the floor. Howard stared at it as Tweed, taking no notice of him, put a file in a drawer and locked it.
`I've just heard the appalling news,' Howard said gravely. `Are you off somewhere?'
`Berne, of course.'
`Because of Mason? The decoded telex from the Embassy refers to an accident…'
`Accident my foot!' Tweed allowed the contempt he felt to show in his tone. 'I talked to Wiley on the phone. Mason goes for a walk late at night, then falls into the river. Does it sound likely? Look at his age, his track record. Mason was murdered and I'm going to find out who did it.'
`Isn't that a job for the Swiss police?'
Howard brushed an imaginary speck from his sleeve, shot his cuffs and strolled round the office, glancing at the papers on Tweed's desk. Tweed sat in his chair and adjusted his glasses. He said nothing, waiting for Howard to go.
`The Swiss police,' Howard repeated somewhat peevishly.
`Have you forgotten what Mason brought back from Vienna? I gather you read the Ministry of Defence report on the object. I find the implications quite terrifying. I think that is why they killed Mason.'
`And who might be "they",' Howard enquired with characteristic pedantry.
`I have no idea,' Tweed confessed.
`You're going alone? No back-up?'
`I told you earlier I might have to call in outside help – that we're fully stretched with Martel being away. I've had someone out there for some time.'
`Who?' Howard pounced.
`The helper's safety – survival – may depend on secrecy, total secrecy. The person concerned knows Switzerland well.'
`You're being very coy about their sex,' Howard observed.
Coy. Tweed winced inwardly at the use of the word. Taking off his glasses, he polished them with his handkerchief until Monica gave him a paper tissue. Howard stared at Monica.
`Does she know?' he snapped.
`She does not. You can leave the whole matter in my hands.'
`I don't seem to have much choice. When do you leave?'
`This evening..' Tweed decided he had been very cavalier with Howard. 'I'm catching the nineteen hundred hours flight to Geneva. It arrives twenty-one thirty local time Then the express on to Berne. At that hour anyone watching the airport is likely to be less alert.'
`You'll contact Beck, I suppose?'
`Frankly, I have no idea what I'm going to do.'
Howard gave it up as a bad job. He walked stiffly to the door and then paused. It occurred to him that if Mason had been murdered this could be a dangerous one. If anything did happen to Tweed he'd regret an abrupt departure.
`I suppose I'd better wish you luck.'
`Thank you,' Tweed replied politely. 'I think I'm going to need a lot of that commodity…'
On the first floor of the Berne Clinic Dr Bruno Kobler had finished checking the medical files when the door to his office opened. A large shadow entered the room which was lit only by the desk lamp despite the darkness of the afternoon. Kobler immediately rose to his feet.
`Everything is ready for tonight,' he informed his visitor. `We are nearly there,' the huge man wearing tinted glasses commented in his soft, soothing voice. 'One more experiment tonight and then we shall be sure. Any other problems?' `There may be several. Newman for one…'
`We can deal with extraneous matters after the medical congress and the reception at the Bellevue Palace,' the large man remarked as though referring to a minor administrative detail.
His bulk seemed to fill the room. His head was large. He was plump-faced and had a powerful jaw. His complexion was pallid, bloodless. He stood with his long arms close to his sides. He created the impression of a human Buddha. He had a capacity for total immobility.
He wore a dark business suit which merged with the shadows. The huge picture windows were smoked plate glass, which deepened the gloom. He wore tinted glasses because strong light bothered his eyes. He was a man who would dominate every room he entered without speaking a word. And his powers of concentration were phenomenal.
`Once the medical reception at the Bellevue is over they will all go home,' he observed to Kobler. 'Then will be the time to clear up loose ends. Then we shall present Terminal as a fait accompli. Tous azimuts,' he concluded. The dream of a generation of the General Staff will be reality.'
He stared out of the window at the distant mountains. The massive butte, rugged and brutal, rearing above the low cloud bank. The Stockhorn. There was a similarity between the rock which had dominated Thun for cons and the man who stood, still quite immobile, staring at it.
`This is the subject I have chosen for tonight's experiment,' Kobler said, walking round his desk to show the open file, the photo of the patient attached to the first page. 'You approve, Professor?'