Terminal (44 page)

`Never been inside the lab...'

The bullet shattered a pane in the window and blew the beer bottle Schaub had left on the table into small pieces. Newman put his hand against Schaub's shoulder and shoved the porter's considerable weight off the chair, toppling him onto the wooden planks of the uneven floor.

`Keep down you fat slob or they'll kill you!' he yelled.

Newman had dropped to the floor as he shouted. His shout synchronized with the second bullet which shattered two more panes and thudded into the rear wall. Newman could never recall how the automatic found its way into his right hand but he realized he was holding it as he scrambled low down across the floor to the window — just in time to see the muzzle of a rifle disappearing over the top of the wall on the street leading to the bridge.

`Get behind that cupboard! Stay behind it! I'll be back in a minute...'

He rushed, stumbled, half-fell down the bloody staircases, threw open the front door, the automatic inside his pocket now. Running along the empty street, he turned up the covered steps leading to the bridge. There were a hell of a lot of steps, treads worn in the centre by the feet of ages. Why do people always walk straight up the middle? The useless question flashed through his mind as, panting, he reached the top and came out on to the street.

He glanced in both directions. Nothing. Not even a pedestrian. He walked a few paces towards the centre of Berne, then scooped up off the pavement an ejected cartridge which he pocketed. No sign of the other one. The killer must have collected one and departed in a hurry.

Newman leaned over the wall at the point where the cartridge had fallen and stared down direct into Schaub's living-room. If he hadn't lowered the blind the porter would now be a bloated corpse. He looked towards the city centre again and saw a man standing outside a shop who was watching him.

`Thought I heard something,' Newman remarked in German as he joined the portly man who wore no overcoat. `Sounded like a shot, two shots...'

`Or a couple of backfires.' Newman smiled. 'I arranged to meet a girl at the top of the staircase. A brunette — a slim girl in a pant suit, maybe wearing a windcheater. I wondered whether you'd seen her?'

`That description fits half the girls in Berne. I only came out to check this window I'm dressing. No, I haven't seen your girl. All I saw after the backfires was the red car...'

`Red.? What make? A Porsche? A Mercedes?'

`Couldn't say — I just saw the flash of red as it roared out of sight across the bridge. Exceeding the speed limit, too …'

Returning to the house, Newman found Schaub still crouched behind the cupboard, a shivering jelly of a man. He looked up, his beady little eyes terrified.

`Have they gone?'

`Yes. I'll give you two minutes to pack a small bag — just your pyjamas and shaving kit. I'm taking you where no one will dream of looking for you. Hurry it up...'

`But my job at the Clinic …'

Newman looked at him with a stare of sheer amazement. 'I thought you'd have grasped it by now. The people at your Clinic are out to kill you...'

Newman drove the Citroen up to Schaub's front door and the porter did what he had been told to do. Running in a crouch, he dived inside the rear of the car through the door Newman had opened, hauled the door shut and pressed his bulk close to the floor. To all outward appearances the Citroen was occupied only by the driver.

In the centre of Berne Leupin, behind the wheel of a Fiat, a car Newman had not seen in the Juras, followed one car behind the Citroen. Marbot sat alongside him.

`I wish we could have got closer to that house in Gerberngasse,' Leupin remarked.

`Then he would have spotted us. We'll have to find out who lives there,' Marbot replied. 'Beck will want to know that — but first let's find out where Newman is going. He seems to be leading us round the houses...'

`My thought, too...'

Newman glanced in his rear-view mirror again. The Fiat was still there. He timed it carefully, slowing down as he came up to the intersection. The tram which had stopped in the main street to his right began to move forward again. Newman accelerated, sweeping forward and missing the nose of the on-coming tram by inches. The tram made a rude noise. Behind him Leupin jammed on the brakes.

`The clever bastard! We've lost him...'

Five minutes later Newman led Schaub inside Blanche's flat and showed him how to operate the special security lock. He also gave the porter a lecture on keeping the place clean, although to be fair, despite his clothes, Schaub had the appearance of a man who bathed regularly and his jowly chin was well-shaven.

`Now,' Newman said, 'you stay here until I come for you. No answering the door or the phone. No calls to anyone — it could be the last call you,ever made. There's food in the fridge — to go on living, stay here. And I have fifteen minutes before I must go. For starters, what goes on inside that laboratory? Talk...'

Schaub talked.

Thirty-Two

Nancy took trouble over her battle gear for the Medical Congress reception. Coming out of the bathroom, swearing at having to wear a dinner jacket, Newman stopped and stared. She was clad in a long, form-fitting dress of red taffeta. Round her slim neck glittered a pearl choker.

`Well, will I do?' she enquired. 'I'm out to kill the competition...'

`You'll slay them. You look terrific. And isn't that the outfit you were wearing that first night we met in London — when by chance I was also at Bewick's?'

'By chance?' She was amused. 'Half London knew you took your latest fling to that place. It's seven — shouldn't we be getting downstairs? I am completely ready and rarin' to go.

`Give me a minute to fix this bloody tie. You're nervous, aren't you? I can tell.'

`So are a lot of doctors before a tricky case — if they're not they're probably no good. But I can tell you one thing, Bob. When I walk into that reception I'll go cold as ice. I don't care how much clout Grange carries — he's going to hear from me...'

`Pioneer stock,' Newman joked as he finished fixing the tie. `There's still some of it left in Arizona. I'm ready. Are you?'

She thumped his arm and they made their way to the bank of lifts. The celebration was being held in the large reception room between the lobby and the terrace restaurant. The floor was covered with priceless carpets, including one huge Persian hunting carpet. A large buffet table had been furnished with champagne glasses and a selection of food. There were a lot of people there already. Newman held Nancy back by the arm.

`Let's just see who is here and where they are. Tonight could be very decisive...'

Blanche Signer was talking to Beck. She wore an emerald green dress with a mandarin collar which showed off her superb figure to full advantage. Her small feet were sheathed in gold shoes.

`Your next conquest?' Nancy enquired.

`I was wondering what Beck is doing here...'

In a chair offside with his back to the wall sat Lee Foley, holding his glass as his cold eyes studied each person in the room. Tweed, looking uncomfortable in his dinner jacket, sat near Foley, watching the room with no particular expression.

`I think that must be Grange over there, holding court,' Nancy whispered.

At the back of the room, surrounded by half-a-dozen men, a tall, very heavily-built man wearing tinted glasses was talking while others listened. His left hand was close to his side, the fingers stretched downwards while his right hand held a glass. There was a gap in the crowd and Newman had a good view of him. A large head, his complexion pale, his lips appeared hardly to move as he spoke. The feature about him which intrigued Newman was his sheer immobility.

`Is that Professor Grange over there in the corner?' Nancy asked a passing waiter with a tray of glasses.

`Yes, it is, madame. May I offer you champagne?'

They both took a glass for appearance's sake. Newman sipped at his champagne, listening to the babble of voices, the clink of glasses. Another large man brushed past him without apology and made his way, very erect and confident, over to join Grange's group. Victor Signer had arrived.

`I can't see Kobler,' Newman whispered. 'That worries me...'

`Someone has to mind the store back at the Clinic, I suppose...'

`You're probably right. Let's circulate — horrible word. When are you going to challenge Grange..

`Bob!' She grabbed his arm. 'Wait! Look at that...'

Newman was looking at the weird incident. Grange had just greeted Signer when a waiter tipped a full glass of champagne off his tray. The liquid spilt down the lower half of Grange's dinner jacket and the upper half of his trousers. The waiter, obviously appalled, took the napkin folded over his sleeve, ran to the buffet, dipped it in a jug of water, returned to Grange and began to sponge the damp material.

The uncanny aspect of the incident was that as the waiter sponged and dabbed at the damp cloth Grange remained totally motionless, his left arm still close to his side, his large figure more Buddha-like than ever as he listened to Signer, ignoring the waiter as though nothing had happened. It was abnormal, unnatural. Newman stared incredulously as Nancy spoke in a low, tense tone.

`My God! No sane man has that amount of self-control. I think he's unbalanced — and I've had psychiatric training...'

It was the first doubt raised in Newman's mind as to Professor Grange's
sanity
.

Thirty- Three

Jesse Kennedy opened his eyes and blinked. What the hell was going on? He was lying full-length on a trolley which was being wheeled somewhere. He couldn't see properly — a mask of some sort had been placed over his head and face. He was gazing through eyepieces up at a white sheet pulled over the mask thing. The trolley was moving downhill now.

He tried to move his hands and realized both were strapped down by the wrists. He attempted to shift the position of his legs and found they too were strapped down round the ankles. He was completely immobilized. What was happening to him?

Then he recalled his last memory. They had injected him with a sedative. Not Novak. That bitch, Astrid, had done the job. He fought down a feeling of panic, of claustrophobia, and began to flex his fingers to get some strength back into them. The same with his feet — but cautiously. He sensed that the orderlies pushing the trolley, which was now tilted at an angle as it moved down a steep slope, must not know he was preparing himself for escape.

The sound of hydraulically-operated doors closing. The angle of the decline increased. He blinked again. It was more difficult to see even the sheet: the eyepieces were steaming up. He was suddenly wide awake and became aware of other sensations and sounds. The squeak of the trolley's wheels, the dryness in his throat, the circulation returning to his arms and legs. Another door opened and they moved on to a level surface. Weird, animal-like sounds — was he going out of his mind? He closed his eyes when the trolley stopped moving.

The sheet was whipped off him. There should be voices, the voices of the orderlies. Why weren't they talking to each other? The absence of voices got on his nerves, was frightening — together with the continuous animal-like gibbering. It recalled monkeys chattering inside cages in a zoo. Ridiculous...

They were removing the straps now. One near the head of the trolley taking off the straps binding his wrists, the other unfastening the ankle straps. Then he was free. He remained inert, eyes closed. Hands grasped both his forearms, jerked him upright. In a sitting position he was swivelled round until his legs dangled over the edge of the trolley. He let his head flop, still keeping his eyes shut. Holding him by both arms, they hauled him off the trolley and held him upright. They shook him roughly. He opened his eyes and gasped in horror.

He was wearing a heavy dressing gown over his pyjamas, the cord round his waist tied firmly. He was inside the laboratory, he was convinced of it. It was colder. The steam cleared completely from the eyepieces. Plastic green curtains were closed over long narrow windows. The huge room was filled with large benches. The tops of the benches were crowded with cages — wire cages. Inside the cages, which varied in size, were the animals he had heard. It was a nightmare.

The two orderlies wore gas masks Soulless eyes stared at him. From their height, their build, he guessed they were the two men he had heard called Graf and Munz. A third man stood further back, also wearing a mask, pacing among the cages. His way of moving told Jesse this was Bruno Kobler. Jesse pretended to sway unsteadily on his feet as Munz and Graf approached him.