Terminal (48 page)

Hannah Stuart and Holly Laird had died running
down
that slope, doubtless hoping to reach the road they would have seen earlier while sitting inside the enclosed verandah — Mrs Laird had even reached the road, but had then died.

Kobler was pointing down the slope. On top of the mound a few yards away half-a-dozen masked figures watched him, watched their target. The two men on either side released him. Kobler gestured impatiently down the slope. Newman flexed his stiff arms, nodded his head to show he understood and walked slowly forward to the edge of where the slope started downhill. Kobler, wearing no mask, retreated inside the laboratory.

Newman flexed each leg, easing the stiffness, then bent down to rub his left ankle. He jerked upright, the automatic Beck had given him, the weapon he had concealed behind his sock, gripped in his right hand. He aimed it at the men grouped round the mortar, firing over their heads.

They scattered, abandoned the mound as Newman ran straight for it, kicking over the mortar barrel, running on
uphill
. The wind blew in his face. He knew they dare not fire the mortar even if they remounted it successfully. The gas would blow back in
their
faces. They could only pursue him up the steep incline on foot. He doubted they would risk the sound of any more shots. But he was handicapped by the bloody mask which was constricting his neck. No time to stop and try to tear it off — they'd be on top of him. God, the ascent was steep, the forest seemed so very far away.

Blanche stood on the knoll above the Clinic, the knoll she had used when she had photographed the Clinic and its grounds. She had followed Newman's Citroen on her scooter along the motorway. She had watched through her pair of night-glasses from a distance when he vaulted the fence. She had ridden on to the knoll, the only point from where she might see what was happening.

She had the night-glasses pressed to her eyes now, watching in horror as Newman kicked over something after scattering the men in Swiss uniform. She knew the running figure was Newman — his movements were familiar enough for her to be quite certain.

The swine had recovered from their surprise, men who wore horror film masks, and they were running after Newman, gaining on him as, bunched together, they took the same route up a gulch below where she stood. Her mouth was tight as she bent down to pick up her helmet. Her hair was blowing in her face, confusing her vision. She rammed the helmet over her head. Reaching into her pocket, she brought out an egg-shaped object. The hand grenade.

Blanche removed the glove from her right hand. At the Gstaad finishing school she had been a top-flight player of tennis with a vicious backhand. She hesitated, gauging the distance between Newman, who was slowing down, and his pursuers. Newman reached a point where, the defile turned at an angle. He ran round the corner. She took out the pin and counted, her hand held behind her. It was ironic that Victor Signer had furnished her with the opportunity to obtain the grenade.

Her hand came up in a powerful, controlled swing. She lobbed the grenade and held her breath. It landed a few feet in front of the group of men hurrying up the defile, detonated. The lead pursuer threw up both arms in a wild gesture and fell. The men behind sagged to the ground, some of them crawling on all fours before they, too, collapsed.

Newman heard the explosion. It gave him the strength for one final burst up to the end of the defile — he thought they were using grenades to stop him. He came out on top of the hill and the wire fence — with the road beyond in front of the forest — was a few yards away.

To his right there was a gate in the fence. He found it was padlocked when he reached it. Hauling out the automatic from his pocket, he shot off the padlock, pulled the gate open and staggered along the road. He was still wearing the gas mask when Leupin came to meet him.

Thirty-Seven

Monday, 20 February
. Snow came to Berne in the middle of the night. Newman, who had spent half that night with Beck at the Taubenhalde , dragged himself out of bed, grabbed his wristwatch and went over to the window to pull back the curtains. 7.30 am. He looked over his shoulder at Nancy who was lying on her back with her eyes open.

`Come and look at this,' he said.

Without a word she got out of bed and joined him, pulling on her dressing gown. For the first time since their arrival it was a white world. Rooftops heavy with snow across the river. The twin headlights of cars crawled along the snowbound Aarstrasse. A tram, its lights blurred, crept over the Kirchenfeldbrucke. Large snowflakes drifted down past their window.

`What will happen to Grange and Signer and Kobler?' she asked. 'You flopped out when you got back from seeing Beck. I guess that experience at the Clinic must have been pretty horrible. I appreciate your calling in here first...'

`Beck was vague. They have the film they took from the van they'd parked in the forest of my being chased. They have the gas mask I was wearing. They have my statement — but I'll be required to stay on for the inquiry...'

`Inquiry?'

`The Swiss don't like washing dirty linen in public. What country does? And there's military security involved. They also have the sworn statement of Willy Schaub, the head porter who knows a lot...'

They haven't arrested Grange yet?'

`They have to handle it carefully. They won't want the fact that the most deadly poison gas in the world was being made and tested to hit the world's press if they can avoid it...'

`But if Grange is still at the Clinic won't he destroy the evidence — those cylinders you saw in that
atombunker
?'

`Oddly enough, no. He's arrogant enough — mad enough — to feel confident he can bluff his way through. He's proud of the fact that he's produced that gas. These men think they are patriots. And it's complicated by Grange's tactic saying Jesse had suspected cholera. Note the word "suspected". He can always say it was a wrong diagnosis later — meantime he has the place under quarantine. It's a kind of stalemate..

`Jesse raised me.' Her voice was suddenly harsh. 'He was the only father I ever had.' He glanced at her. Her posture was rigid and she stared at the drifting snowflakes as though looking at something way beyond them. 'He deserved a better way to go,' she continued in the same disturbing tone of voice.

`I'm sure they'll eventually get the lot,' he said.

`I'm going to bathe. Order me a full breakfast...'

He dressed quickly in a troubled frame of mind. He had a feeling this thing wasn't over yet. When she emerged from the bathroom she was wearing a cashmere sweater and slacks tucked inside short leather boots, the kind of outfit she wore in Arizona. Over breakfast he realized her mood had changed. Her speech was brisk, her chin tilted at an aggressive angle.

`I'm leaving for Tucson on Wednesday,' she announced. 'I shall catch the three o'clock Dan-Air flight to Gatwick, then on to Dallas by American Airlines...'

`I told you, I have to stay on for the inquiry...'

`I don't like being used, Bob. You've used me from that very first evening we met in London. You needed someone who could get you inside the Berne Clinic. I fitted the role perfectly. My birthday party at Bewick's that night was well-advertised in advance. Enough people knew about it at St Thomas's. And there was that patient they kept under armed guard — men in civilian clothes everyone knew were Secret Service. One of those guards tipped you off about my party. You turn up at the table next to mine. Really it was very neat. I first began to wonder about you in Geneva. You changed, you turned into a hunter. Since then there have been a whole series of odd incidents. Phone calls you said were wrong numbers. Trips off without me to see people you never told me about when you got back. I don't know who you're working for, but by Christ, I know you've used me. I am right, aren't I?'

`Up to a point, yes...'

`Jesus! Why qualify it?'

`Because later I became genuinely very fond of you... `Shit!'

`If you say so...'

`And now I'd like the room to myself for awhile. I have to call Tucson to warn Linda I'm coming home...'

`She'll be asleep,' Newman pointed out. 'They're eight hours behind us in Arizona...'

`Linda is never in bed before two in the morning — and it's only midnight now in Tucson. So, maybe you could go downstairs and read a paper — or find a girl to screw …'

Lee Foley called the Berne Clinic from his room and asked to speak to Dr Bruno Kobler. When Kobler came on the line Foley continued speaking in German, giving his name as Lou Schwarz and explaining that his wife was seriously ill. He asked for details of fees and carried on a conversation for five minutes, studying Kobler's voice, before ending the call.

He then went down to reception for his case, which he had kept packed — as always — ready for a speedy departure. He paid his bill after questioning the amount they were charging for phone calls, which involved a lengthy conversation. As he. left the hotel Leupin, who had been sitting nearby, pretending to read a newspaper, stood up and walked to the Taubenhalde to report on this development to Beck.

Foley next drove the Porsche to the friend he had hired it from and gave him precise instructions. Foley was keeping the Porsche a little longer. At one o'clock the following day the friend must phone the cantonal police headquarters in Berne to report the theft of the Porsche.

He further arranged for the friend to have ready for him a Volvo — any colour except red. He would collect the Volvo the following morning. He paid over a large sum of money in Swiss banknotes and asked permission to use the phone in privacy. As soon as he was alone in the office he called a private airfield near Paris and gave further instructions. He thanked his friend and left.

Climbing behind the wheel of the Porsche, he drove out of Berne and took the motorway north. He was careful to keep inside the speed limit. His next destination was Zurich.