Terminal (8 page)

Manfred Seidler was running for his life. He used every devious means to throw a smokescreen in the eyes of those who would try to track him. Using a fake set of identity papers, he hired a car from the Hertz agency next door to the Bellevue Palace in Berne.

He drove only as far as Solothurn where he handed in the car. From the station he caught a train to Basle. If anyone did manage to trace him so far they would — with luck — think he had gone on to Zurich. He fostered this fiction by buying two separate one-way tickets — to Zurich and to Basle. He bought them at ten-minute intervals, using two different ticket windows. As the express slowed down and slid into the main station at Basle he was standing by the exit door, clutching his suitcase.

He phoned Erika Stahel from a booth in the huge station. He found himself staring at every passenger who lingered anywhere near the booth. He knew his nerves were in a bad way. Which was when a man made mistakes. Christ! Would the cow never answer? Her voice came on the line as if in response to his plea.

`It's Manfred...'

`Well, well, stranger. Isn't life full of surprises?'

Erika didn't sound welcoming, certainly not enthusiastic, he thought savagely. Women needed careful handling. He forced himself to sound confident, pleasant, firm. Any trace of the jitters and she wouldn't cooperate. She knew a little of what he did for a living.

`I need a place to rest, to relax...'

`In bed? Of course?'

Her melodious voice sounded sarcastic. He wondered if she had a man with her. That would be a disaster area. It was a few months since he'd last contacted her.

`I
need
you,' he said. 'As company. Forget bed …'

`This is Manfred Seidler I'm talking to?' But her voice had softened. 'Where have you come from?'

`Zurich,' he lied easily.

`And where are you now?'

`Tired and hungry — inside a phone booth at the Hauptbahnhof. You don't have to cook. I'll take you out. Best place in town.'

`You counted on me being here — just waiting for your call?' `Erika,' he said firmly, 'this is Saturday. I know you don't work Saturdays. I just hoped...'

`Better come on over, Manfred …'

Erika Stahel lived in a small, second-storey apartment near the Münsterplatz. Seidler lugged his suitcase through the falling snow, ignoring the cab rank outside the station. He could easily have afforded transport but cab-drivers had good memories. And often they were the first source the Swiss police approached for information.

It was ten o'clock in the morning when he pressed the bell alongside the name
E. Stahel
. Her voice, oddly recognizable despite the distortion of the speakphone, answered as though she had been waiting.

`Who is it?'

`Manfred. I'm freezing..

`Come!'

The buzzer zizzed, indicating she had released the front door which he pressed open as he glanced up and down the street. Inside he climbed the steps, ignoring the lift. You could get trapped inside a lift if someone was waiting for you. Seidler had reached that state of acute nervousness and alertness when he trusted no one.

Her apartment door was open a few inches and he had reached out to push it when he paused, wondering what might be on the far side. The door opened inward and she stood looking at him without any particular expression. Only five feet four tall, she was a trim brunette of twenty-eight with a high forehead and large, black steady eyes.

`What are you waiting for? You look cold and frightened — and hungry. Breakfast is on the table. A jug of steaming coffee. Give me your case and eat …'

She said it all in her calm, competent voice as she closed the door and held out her hand for the case. He shook his head, decided he was being too curt and smiled, conscious of a sense of relief. He was under cover.

`I'll put the case in the bedroom if you don't mind. A couple of minutes and I'll be myself..

`You know where the bedroom is. You should by now.' Her manner was matter-of-fact but she watched him closely.

Inside the bedroom with the door closed, he dropped the case on one of the two single beds and looked round quickly. He needed a hiding-place and only had minutes to find a safe one.

Moving a chair quietly against a tall cupboard, he stood on it and ran a finger along the top. His fingers came away with a thin film of dust. The rest of the place was spotless — but small women often overlooked the tops of tall cupboards. He stepped down and opened his suitcase.

The smaller, slim executive case was concealed beneath his shirts. He raised the catches quietly and took out several envelopes. All of them contained large sums of money — he had emptied his bank account in Berne on Friday just before the bank closed. Another envelope held the twenty five hundred-franc notes he had extracted from the dead Franz Oswald's wallet in the Vienna basement.

Clutching the envelopes, he climbed back on the chair and distributed them across the top of the cupboard which was recessed. His final touch was to put two shirts into the executive case — to explain its presence — and then he closed the larger case, locked it and shoved it under the bed nearest the window.

`One ravenous lodger gasping for that steaming coffee and your lovely croissants,' he told Erika cheerfully as he emerged into the comfortably and well-furnished living-room which served also for a dining-room.

`My!' Her dark eyes searched his. 'Aren't we suddenly the bright, suave man-about-town. Good to get off the streets, Manfred?'

He swallowed the cup of coffee she poured even though it almost scalded him. Then he sat down and devoured three croissants while she sat facing him, studying him. Like Seidler, her parents were dead and she had no close relatives. Erika had worked her way up to the post of personal assistant to the chief executive of the bank she worked for. And her background was modest. Probably only in Switzerland could she have risen so high on sheer hard work and application.

`I'm quite happy on my own,' she had once confided to a girl friend. 'I have a good job I like, a lover' (she meant Manfred, although she didn't identify him). 'So what more do I need? I can certainly do without being tied down at home, touring the supermarkets with some yelling brat — and a husband who, after three years, starts noticing the attractive secretaries in his office...'

`You were, glad to get in off the streets, Manfred?' she repeated.

`Look outside the window! It's snowing cats and dogs. And I have been working very hard. I feel like holing up — some place no one knows where I am. Where the telephone won't ring,' he added quickly.

For once Seidler was telling the truth. He had cleverly chosen Basle to go to ground; Basle where three frontiers meet — Swiss, French and German. In case of emergency, the need for swift flight, he only had to board a train at the main station and the next stop — minutes away — was in Germany. Or, from the same station he could walk through a barrier to the other section and he was already on French soil. Yes, Basle was a good place to wait until he decided on his next move — until something turned up. Because for Manfred Seidler something always did turn up.

Then there was Erika. Seidler, a man who spent most of his time making money engaging in illegal, near-criminal activity — and who was now a murderer — appreciated that Erika was a
nice
girl. It was such a pleasant change to have her for company. He woke up from his reverie, aware she had said something.

`Sorry, I was dreaming...'

`Since you were last here I've been promoted...'

`Higher still? You were already PA to a director...'

`Now I'm PA to the president of the bank.' She leaned across the table and he stared at the inviting twin bulges against her flowered blouse. 'Manfred,' she went on, 'have you — you get around a lot, I know — have you ever heard anyone refer to the word terminal?'

Seidler's sense of well-being— brought on by a full stomach, the apartment's warmth (Erika could afford to turn up the central heating) and the proximity of Erika — vanished. One word and the nightmare was back on his doorstep. He struggled to hide the shock she had given him.

`I might have,' he teased her, 'if you tell me where you heard it.'

She hesitated, her curiosity fighting her integrity. Curiosity won-. She took a deep breath and stretched out her small hand to grasp his.

`I was taking coffee in to a board meeting. My boss said to the others "Has anyone found out any more about this terminal business, what it means, or is it just another rumour about the Gold Club?" '

`Gold Club? What's that?'

`Well, it doesn't really exist officially. I gather that it comprises a group of bankers who have certain views on national policy. The group is known as the Gold Club...'

`And your boss belongs to it?'

`On the contrary. He doesn't agree with their views, whatever they may be. The Gold Club is based in Zurich. `Zurich? Not Berne?' he probed.

`Definitely Zurich...'

`Who is your boss?' he enquired casually.

`I'm talking too much about my job...'

`I could find out so easily,' he pointed out. 'I'd only have to phone you at work and you'd say, "Office of..." There are other ways. You know that.'

`I suppose you're right,' she agreed. In any case, it really doesn't matter. I work for Dr Max Nagel. Now, does
terminal
mean a railway station? That's the current thinking...'

`They got it right first time. More than that I don't know.'

`A railway station — not an
airport
?' she persisted. 'We do have an airport at Basle.'

`Positively nothing to do with airports,' he assured her.

He stood up and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He offered to clear the table but she shook her head and stood close to him, coiling her hands round his neck. As they kissed he wrapped his arms round her body and felt the buttons down the back of her blouse.

`That Gold Club,' he whispered. 'Something to do with gold bullion?'

`No. I told you. It's just a name. You know how wealthy the Zurich bankers are. It's a good name for them...'

He unfastened the top two buttons and slipped his hand inside, searching for the splayed strap. His exploring fingers found nothing. He undid two more buttons and realized that beneath the blouse she was naked. She had stripped herself down while he trudged through the snow from the station.

He enjoyed himself in the bedroom but when the aftermath came he began to worry like mad about what she'd said. Was Basle the worst place in the world he could have come to escape? Had he wandered into the lion's pit? He'd have to keep under cover. He'd also watch the newspapers — especially those from Geneva, Berne and Zurich, plus the locals. Something might show up in them, something which would show him the way — the way to escape the horror.

Eight

London, 13 February 1984. 6
?
. The atmosphere inside Tweed's office at 10 am was one of appalled mystification. Besides Tweed, the other people gathered in the office included Howard, who had just returned from a weekend in the country, Monica, the middle-aged spinster of uncertain age Tweed called his 'right arm', and Mason, summoned urgently from Vienna on an apparent whim of Tweed's.

The 'object' Mason had brought with him and which he had purchased from Franz Oswald, was now locked away in Tweed's steel filing cabinet. No one had wanted to continue staring at
that
for long.

Howard, wearing the small check suit he kept for the country, was furious. He was convinced Tweed had exploited his absence to set all sorts of dangerous wheels in motion. To add insult to injury, Tweed had just returned from Downing Street where he had remained closeted with the Prime Minister for over an hour.

`Did you ask her for that document?' he enquired coldly.

Tweed glanced at the letter headed
10 Downing Street
which he had deliberately left on his desk. It gave him full powers to conduct the investigation personally. There was even a codicil promising him immediate access to her presence at any time there were developments.

`No,' replied Tweed, standing like the rest and polishing his glasses with a shabby silk handkerchief. 'It was her idea. I didn't argue, naturally..

`Naturally,' Howard repeated sarcastically. 'So, now you've got the whole place in an uproar what's the next move?'