The Janus Man tac-4 Page 2

  Three

  `What did you think of their reactions, Monica?' Tweed asked.

  The two of them were alone in his Park Crescent office at the HQ of the SIS. Beyond the net-curtained windows was a view across towards Regent's Park. Tweed stared at the view, not seeing the sunny day as he sat behind his desk.

  `The problem is I don't know any of them well enough. They're all newly-appointed, brought in out of the field to replace the men who held their jobs before. That was a clean sweep you made. How did Howard take your pushing out the Old Guard?'

  `Not happily, of course. A couple of them were drinking companions at that toffee-nosed club of his. But the PM gave me only two options. Take on Howard's job – or bring in a younger team. She thinks it's time a younger generation took over at sector chief level. And I chose them. The trouble is I made a major error of judgement – to say the least – with one of them. Which one is the draconian question…'

  `I'd hoped you would replace Howard himself…'

  `I've already told you why not.'

  Tweed's tone was abrupt, dismissing a topic he didn't want to discuss any further.

  `How are you going to start in Hamburg? You haven't anything to use as a lead as far as I can see..

  She broke off as the phone rang. Her expression glowed when she heard who was on the line. She handed the receiver to Tweed.

  `It's Bob Newman. Calling from his flat. He's just arrived from Paris…'

  `That you, Bob?' Tweed's tone was businesslike. 'Look, we won't talk over the phone. Welcome back. Can you get over to see me? Good. Noon will do fine. Mind how you cross the road. You look right first, now you're back from the continent! See you…'

  `He sounded a bit remote,' Monica commented. 'Not his usual buoyant jokey self.'

  `The main thing is he's agreed to act as chaperon,' Tweed grimaced. 'I love the idea of having a chaperon…'

  `Don't forget the PM's instructions. She said Newman must be next to you wherever you go…'

  `Do stop nagging…'

  `And you didn't tell me how you're going to start off when you get to Hamburg.'

  `Visit the hospital where Fergusson died. Apparently he said a few words which made no sense to the doctor. They might make sense to me. Then a few quiet words with Ziggy Palewska.'

  `The Polish refugee who settled in Hamburg? What's Ziggy got to do with anything – apart from the unsavoury way he makes his money?'

  `That was why Fergusson went to Hamburg – to see Ziggy. He'd sent me a message saying he had urgent and serious news. Now, before you wheel in Hugh Grey, tell me what you know about him.'

  Tweed sat back in his chair, clasped his hands in his lap and behind his horn-rimmed glasses he closed his eyes. Monica was used to this exercise. Her chief was using her as a sounding- board to clarify his own thoughts. She spoke from her phenomenal memory without referring to her card index of staff.

  `Hugh Grey. Remarried an attractive brunette called Paula six months ago. Just about the time he was appointed sector chief for Central Europe. Under your reorganization that sector includes West Germany, Holland and Belgium. Penetration zones where he runs underground agents are East Germany, Poland and Czechoslovakia. Speaks fluent German, French and can get by in Italian and Spanish. Headquarters, Frankfurt-on-Main.'

  `A bit more about his domestic background, please.'

  Tweed was motionless, his eyes still closed, his mind concentrated totally on Hugh Grey.

  `Paula Brent – that was her maiden name – is twenty-nine. Which makes her ten years younger than Hugh. She has built up a thriving pottery-making business based in King's Lynn. She makes up the designs herself, has a growing export market.

  Especially in the States. Very bright girl, Paula. A stunner to look at. Lives a lot of the time at Hugh's farmhouse out on the Wash in Norfolk. The export deals are made over the phone. Then suddenly she's flying off to LA. Getting back to Hugh, he's madly sociable. Throws dinner parties at the farmhouse when he's home on leave. Enough?'

  `For now, yes.' As an afterthought Tweed added, 'I do know Paula. Very independent type. The best sort of new businesswoman. And would you ask Hugh to come and see me now? Stay at your desk while we're talking…'

  `Only one more question,' Tweed said to Grey, 'and then we can let you get on. Hamburg is your sector. Fergusson was killed in Hamburg. Is something stirring in your part of the world?'

  `I thought we'd get to that.' Grey smiled his moon-like smile. He sat upright in his chair and radiated self-confidence. 'If I knew why Fergusson was sent there – as you pointed out, it is my territory – I might be able to help…'

  `Just answer the question.'

  `Everything has quietened down since Gorbachev took over – I get the impression the word has gone out. No incidents…'

  `You wouldn't call the killing of Fergusson an incident?' Tweed enquired.

  'It surprised me very much.' Grey paused to adjust his display handkerchief in his breast pocket. 'I was going to say my impression is Gorbachev wants all quiet on the western front while he consolidates his position at home. He's the development we've been waiting for – the new generation taking over.'

  `Which fits in with the gospel according to Gorbachev. New times are arriving. For your information, Mikhail Gorbachev is Stalin in a Savile Row suit. That will be all.'

  Monica waited until Grey had left the room, the smile wiped off his face. She turned down the corners of her mouth.

  `Saucy bugger. You squashed him beautifully. He's after your job, you know…'

  `I know.' Tweed was frowning. 'That's a negative comment on Grey. Give me a positive one.'

  `Funny man. Acts like a playboy. But in the field he rides his agents harder than any other sector chief. No mistakes is his motto. No second chance.'

  `Which is why I gave him the job. Now, Erich Lindemann. We can just squeeze him in before Bob Newman is due. Resume, if you please.'

  `Erich Lindemann. Headquarters, Copenhagen. Penetration zone, Northern Russia. Born bachelor. Speaks German, Swedish and Danish. The very opposite to Grey. I've been to his flat in Chelsea. Neat as a pin. His study walls are lined with God knows how many books. Venerated by his men – he's so careful of their lives. The most reliable of the lot, I'd say. That's it.'

  The interview with Lindemann was brief. The chief of the Scandinavian sector arrived wearing a sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows, sports slacks and a casual shirt. He nodded to Monica without speaking and sat in the waiting chair, resting his arms on the chair arms.

  `How are things in Scandinavia?' Tweed asked amiably. `Too quiet. The Kremlin is cooking something unpleasant to serve up to us. I've known this sinister quiet before.' `The quiet before the storm?'

  `I would say so, yes. May I make a suggestion?' Lindemann asked.

  `I'm listening.'

  If you don't like the atmosphere in Hamburg, catch the first flight to Copenhagen. I'll be waiting there for you.'

  `Would you care to elaborate on that, Erich?'

  `I don't think so.'

  `Then I'll bear it in mind. Thank you.'

  Something curious about Lindemann's personality, Tweed said to himself as the door closed. Without saying much he projected such an aura of force and power he still seemed to be in the room. He had no time to pursue the train of thought. The phone rang and Monica told him Newman was waiting downstairs. The time was exactly noon.

  `After what you've told me I don't like it one little bit,' Newman said emphatically. 'This trip to Hamburg smells like a trap. And you could be the main target – not Fergusson…'

  `I know,' Tweed agreed.

  `Then why the hell walk into it? Send someone else – a couple of men with back-up. They travel on separate flights and meet up. The Hauptbahnhof would be a good place…'

  `Because I think you're right. It's me they want.'

  `You need a holiday. You're not thinking straight. I haven't the experience you need…'

  `You did pretty well on y
our own inside Estonia – which was inside the Soviet Union. We're only going to West Germany. And I have the worst problem I've ever faced.'

  `You have that in spades. One of your top deputies is working for Lysenko – because it will be General Lysenko of the GRU who is behind this manoeuvre. Unless they've sent him on holiday to Siberia…'

  `My information is Lysenko is controlling all anti-West European operations from Leipzig. He's one of the very few of the Old Guard Gorbachev has promoted. The rumour is they've established a close personal rapport…'

  `There you are,' Newman said, lighting up a cigarette. 'And Lysenko's one ambition after what you did to him last year will be to discredit you – at the least. And now you tell me he has an ally inside this very building. He may well try and kill you…'

  `I don't think he'd go that far. The news is Gorbachev wants a period of quiet – while he packs the Politburo with his own supporters. Killing me would create a storm.'

  In that assumption Tweed could not have been more wrong.

  Four

  `Sit down, Lysenko. How is your plan progressing?'

  It was typical of Mikhail Gorbachev that he kept the question terse and came straight to the point. The master of the Soviet Union sat in a large chair at the head of the long oblong-shaped table in his office inside the Kremlin, the section which tourists never see, an old, four-storey building deep inside the ancient fortress.

  Dressed smartly in a dark grey, two-piece business suit, he shifted his bulk restlessly, his large hands playing with a pencil. His whole personality exuded an aura of physical and mental energy as he studied the GRU general.

  `I have just arrived from Leipzig with the latest news.. `I know that. What is the latest news?'

  `The trap to lure Tweed to West Germany has been sprung. A close associate of Tweed's, Ian Fergusson, took the bait. He arrived in Hamburg when he heard a Polish refugee had urgent news…'

  Lysenko, in his sixties, stockily-built and with a slab-like face, kept his explanation as short as possible. The General Secretary had a short fuse where wafflers were concerned.

  `Erwin Munzel, the East German executioner, killed him – made it look like an accident. Tweed won't accept that…'

  `You've left a bit out. Who is this Polish refugee? And did Fergusson meet him before he had his accident?'

  `Yes, he did. The refugee is Ziggy Palewska, a piece of rubbish. He lives off providing information to whoever will pay for it…'

  `And where does he get information from?'

  `Other refugees he's friendly with. As you know, Schleswig-Holstein, the part of Germany closest to Denmark, is crammed with refugees who fled from East Prussia and other places after the Great Patriotic War…'

  `I know that. Did Fergusson meet him?'

  `Yes. Munzel organized the permanent accident shortly after Fergusson had left Palewska's place in Hamburg.'

  `This Munzel…'

  `Erwin Munzel, General Secretary…'

  `I know the name. His father was a Nazi, an SS General?'

  `That is so…' Not for the first time Lysenko marvelled at the remarkable range of Gorbachev's detailed knowledge. He wanted to know everything – about everybody. Not a comfortable feeling – but Gorbachev was not a comfortable man to sit down with. Lysenko felt the moisture growing on the palms of his hands.

  `And this professional assassin, Erwin Munzel. Also a bit of a Nazi, I hear.'

  `He is one of us though…'

  `No German is one of us.' Gorbachev's expression froze.

  `But if we can point them the other way – against the West, so be it. An expert on accidents, our lackey, Munzel?'

  `He's quite brilliant.'

  `He had better be when he deals with this Tweed. The new policy is apparent – I emphasize apparent – arm's-length friendship with the Americans while Reagan is president. After that, we'll get someone softer. No American president in my time will be as tough and realistic as Reagan. In the meantime, no serious incidents to destroy the illusion.'

  `The death of Tweed will look like an accident,' Lysenko assured his chief. 'But it is essential to our plan. Only Tweed could detect the major operation under way to demoralize Britain – and maybe even defeat all our efforts.'

  `Then he must go…' Gorbachev paused and Lysenko pushed back his chair. 'Keep your backside in that chair, I'm not finished,' Gorbachev growled. 'Is Balkan still in place? It should make your job easier – knowing what Tweed is doing almost before he knows himself.'

  `Balkan is the best agent we've ever had. We can't miss so long as he is in London. Plus his other function.' Lysenko waxed enthusiastic. 'Balkan is the most audacious manoeuvre we have ever pulled off. Tweed would go berserk if he discovered the truth. He would never believe it possible…'

  `Time you flew back to Leipzig to oversee the operation. Is Markus Wolf still useful? He's held that job a long time now.'

  Gorbachev was referring to the chief of East German Intelligence based in East Berlin. He watched Lysenko closely, searching for any doubt in tone of voice or expression.

  `I cooperate with Wolf very well…'

  `You direct Wolf,' Gorbachev corrected him. 'Never forget he also is another bloody German.' Seated, he waited until Lysenko had almost reached the exit door before he barked out the warning.

  `You could get over-confident where Tweed is concerned. I was rereading his file last night. That man is very clever – so, very dangerous. Go!'

  Five

  `Guy Dalby…' Monica again recited her resume from memory. `… head of the Mediterranean sector. The largest of all the territories. Zone of operations includes France, Spain, Italy, Turkey, Portugal and Switzerland. HQ in Bern. Our best linguist. He speaks French, German, Spanish, Italian and Arabic. Also the best admin man. Very methodical. Well organized in his job – and his private life. Penetration areas Libya and the Middle East. Our most well-informed man on terrorists, even outside his own zone. That's it.'

  `His private life – so well organized, you said,' Tweed asked.

  He sat back again in his chair, eyes almost closed. He had returned from having lunch with Newman at Inigo Jones, a restaurant where the tables were arranged so you could have a private conversation without fear of being overheard. And no one else Tweed knew frequented the place.

  `Married to a French girl. Lives in Woking, Surrey. It has the best train service in the country for commuting to London. Also he can drive across country to Heathrow without touching London – which makes it easier for him to slip abroad unnoticed. Has no friends among his neighbours. They think he's an accountant with his own practice. Perfect cover.'

  `The perfect man?' Tweed commented with a touch of irony. `Tell him I'd like a word…'

  Dalby, dressed in a conventional grey suit, walked in and sat down without a glance at Monica. He whipped the cat-lick higher up his forehead and waited, leaving Tweed to make the opening move. Typical Dalby tactic.

  `Guy, why did you ask what was the motive behind Fergus- son's murder during our meeting this morning?'

  `Track down the motive and you're close to the people who did the job. Howard is back a day early, by the way. He'll be up to see you soon I think.'

  `Thank you for the warning.' Tweed, Monica noted, was at his most ironic. And he already had the information. Newman had told him over lunch that he'd seen Howard aboard the same flight which had brought him from Paris.

  `What is the atmosphere like in your sector, Guy?' Tweed continued. 'You'll be on your way back to Bern soon, I take it?'

  `By a late flight this afternoon. To Geneva, then on by train to Bern. The atmosphere?' Dalby cocked his head to one side in a bird-like gesture Monica knew so well. 'Very odd. I was going to ask to see you, but you got in first. The other side has withdrawn most of its top agents back behind the Curtain. Something is up…'

  `A conference with Gorbachev so he can drum into them his new strategy?'

  `Perhaps.' Dalby sounded unconvinced. 'The last time they did this
it was the prelude to a major operation. I don't like it – I've put all my people on top alert. They're getting in touch with every contact they know. Someone must know something. I'll be glad to get back into the field.'

  `And how is your wife?'

  Monica bent her head over her file and had trouble keeping a straight face. A typical Tweed ploy when he was puzzled – to switch the conversation abruptly from one topic to another. `Going fishing,' he called it.

  `Renee has gone back to Paris. We're separated. There's a full report on Howard's desk. I have two men following her…'

  `I wouldn't worry over-much. She was thoroughly vetted. I'm sorry to hear it though…'

  `I'm not. The French have funny habits. She couldn't keep her eyes off other men. At parties. In a restaurant. I tackled her and we had our last flaming row. Packed her bags and off she went. I'll be glad to get back to some real work. Is that all? Can I go now?' Dalby asked perkily.

  `Why not?'

  Monica waited until they were alone before she spoke. Her voice was full of disapproval.

  `I'm not a bit surprised about Renee. I suppose he didn't catch on earlier because he's away so much.'

  `And what does that catty remark mean?'

  `That she was promiscuous. I saw her twice in London clinging on the arm of a man – a different one each time. You could tell what she was doing with them the way she walked and looked.'

  `I'm sure you could. As you know, I'm catching the plane to Hamburg, so we'd better get on. Masterson is last on the list…'

  `Harry Masterson is fun,' Monica began. For the first time she didn't sound as though she were speaking by rote. She really has a crush on him, Tweed thought as she continued her description.