Deadlock tac-5 Read online

  'Fluent in several languages, you said earlier,' Tweed reminded him. 'But could he pass for a German, a Frenchman, an American, and so on?'

  'With the greatest of ease. He is a natural actor. Also, if it is of interest he is a great charmer of the ladies. They are putty in his hands.'

  'I still don't see it. Tell me more about the catastrophe thing.'

  'His theory was that to succeed in a major operation a great shock should be delivered to the enemy. A catastrophe so enormous it would stun the opposition, make it incapable of reacting. "Terror is the ultimate weapon" was his favourite maxim.'

  Tweed shook his head. There's something you're not telling me. He couldn't do all this on his own.'

  'True.' Lysenko paused again. Old habits died hard, Tweed thought. 'During his postings to the West he made it his business to build up contacts in the various underworlds. The Union Corse in France, and so on. They never knew who he really was, of course…'

  Tweed pounced, seeing his opening at last. 'These postings to the West. Where exactly was he – and when?'

  'I have to be careful here…'

  'And I need the data – or I'll forget the whole thing,' Tweed snapped. 'I must have somewhere to start if we decide to look for this ghost.'

  'You will find he is just that,' Lysenko warned, reaching for a pale green file in his brief-case. He opened it and began reciting in a monotone. 'Brussels, 1982 – with brief trips to Luxembourg City to observe the EEC units there. Paris in 1983. Bonn in 1984…' He looked up. 'Don't you wish to take notes?'

  'Not so far…'

  'Ah! Your phenomenal memory. The UN in New York, 1984. He went on to London, 1985. He returned to Moscow and was sent unofficially to West Germany in 1985. From that mission he vanished. Not seen again – until Sabarin's sighting in Geneva…'

  'You've missed something out.'

  'I don't understand…'

  'Switzerland. When was he there before he disappeared?'

  'In 1983,' Lysenko admitted.

  Tweed blew up. 'Listen to me, General. I need the complete history or it's no go. What's this so-called unofficial mission to West Germany in 1985?'

  'Classified. I have no authority to…'

  'All right. Let's try something else. These official postings-Brussels, Bonn, Paris, London and so on. Now, was he attached in each case to the relevant Soviet Embassy? Don't waste my time.. .'

  'Yes, he was.'

  'Under his own name? Zarov?'

  'I feel you are interrogating me…'

  'I am doing just that. You're forcing me to. Now, answer my question, for God's sake.'

  Like getting blood out of a stone he mumbled half under his breath but still audibly. Lysenko flushed, glared at Tweed who stared back. The animosity which would always divide the two men was surfacing.

  'I am in a very difficult position,' the Russian growled and returned to checking his file.

  'It's not a piece of cake for me – being asked to look for a man you've lost and with nothing to go on. Answer my question, please.'

  'No, he was never posted to an embassy under his own name.'

  'Then I'll need the names he used…'

  'Classified.'

  'If there's nothing else I can't – and won't – take action.'

  'But there is. Very grim information.' Lysenko had calmed down, closed the file, returned it to the brief-case, clasped his hands on the table and began talking.

  'Zarov was born in Sevastopol in the Crimea. At one period he was in charge of security at a certain military and naval depot at Sevastopol. He returned there on holiday just before being sent to his final posting in West Germany. The depot stored advanced equipment – including at that time powerful explosive weapons…'

  Tweed felt his stomach muscles tighten as Lysenko paused and, away from the disapproving eye of Moscow, drank more vodka. He was coming to the key to the whole unprecedented meeting. Tweed waited, careful to keep silent.

  'A consignment of sea-mines and bombs went missing from the depot while Zarov was in the Crimea. A large truck arrived late one night with a signed stamped order for this consignment. Zarov, I should mention, was at one time attached to a highly secret documentation centre in Moscow. He showed great skill in mastering the system -as he did with all he undertook. We had the highest hopes for him.' Lysenko sounded wistful, a side of his character Tweed found surprising. Clearly he had liked Zarov.

  'He was an explosives expert, too?'

  Tweed awaited the answer with trepidation.

  'Ah! He was an expert with explosives – and with weapons. I've never had such a promising pupil.'

  'What happened to this truck?' Tweed demanded. 'And please don't tell me that's classified…'

  'It was driven – with the correct movement order papers – to the Turkish border along the Black Sea coast. Two days later at midnight the driver of the truck crashed the border at a weak point and disappeared inside Turkey. They also took a lot of sophisticated equipment.'

  'Such as?'

  'I cannot give technical details. That you will understand. Equipment for the detonation of the sea-mines and bombs by remote control from long distance…'

  'How far? What kind of range?'

  'Thirty or forty kilometres.'

  'I see,' Tweed replied, concealing the shock he felt. 'You must have made enquiries through your contacts in Turkey,' he pressed. 'About what happened to the truck…'

  'We found nothing. Eastern Turkey is a remote area -very thinly populated. The only city of any size is Erzurum, which I have no doubt the truck by-passed.'

  'What about Istanbul? The Golden Horn harbour?'

  'We checked that, too,' Lysenko admitted. 'We estimated as far as we could when the truck would arrive there. A Greek freighter, the Lesbos, sailed for Marseilles at about the right time. It never arrived. It disappeared into thin air. There was an unpleasant sequel – which was what focused our attention on Istanbul. All this is totally confidential, you understand?'

  'We've been through that bit.'

  'The driver of the truck was an Armenian called Dikoyan. We think now he was one of the few dissidents, a member of the Free Armenian Movement bandits. Zarov is clever. He probably persuaded Dikoyan the huge consignment of explosives was to help the dissidents.'

  'And what happened to this Dikoyan?'

  The Turkish police fished him out of the Bosphorus shortly after the Lesbos sailed. His throat was cut from ear to ear.'

  'Unpleasant, as you said.'

  'I told you Zarov is ruthless…'

  That consignment of sea-mines and bombs. How big is it?'

  Lysenko paused. Tweed could almost hear the wheels whirring in his brain. How much more dare I reveal?

  The explosive is very special.' Lysenko was phrasing his reply carefully. 'It's enormous power bears no relationship to the size – or weight – of the sea-mines and bombs.'

  'How many did they get out of that Sevastopol depot?'

  Thirty sea-mines, twenty-five bombs. It was a big truck.'

  'Give me some idea of their explosive power – what we face.'

  They have the potential to wipe off the face of the earth a city the size of Hamburg.'

  9

  Tweed was subdued and businesslike for the remainder of their meeting. He asked for a photograph – several if available – of Igor Zarov. Lysenko shook his head and Tweed jumped on him before he could speak.

  'Oh, come on, you must have God knows how many pictures…'

  'Had. I told you Zarov was a wizard with documentation. At one time he trained in our documentation centre…' Tweed knew what he meant – the centre where false passports and papers were prepared for agents travelling abroad with new identities. Driving licences, library memberships, medical cards. All the bureaucratic paraphernalia of modern life.

  'Before he left for his posting to West Germany,' Lysenko explained slowly, 'he removed from the files every single photograph of himself in existence. He even erased his image from
the Central Computer – and substituted another man's.'

  'Formidable, as you said,' Tweed agreed.

  'I took a precaution before I set out on this trip.' Lysenko reached into his brief-case, produced a large sheet of paper. 'I had an Identikit picture drawn with the aid of the three associates who had known him well. Ruddy-faced, like his father.' He handed over the sheet. That is the best I can do…'

  Tweed studied the head and shoulders portrait which, as far as he could tell, had been drawn in charcoal and then photocopied. The image was blurred but the tremendous force of character of the subject came through.

  Thick dark hair, a high forehead, hypnotic eyes beneath thick brows, a long nose, prominent cheekbones, a thin mouth, strong jaw, The shoulders were wide, suggesting a man of considerable physical strength. It was the eyes Tweed kept returning to, eyes which held a hint of irony as though Zarov regarded the whole world cynically.

  'If that's the best you can provide,' Tweed said eventually.

  'It's a good likeness. I can vouch for that…'

  'So, what exactly do you hope we can do – assuming we agree to do anything?'

  Track him down, hunt him, eliminate him. Before he can put into operation whatever catastrophe he is planning – for which we could be blamed. Especially by the Americans.'

  'You've presumably tried to do the job yourselves -assuming always he is alive?'

  'With no success.' Lysenko became vehement. 'Do you not see our difficulty? He knows how we operate, which areas to avoid, which people to avoid. You understand?'

  Tweed understood only too well. Zarov knew not only the Soviet agents in the West – he'd also know their secret contacts, men and women who passed on information to Moscow for money – who had no traceable connection with the East. Lysenko continued.

  'But we regard your network as the best in the world. That he doesn't know about…'

  'Because you don't know yourself?' Tweed said quizzically.

  'No comment. Will you help? It is in your own interests – the rumours multiply of some entirely new organization being built up in Europe. We believe Zarov is the mastermind. We have not been able to locate one source that really can give us a hard fact. Something in Europe is in great danger – think of that consignment of terrible explosives.'

  Tweed pushed his chair back from the table. 'Is that everything?'

  'I give you this second card. It has a special phone number in Moscow where you can always reach me. The operator will put you straight through if there is a development. I will expect to be kept fully informed.'

  'You'll be disappointed then.' Tweed stood up. 'I don't work that way. Even assuming I take any action at all. That is not my decision.'

  'Tweed!' Lysenko had now stood up. 'This I will always swear you invented if repeated.' His rough voice trembled with emotion. Tweed watched him closely. Was this man a far better actor than he had been told? 'It was Gorbachev himself – after reading your file from beginning to end -who told me you were probably the only man in Europe who could find Zarov and deal with him.'

  'I repeat, it is not my decision.'

  Tweed ended the conversation on that note and then witnessed an extraordinary scene. Lysenko filled his glass to the brim with vodka, swallowed the contents in one gulp and hurled the glass across the room, smashing it against the wall. To your success, my friend!'

  It was mid-afternoon when Tweed's flight headed back for London. After Lysenko had left, Tweed had sat down and enjoyed the best meal he could remember provided by Rosa Tschudi at the Gasthof. He was grateful for the lunch because now he could think about all he had been told.

  Images tumbled through his mind. The blurred picture of Zarov which could not disguise his burning eyes. A large truck crashing the Soviet-Turkish border from Armenia. The body of Dikoyan floating in the Bosphorus, the throat slashed from ear to ear. The Greek freighter, Lesbos, slipping its moorings in the fabulous Golden Horn harbour, sailing to oblivion.

  Was any of it true? The GRU had concocted some fairytales in its time: Tweed, of all people, knew that. If so, they had excelled themselves. For what motive? Park Crescent had never had even the hint of the existence of an Igor Zarov. Did he even exist? If so, had Yuri Sabarin really seen him in Geneva recently? All he had was the word of Lysenko, a man who made lying a way of life.

  I'm inclined to discount the whole bloody story, he thought. So what new manoeuvre was it intended to conceal? For the first time since he had joined the Service Tweed felt at sea, completely baffled. And he didn't even know what opinion to express when he arrived back. He had never felt so frustrated. Maybe something would happen to bring the mystery into focus. He doubted it.

  10

  It was mid-afternoon in Marseilles when the man called Klein stood in the shadows of the entrance to the ancient church. Notre Dame de la Garde is perched high above the city like a fortress guarding the great seaport spread out far below. A vast stone terrace spreads away west of the entrance, a terrace surrounded by a low stone wall. Lara Seagrave perched her backside on the flat-topped wall, aimed the Leica camera equipped with a telephoto lens, took more pictures of the harbour and its approaches. There was no one else on the great platform.

  Below the wall the ground fell sheer towards the rooftops. Mid-afternoon, the sun at its highest point, beating down ferociously with a burning glare. It was well over 80° in the shade. Lara looked up from the camera and gazed round.

  The harsh limestone – of which Marseilles is built – stood out from the bleak, treeless ridges and bluffs which encircle the city. The heat radiated off the rock, a heat haze shimmered, the Mediterranean was a blinding blue, the islands – including the famous Chateau d'If – vague silhouettes.

  Lara loved the heat, soaked it up. Twenty-one years old, the step-daughter of Lady Windermere, she revelled in her freedom, in the excitement of the adventure. This was the moment when Klein, tall and thin-faced, wearing a suit of tropical drill, strolled into view, casually walked to a point close to her by the wall and raised a monocular glass looped round his neck.

  'What do you think?' he asked in perfect English, staring out to sea, giving no hint to a watcher that they knew each other.

  'Doesn't seem right for hijacking a ship,' she replied.

  'And why not?'

  'The harbour entrance is too narrow. It's like a snake the way it winds about. No easy escape route inland either if things go wrong. See how crammed together the old buildings are. The traffic jam in the streets. I feel it's not what you're looking for.'

  She spoke in her upper crust accent, hardly moving her lips as she, also, gazed out to sea. She forced herself to stay cool, although the nearness of this man always excited her. Mustn't show it, she reminded herself. He doesn't approve of that.

  'I'm inclined to agree with you,' Klein said. 'Best have a look at the next port. Le Havre.' His voice was cold, remote, his pale features contrasting strongly with Lara's sun-baked complexion. She was probably that colour all over, he mused. She loved sunning herself in the nude -one aspect of her sensuality.

  'I'll leave tonight then?' she suggested.

  'No. Tomorrow. And by train. From the Gare St Charles. I don't trust airports. Too easy for the security people to check each passenger. Go to Paris. I've reserved a room for you at The Ritz. Take another train from there to Le Havre. I'll meet you in five days' time. Friday – in the restaurant at The Ritz for dinner. You have enough money?'

  'I've got over three thousand pounds left. Plenty…'

  'I'll see you then.'

  'What about the photographs I've taken? I never expected to see you up here.'

  'Destroy them. Wait five minutes after I've gone, then you can leave here…'

  He drifted away like a ghost. Despite the heat she shivered with anticipation. For Paris. She hadn't even looked him in the eye. I never expected to see you up here… Klein always did the unexpected. Ever since that first meeting at a party in a flat near Harrods. She'd seen him watching her across t
he room. When he came up to her she didn't trust her luck. The other guests babbling away were crashing bores. This man was not only good-looking; he was intelligent, amusing, made her laugh.

  'I'm Reinhard Klein. Consultant for a German armaments firm. A bit hush-hush – what I do.'

  'You sound so English,' she'd remarked.

  'Who says I'm not?' He'd grinned and she threw her normal caution to the winds. He could charm the birds out of the trees. And he had certainly charmed Lara. 'The Germans like to think they're dealing with one of their own kind…'

  'You mean…'

  'I mean I'd like to take you out to dinner. Send you home as soon as you've had enough…'

  That was how it had started. She had learned practically nothing about his background, and this air of mystery intrigued her. Klein had – by the end of the evening -heard the story of her life.

  She'd endured the usual debutante-style education. After prep school it had been Roedean. She whipped through her exams, got high marks, hated the whole childish business, simply couldn't wait to get out into the real world.

  'I was good at languages,' she had told him. 'I went to a perfectly awful finishing school at Gstaad in Switzerland. To pass the time I became fluent in French and German. The other girls chased stupid men…'

  'You don't like men?' Klein had probed.

  'Not the kids – the twenty-year-old lot. They're callow, can't talk about anything except Henley and Glyndebourne. And bedding girls. I prefer older men. And I want to make a lot of money while I'm still young enough to enjoy it…'

  Klein had showed interest in that remark – and her ability as a linguist. He'd tested her, chatting in German and French. She'd told him how her mother had died young, killed in a car crash. Then her merchant banker father had married Lady Windermere.