Deadlock (8 page)

General Vasili Lysenko stood at the far side of the table in civilian clothes, hands clasped behind his back. A stocky man with a heavy Slavic face, clean-shaven, his greying hair trimmed
en brosse
. From under bushy eyebrows he stared back at his old enemy. For both it was quite a moment.

A third, thin-faced, studious-looking and younger man stood a few paces behind the General. Lysenko indicated him with a gesture of his thick-fingered right hand, speaking in Russian.

'My interpreter. Where is yours?'

'We won't need his services,' Tweed replied also in Russian.

Lysenko couldn't keep the surprise out of his expression. He smiled wintrily. 'Our files are out of date. I thought I knew everything about you . . .'

'Welcome to Switzerland.' Tweed held out his hand, taking the initiative. Lysenko grasped it in his paw-like hand, peering closely at Tweed. 'Younger than I'd been led to believe. A present from Moscow . . .'

He lifted a large white porcelain bowl off the table, handed it to Tweed, gesturing for the interpreter to leave them. 'Beluga caviar. We know you like it - that is in your file.'

'Thank you.' Tweed waited until one of Beck's girls, wearing a dove-grey two-piece suit, came in, laid a tray with his coffee on the table and left them alone. He balanced the bowl in both hands, watching Lysenko closely as he spoke.

'Not a cleverly designed bomb, I trust?'

No trace of wariness in the slate-grey eyes. Tweed was thinking back to the bomb at Blakeney. Lysenko showed a moment of surprise, then grinned, exposing lead-coloured fillings.

'I'll leave you to wonder about that when you come to sample it. Shall we start?'

'At once. I've come to listen,' Tweed commented as they sat facing each other. He was glad to see the Russian pouring himself a glass of vodka when Tweed shook his head. Built like a block of wood, it was the only hint of nervousness the GRU chief showed.

'We have a potential catastrophe facing us,' Lysenko began.

'Who is "we"?'

'You and I. All we say under this fine old Swiss roof is totally confidential. Not to be ever revealed to anyone but your Prime Minister - and maybe two members of your staff, very senior staff. The Americans must never know. Agreed?'

'Not until I have some idea of what this is all about. You will have to rely on my discretion . . .'

'So!' Lysenko's tone was aggressive. 'We are fencing already. That is not good.'

'I still have to listen first.'

'You always were a stubborn bastard, Tweed . . .' He pronounced it
Twaad
. 'But we will proceed. I have my instructions from the very top. We had a near-genius in our apparatus, Zarov. Igor Zarov. But we just call him Zarov.'

'His real name?'

'Yes. He comes from the South. Father Georgian, mother Armenian. Like mixing vodka and brandy. The fiery, independent, ruthless Georgian, ruddy-faced. The smooth, cunning Armenian. A formidable combination, this man. Only thirty-four years old. He could set Western Europe aflame. One man, Tweed . . .'

'Surely an exaggeration?'

'Wait!' A stubby index finger pointed at Tweed's chest, a mannerism a Soviet defector had described to Tweed. 'This man has been trained in every aspect of my work. He was marked for the highest promotion. He might even have taken over my job one day. But he couldn't wait. He is greedy for power and money, a vast sum of money. He disappeared two years ago from East Germany.' He paused. 'I've been instructed to be frank. He disappeared when he was operating in West Germany. At first we thought he'd gone over to the Americans - but that would have been out of character. Now we know he never went near the Americans.'

'How can you be sure of that?'

Lysenko drank more vodka, gave Tweed a quizzical look. 'Now you don't expect me to give you a list of contacts in Washington? Take my word. I wouldn't be here talking to you unless we were certain.'

'I suppose not.' Tweed's expression was blank, but he was growing interested. 'Go on.'

'We have a very dangerous man loose in the West, planning some enormous outrage to obtain a fortune. We have heard rumours. If Zarov is caught after the catastrophe occurs the Americans will make the most of it - at a time when the General Secretary is moving heaven and earth to build a new détente.'

That's twice you've used the word catastrophe. What makes the man so very dangerous?' He saw Lysenko pause and pressed home his point. 'I need to know far more about him. How come he was able to operate in West Germany? What is his history which makes you so worried?'

'First, he is a natural linguist - the Armenian coming out. He speaks fluent German, French, Italian, English and American. As you know, there is a difference in how the last two races speak the so-called common language. He was brilliant at everything he undertook.'

'Such as? I do need to know if I'm to trace him - which I presume is your hope?'

That is not my hope, it is my prayer.'

For the first time Tweed began to half-believe him. He drank more coffee, a dozen angles flitting through his mind.

'He may simply be dead,' he suggested. 'Operating in West Germany he'd be using false papers. He could have been knocked down by a tram in Frankfurt . . .'

'Except that he was seen in Geneva four weeks ago.'

Tweed was stunned. His expression remained the same. Now they had got talking in the same language — plus for Lysenko the vodka - the earlier stiff atmosphere between the two men was more relaxed. Tweed still remained guarded as he spoke.

'Seen by who?'

'Yuri Sabarin, member of a United Nations organization in Geneva. Sabarin happened to work closely with Zarov at one time in Moscow. He is observant and cautious. He has made a positive identification under the most gruelling attempts to shake him. Here is his telephone number.' Lysenko produced a white card from a brief-case by his side, handed it across the table. No address. Just a phone number.

'Sabarin has been instructed to meet you, to tell you what happened. You only have to call . . .'

'We'll see.' Tweed slipped the card into his wallet, drank more coffee, watching Lysenko. The Russian wore a drab grey sports jacket made of a hairy fabric. Linked with his hairstyle, the bristles protruding from his short nose, he reminded Tweed of a wild boar. And boars were dangerous and cunning creatures.

'So Zarov is alive - and in Europe,' Lysenko insisted. 'I am certain at this moment he is planning a catastrophe to obtain his fortune. He is a lone wolf, he simply decided he would have to wait too many years in the Motherland for the high places.'

'That word again. Catastrophe. Why?'

'All right.' Lysenko sighed. 'I was instructed to tell you certain things I would not have thought wise. But . . .'He splayed his hands. '. . . I was brought up in the old school - total secrecy. Tell the West nothing. Now we have a quite different chief - a man who has broken some of the moulds revered since 1917. Zarov was the most brilliant pupil at the Planning School. Always we went for the daring scheme - and concealed it from the enemy with a clever smokescreen. He came out top of the class. Again. A superb organizer.'

'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 . . .'