by Colin Forbes
`Chief of the Balkan sector. Headquarters, Vienna. Zone covers Austria, Yugoslavia and Greece. Operates in the most dangerous penetration areas – Hungary, Rumania, Bulgaria and the Ukraine. Speaks German, Serbo-Croat, Greek and Russian. A gay dog since his divorce – even before it..
No note of disapproval for Masterson, Tweed observed.
`… has a succession of girl friends. All of them in this country, all of them British. Very careful not to get involved once he leaves for Vienna. Very popular with his agents – he'll take any risk he asks them to undertake. Has been behind the Iron Curtain seven times before you stopped him. Can hold his drink. At a party I once saw him – he was loaded – walk into the street with an unopened bottle of champagne perched on his head. He walked along the centre white line, arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. All for a bet…'
`Your enthusiasm wouldn't be running away with you?'
Monica wouldn't stop. She continued in full flood. 'Lives in a lovely old cottage at Apfield near Chichester. Mixes with the yachting crowd but wouldn't set foot on a boat. Hates them and says so. That's a tribute to his personality. Boaty people are very sensitive about their hobby. He doesn't give a damn. "Bloody boats," I once heard him say at Cowes, "they never stay in one place." They made him a member. Can you believe that?'
`If you say so, Monica. Call him. Let's get it over with. I'm beginning to feel I'm conducting a series of interrogations.'
`Isn't that exactly what you are doing?' she asked and picked up the phone.
`The general situation in the Balkans?' Tweed asked and watched Masterson through half-closed eyes.
`Bloody boring. Nothing doing. Can't understand it. Never known the roubles go to ground like this before. Something sinister in the wind. I'll damned well dig out what it is..
`Go to ground, you said. What exactly does that indicate?'
`It indicates what I said. All enemy agents have dived into their burrows like a bunch of flaming rabbits. You can walk down the Karntnerstrasse in Vienna and back up again all day without seeing one suspicious character. That's suspicious in itself. Vienna is the espionage centre of Europe east of Geneva. The place is losing all its character…'
`Slow down, Harry. I've got the picture. What does that picture suggest to you?'
`They're preparing something really nasty, of course. Pull out, lull us into a state of spending our time in the bars. Then, bingo! Launch the operation. Always the same technique. Moscow got into, a rut years ago. I keep telling you that. So what do I have to do to convince you? Take out an ad in The
Times?'
`It could be the new leadership assessing the situation…'
`Assessing my ass! We'd better brace ourselves, Tweed – and you'd better watch your back on that Hamburg jolly. From what I hear the only big feature recently has been the killing of poor Ian Fergusson. Hamburg is what it's all about. Not that Hugh Grey has caught on yet. Too busy dusting off Howard's chair before he plants his poncy behind in it. God, I'd hate to work under him. Come to think of it, I wouldn't…'
`He's got a tricky job,'. Tweed pointed out when he could edge in a word. 'That's the sector where you can't tell one German from another – East or West…'
`So, why didn't one of his feelers warn him Fergusson was on to a one-way trip? I'd have known if he'd been heading for the Balkans.'
`Which is your way of saying you don't much like each other.'
`I hate the guts he doesn't have…'
`On that punch-line maybe we'd better end this chat. You'll never better it,' Tweed assured him.
`You watch your back!'
Masterson, his ruddy complexion flushed beneath the coal- black hair, waved a minatory finger at Tweed, gave Monica his quick salute and was gone. Through the door without opening it was Tweed's impression.
`Isn't he marvellous?' Monica cooed, her own face flushed a pinkish tinge.
`I believe that bit about walking the white line with the champagne bottle now,' Tweed told her. `So, we've seen the lot. Any clue as to which one sent Fergusson into the abyss?'
`Nothing I spotted. Did I miss something?'
The door opened again and Masterson reappeared. He closed it and stood staring at Tweed as he spoke.
`I hope you took me seriously. I meant it. I know what I'm talking about. I'm pretty sociable – and that party at Grey's farm…' He stopped. 'Oh, hell, you've had a bellyful of me.'
Monica made a fuss about being busy when Masterson had left the room for the second time. Tweed watched her as she moved files around and then reached for the phone.
`Hold that call,' he said. 'Now, tell me what all that was about. Some party at Grey's farm out on the Wash. What party?'
`It was a couple of years ago. July 14.' She looked embarrassed but Tweed waited, compelling her to go on. 'Grey had a birthday party. Paula acted as hostess – his wife had pushed off and he and Paula were living together…'
`Get to the point. Who were the guests?'
`The four men who are now sector chiefs. Masterson, Dalby and Lindemann. It was Grey's birthday. He asked them all to come for dinner. They happened to be on leave at the same time. So, it seemed an ideal opportunity.'
She stopped and studied Tweed's expression. He looked amused. 'You're thinking I was one of their main topics of conversation?'
`They might have asked you to join them…'
`Why should they? They were all lower down the ladder – men in from the field and in search of relaxation. I'd have put a real damper on their having a free-and-easy time. They need something to get the tension out of their systems. How is it you remember the date so well?'
`July 14? Bastille Day.'
`Of course. And all this time you've kept quiet – thinking I'd be offended?'
`How was I to know how you'd react? It wasn't a piece of information which affected our work. If it had been, I'd have let you know soon enough.'
`I'm sure you would. Now, let me have the tickets for Hamburg, foreign currency, travellers' cheques, etc.' As she took a folder from a locked drawer he threw the question at her.
`During my recent interviews, did you notice any common link?'
`They've all worked in the field. None of them are desk types who haven't a clue as to what it's all about…'
`True. Go on.'
`That's it,' Monica said, her brow crinkled.
`They all have just one European language in common which they all speak fluently. German.'
`Is that significant?'
`How do I know what is significant? It's early days yet.. The phone rang, Monica answered and spoke briefly, then pulled a wry face.
`Company?'
`Yes. Your favourite person. Howard is on his way up now.'
`I really wouldn't have thought this Hamburg affair required your august presence,' Howard pontificated in his most lordly manner. 'Let Hugh Grey handle it – after all, the incident did occur in his sector.'
`The incident, as you call it, involved the death of one of my top men. A second-hand view isn't good enough.'
`I'd hardly call Hugh second-hand. You make him sound like a used car.' Howard chuckled and glanced at Monica expecting a tribute to his wit.
'I'm catching a Lufthansa flight. It's all arranged. And the PM has sanctioned the trip…'
`Oh, my God!' Howard clapped a theatrical hand to his domed forehead. 'Not another of her bloody directives, I trust?'
`Your trust is misplaced.' Tweed sat back in his chair and stared bleakly at his chief. 'And I suspect Fergusson was on to something big – otherwise, why murder him?'
`Don't let's over-dramatize, old boy.' Howard, six foot tall, wearing a new made-to-measure chalk-stripe suit, perched his behind on the arm of an easy chair. 'We don't know that for sure – from what Hugh has just told me…'
`Hugh knows damn-all. I'm keeping the wraps on this one.'
`Hugh's a good chap,' Howard protested. 'And I heard in Paris from Pierre Loriot the quiet streets are empty. The Russian lad
dies have all gone home – doubtless to listen to Uncle Mikhail and make their number with him.'
`Pierre said that?' Tweed leaned forward, intrigued by Howard's news. The reference to 'quiet streets' was parlance for the Soviet embassies located in discreet areas. 'That was his report,' Tweed pressed. 'What was his opinion?'
`There has to be a difference?' Howard studied his manicured nails, his plump face smug.
`Well, was there? You tell me.'
`I suppose you could say there was a subtle shade of difference. Pierre did say the pregnant silence – his phrase – worried him. Just his opinion though. Pierre isn't happy without something to worry about. Keeps him late at the office – away from that awful wife in Passy. He'd read the telephone directory rather than go home before ten…'
And so would you, matey, Tweed thought, but didn't say so. It was well-known Howard's relations with his rich wife, Cynthia, had become distant. 'Clear out of sight,' was Monica's comment.
If there's nothing else…' Tweed began.
`Think that's all.' Howard stood erect, straightening his tie. `Sorry about Fergusson, and all that. Goes with the territory, of course…'
`Not with my territory,' Tweed shot back as Howard strolled to the door and left the room. He looked at Monica. 'Hamburg next stop…'
Six
July 10 1985. Flight LH 041 arrived at Hamburg dead on time at 1255 hours. Tweed peered from his first-class seat through the window as the machine descended through a grey vapour. The greyness dissolved, Germany spread out a few hundred feet below.
He studied the jigsaw of cultivated fields and plantations of firs and pines. Narrow sandy tracks led inside the woodlands from the outside world. Peninsulas of housing estates poked into the fields, then the countryside was inundated by the urban tide.
More trees as the plane dropped lower. He remembered this approach to Hamburg, one of his favourite German cities. A stranger would never realize he was passing over the city. In the seat behind him Newman was not peering out of the window. His eyes were flickering over the other passengers, searching for anyone taking an interest in Tweed. They landed.
Tweed was the first passenger to walk down the mobile staircase, Newman the third. They had travelled from Heathrow as though they had never met. Tweed was standing by the carousel, waiting for his two cases, when Chief Inspector Otto Kuhlmann of the Federal Police joined him.
`Got a light?' Kuhlmann asked in German, holding his cigar.
`I think I can accommodate you,' Tweed replied in the same language. He lowered his voice as he flicked on the lighter and the German bent forward. 'I have two cases, as you suggested over the phone…'
`Point me to the first one. I'll take that.'
When the first case appeared Kuhlmann leaned forward and heaved it off the moving belt. He then had trouble relighting his cigar with Tweed's lighter. The second case appeared, Tweed grabbed it, accepted the lighter from Kuhlmann and they walked away together from the crowd gathered round the carousel.
Anyone watching would have assumed the two men had travelled together on Flight LH 041 from Heathrow. Outside the reception hall Kuhlmann led the way to an unmarked police Audi, they both climbed into the back and the driver left the airport.
`That little manoeuvre may have covered your arrival,' the German commented as they drove along tree-lined streets. Entering Hamburg was like driving into the country.
`May is the operative word. Where are we going first? I have a reservation at the Four Seasons…'
`Living high?'
`The best hotel is the last place the opposition will expect to find me. And I have an escort following in a cab. Robert Newman, the foreign correspondent.'
Tweed produced a photo of Newman from his wallet which Kuhlmann hardly glanced at. He took a deep drag at his cigar and shook his head.
`I'd have recognized Newman without a picture. I saw him back at the carousel. I was going to check his presence with you. If it's OK by you the first stop is the hospital where Fergusson was taken to and died. The doctor may be able to tell you something. Anyway, you're safe in Hamburg…'
`Let's just say I'm in Hamburg.'
The flight had still been in mid-air when the call to an apartment block in Altona, a Hamburg suburb, came through from London. The caller – from a booth inside the Leicester Square Post Office, which is actually off Charing Cross Road – spoke in German.
`Tweed is on his way. Flight LH 041, departed Heathrow 1120 hours, arrives Hamburg 1255 your time. Have you got that?'
`Understood. He'll be met at the airport. We have good time. Thank you for calling. Now we can have a limo waiting.'
Martin Vollmer, who occupied the Altona apartment, broke the connection, waited a moment, then dialled a number in Flensburg, Schleswig-Holstein, on the Danish border.
`Tweed is coming..
The wires continued to hum through a complex communication system across North Germany. Like a tom-tom beat the same message was repeated again and again. 'Tweed is coming… Tweed is coming… TWEED IS COMING…
By the time the flight had crossed the European coastline and LH 041 was over the mainland the phone rang in the bedroom of Erwin Munzel at the Hotel Movenpick, Lubeck. The blond giant had sat by the instrument for over an hour. He snatched up the receiver.
`Tweed is coming…'
The brief conversation ended, Munzel; registered under the name of Kurt Franck, left the hotel immediately and walked on to the main part of Lubeck situated on an island encircled by the river Trave. It was a hot day, the air was torrid as he boarded a bus for Eichholz.
Wearing jeans and a polo-necked cashmere sweater, he checked his watch as the bus left the island, drove over a bridge and headed east through a dull suburban district of four-storey apartment blocks.
In less than ten minutes he got off at the terminus. He had reached the border with East Germany – the no-man's- land which is a death-trap. A coach-load of American tourists escorted by the usual talkative guide stood staring east with all the fascination of ghouls observing a traffic accident.
Munzel pushed his way through to the front and gazed at the distant watch-tower. He checked his watch again and waited until it was 1.30 p.m. precisely. Then he pulled a red-coloured handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiped the sweat off his high forehead. He repeated the gesture three times.
Inside the watch-tower one of the three guards stared through a pair of high-powered binoculars. He felt he could reach out and touch Munzel's forehead. Putting down the binoculars on a table he reached for the phone.
`That's Munzel reporting in,' he remarked to his companions.
The wires began humming in the DDR – the German Democratic Republic. East Germany. Within minutes, General Lysenko, seated at a desk next to Markus Wolf in the basement of a building in the centre of Leipzig picked up the phone when it rang.
He listened, said 'yes' or 'no' several times, then replaced the instrument. Typically, he kept the chief of East German Intelligence in suspense while he lit a cigarette fitted with a cardboard holder.
Markus Wolf, in his sixties, sat like a graven image, his horn-rimmed glasses perched on his prominent nose. Wolf had the patience of a cat playing with a trapped mouse.
`Tweed is coming…' Lysenko told him eventually. `So, we wait…'
`He has taken the bait. He has arrived in Hamburg. Soon we'll hear he has arrived in Lubeck.'
`After a while, possibly. I know Tweed. He is the most cautious and wary counter-espionage chief in the whole of the West. Do not expect too much..
`I expect Munzel to kill him.'
`Probably. Let us be patient. We must be even more patient than Tweed. The one who wins this duel will be the man with the greatest stamina..
`You are a pessimist..
`No, just a realist.'
The first man to receive the news from the phone box inside the Leicester Square Post Office, Martin Vollmer, waiting in his apartment at Altona, had made one further phone call after
contacting Flensburg. Which is why a taxi with its Frei light doused had followed the unmarked police car from the airport to the hospital.
He parked at some distance from the Audi as Kuhlmann climbed out, followed by Tweed. He watched them enter the hospital and settled back to wait further developments. He was so intent on observing what happened beyond his windscreen that he omitted to check his rear view mirror.
Leaving the airport building, carrying his case, Newman at once noticed something odd. His whole experience as a foreign correspondent had trained him to spot the out-of-the-ordinary. He saw the Audi transporting Tweed turn out of the airport. Looking for a cab he also saw the taxi lacking the Frei sign illumination.
The odd thing was the vehicle was occupied by the driver alone. The coincidence was that this driver decided to leave the airport without a fare at the precise moment the Audi drove off.
Getting inside the next waiting cab, he handed the driver a ten-deutschmark note. 'That's your tip,' he said in German. `And I may add a bonus. Just follow that black Audi, please. You'll be helping the Drug Squad,' he added.
Newman kept a close eye on the Audi. This action automatically made him observe the cab which appeared to be following it. As they turned into the kerb by the hospital Newman warned his driver to stop immediately. This placed his vehicle a dozen metres behind the other cab now parked by the kerb.
He paid off his driver, stooped to pick up his case and noted the registration number of the waiting cab. Then he walked into the hospital Immediately his nostrils were assailed by the aroma of hygienic cleansing liquids. Newman detested all things medical. Still, he consoled himself as he entered the reception hall, it was in the line of duty. Damnit!
`I can have that cab driver picked up,' Kuhlmann suggested when Newman finished his brief report. 'We'll grill the hell out of him…'
`If I might make a suggestion,' Tweed intervened. 'Don't alert him. Have him followed, identified – if possible. But on no account should he be intercepted.'
`You're blown,' Kuhlmann warned: 'That driver could be our only lead to who organized the tracker – and from the airport. That is very serious. After the precautions we took. I'm telling you.'