Deadlock tac-5

by Colin Forbes

  Seeing a lay-by ahead, he checked his rear view mirror again. No traffic in sight. He slowed, swung into the lay-by, stopped. Taking out a notebook, he inserted a piece of cardboard under a sheet and began to write, leaving no impression on the sheet below.

  Timers. Scuba divers. Marksman. Lara. Explosives. Banker.

  Like other lone wolf characters, Klein had a habit of talking aloud to himself, but was always aware of what he was doing. It helped to concentrate his thinking. He began now.

  Timers. Let's hope Gaston Blanc has them ready. A genius with miniature instrumentation. The only problem is after he hands them over. No loose ends… Scuba divers. Luxembourg swarms with them. Marksman? Paris. The Englishman would be ideal. Lara…'

  The problem with Lara was to keep her occupied until the time came for her to piay a role she had no idea -fortunately – she was destined for. A member of one of Britain's most distinguished aristocratic lines. Again, ideal. He'd send her on more wild-goose chases, Klein decided.

  The last two items were all organized. It took money to persuade people to cooperate in an unknown operation -a lot of money. Well, he'd already obtained that.

  Klein reckoned he'd calculated the amounts just right. Four thousand for Lara. With the promise of a quarter of a million pounds. Four thousand was not enough to tempt her into walking away. Not with a fortune dangled in front of her.

  Louis Chabot had been a different proposition. A professional. Ten thousand francs for starters. The promise of two hundred thousand, the equivalent of?20,000. More money than Chabot had ever earned before. Not too much, not too little – that was the delicate balance.

  Greed. That was the motive force. Estimate the level of greed with a man – or a woman – and you had them in the palm of your hand. A compulsive checker, Klein looked at his list again. Explosives. In place. Banker. Everything arranged.

  Whichever way he looked at it, Klein felt sure he had overlooked nothing. Already rumours about the hijacking of an unknown vessel were spreading. The essential smokescreen. You couldn't recruit people on the scale he was operating at without whispers reaching the authorities. So, give them something to chew on, the wrong thing.

  Of course there would be casualties. Hundreds of them. But you couldn't mount the biggest operation since World War Two – against the biggest target in Western Europe -without casualties. You couldn't make an omelette without breaking eggs – a two hundred million pound gold bullion omelette.

  And, Klein, a careful man, thought, as he used a lighter to set fire to the sheet from his notepad, then dropped the blackened remnant into the ash-tray, he hadn't left a single clue behind. Who in the world was there to stop him?

  13

  Tweed returned to Park Crescent at 7 p.m. Howard and Monica were waiting for him in his office. They looked up expectantly as he walked round his desk, sank into his chair.

  'Well,' Howard pressed, 'what did the PM say?'

  'I have to investigate the Zarov thing. Sheer waste of time, I'm sure…'

  'You didn't tell her that?'

  'Of course I did. She's frank, expects frankness. But I have to check it out.'

  'How on earth are you going to do that?' Howard crossed his well-creased trousers carefully and drank more of the coffee Monica had supplied. 'Not a damned thing to go on,' he continued. 'Doesn't she realize that?'

  'It's that conversation she had when Gorbachev phoned her. I don't think she's told me everything that was said. I'll just have to get on with it.' Tweed waved a hand in the air. 'A search for a phantom.'

  'With not a damned thing to go on?' Howard repeated.

  'Not quite true.' Tweed fingered his tie, a sure sign to Monica he wasn't happy about the situation. 'First, there is Yuri Sabarin, the Russian in Geneva who swears he saw Igor Zarov a few weeks ago.'

  'What about him?'

  'I'm flying to Geneva tomorrow to interview him. Grill him, if you like. He'll probably back-track under pressure…'

  'And what else is going for you?' Monica asked. 'Like some coffee? Yes, you look fagged out. I'll make a fresh pot.'

  'Thank you. While I'm in Geneva I'll also start checking my personal contacts. Then go on to Paris. Check with someone who knows everything that happens in the quiet streets…' A reference to the quiet streets which house Soviet embassies. 'Then,' he continued, 'I may go on to my contact in Brussels.'

  'Why those cities?' Howard asked.

  'According to Lysenko this Zarov was stationed in them at various times.' He reached inside his brief-case he'd dropped beside his desk, extracted the photocopy of Igor Zarov, put it on the desk facing Howard. 'That's who I'm supposed to track down. If he's still alive. ..'

  'You sound doubtful,' Howard observed as Monica returned with a tray and began pouring coffee.

  'I am very doubtful – despite the PM's views. I'm also wary.'

  'Wary?' Monica queried. She looked at the picture. 'That's him?'

  'Wary and suspicious. Lysenko could be up to something. The only thing is he seemed genuinely worried – even frightened.' He pushed the picture towards Monica. 'Get the Engine Room boys in the basement to run off two dozen copies. It will be tricky – making copies from a copy. Then send one to Chief Inspector Benoit of the Brussels police, Rene Lasalle in Paris, Otto Kuhlmann in Wiesbaden and Arthur Beck of the Swiss Federal Police in Berne. I'll draft a letter to them later to go with the photocopies.'

  'Why so many policemen?' asked Monica. 'Instead of all the Intelligence chiefs?'

  Tweed showed wry amusement, watching Howard. 'Oh, didn't I tell you? The PM has given me a temporary appointment as a Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad. And, Monica, check all the files on Soviet embassy personnel over here for the past three years…'

  'Ye Gods!'

  'Yes, it will take awhile. But Zarov was in London, 1985. The point is this – Lysenko told me his postings, but not the names he worked under. Undoubtedly not Zarov. He'll have been a commercial attache officially, something like that.'

  Howard sat with a stunned look. 'You did say you've been given a special attachment to Scotland Yard? Your old stamping ground?'

  'Youngest Superintendent, Homicide Squad,' Monica said with relish. 'After he left Military Intelligence, before he came here.'

  'I was just lucky,' Tweed commented.

  'I still don't understand it,' Howard protested. 'That's never been done before. A split allegiance – to the Service and to Scotland Yard.'

  'Nonsense!' Tweed waved a hand. 'I didn't ask for it. The PM's idea. It will give me more clout with the police on the continent.'

  'I don't like it,' Howard said stiffly. 'She should have consulted me.' He stood up to leave.

  'Send her a memo,' Tweed suggested.

  Howard glared, shot his cuffs, and walked out of the room. He closed the door very quietly behind him. Monica giggled, refilled Tweed's cup. 'He's hopping mad again. He'll be impossible for days.. .'

  'I won't be here for days. There's something else. That bomb at Paula's house in Blakeney. A Captain Nicholls and his team defused it. Nicholls said it was a new type – he'd been shown a sample obtained by Commander Bellenger of Naval Intelligence. Call Admiralty after I've gone home – try and get Bellenger to come and meet me here before I have to catch the flight for Geneva.'

  'Will do.' Monica frowned. 'Funny isn't it? A Soviet bomb is planted in Norfolk – then the Kremlin asks for assistance finding this mysterious Zarov character. And you were told by Lysenko a huge cargo of sea-mines and bombs had gone missing from their Sevastopol depot. Doesn't make sense.'

  'Maybe it will after I've talked with Bellenger. Any word from Newman out in Breckland?'

  'Not a dicky bird. You know Bob – he'll go his own way, only report in when he's got something.'

  True.' Tweed had put on his Burberry, was about to go home when he made the casual remark. 'Where is Paula now?'

  'Where do you think? Working in Howard's office. He invented some French documents he wanted translated. She's
pretty cool about the whole idea…'

  'Not to worry. Just get two air tickets to Geneva. One for me, one for Paula.'

  'And what's your excuse?' Monica asked frostily. 'Sorry,' she added hastily, 'that must have sounded bitchy…'

  'You said that, I didn't.'

  'Why do you need her? Sheer curiosity on my part. I suppose I get ticked off again?'

  'Not at all. Paula speaks French and German. And Yuri Sabarin, who must speak French to be posted to Geneva, may be susceptible to women.'

  Paula came back to the office half an hour later, her expression blank, followed by Howard, who strolled in, staring around. Monica spoke first.

  'If you're looking for Tweed he's gone. For the night. Paula,' she went on rapidly, 'you're travelling to Geneva with Tweed tomorrow. Thought I'd warn you – so you could pack a bag.'

  'I keep one packed for an emergency departure – just like Tweed. But thanks for the warning. Which flight?'

  'Best be ready by eleven tomorrow morning.'

  Monica was watching Howard who had slumped into an easy chair, one leg lolling over an arm, hands clasped behind the back of his neck. He watched Paula, who busied herself at her desk, sifting through files.

  'Tweed still doubtful about the whole business?' he enquired.

  'You heard what he said,' Monica replied cautiously.

  'The PM is probably right, you know. It ought to be checked. All these rumours about some new outfit hijacking a ship. It might turn out to be one of ours… '

  You bastard! Monica was thinking. You're covering yourself in case any of Tweed's comments get back to No. 10. She eyed him, playing with a pencil before she reacted.

  'I wouldn't have thought something like that was our concern.'

  'The PM thinks it might be, that's enough for me.' He smiled with an air of self-satisfaction. Monica saw through him instantly. He'd expressed support for the official view and had two witnesses to back him up – if push came to shove. 'And,' he went on, 'there's that business about the peculiar character who may – or may not – exist. Has to be checked.' He glanced again at Paula, her raven-black hair bent over the files. At least, Monica thought, he'd had the sense not to mention Zarov by name in front of the new recruit.

  Howard stretched out his long legs, checked his watch, stood up and stretched. He thrust both hands in his trouser pockets and stared at Paula.

  'What about a spot of dinner? You've worked well today. You need fodder to keep you going. I know a place where the fodder is rather good.'

  'Thank you. Sir,' she added as an afterthought. She was sitting still crouched over the files, looking up at him. 'But it's an early night for me. I must be fresh for the flight tomorrow.'

  'There's always another night. Have fun in Geneva. I hear the fodder is pretty good there. Tell me all about it when you get back. All right?'

  'Good night. Sir,' replied Paula. She waited until they were alone. 'I'm looking forward to my first mission abroad,' she told Monica.

  Things happen when Tweed arrives somewhere. Baptism of fire.'

  Commander Alec Bellenger arrived at Park Crescent late in the afternoon of the following day, which caused Tweed to put off his flight to Geneva until twenty-four hours later. A phone call from Admiralty had warned he was delayed returning from abroad.

  Mid-thirties, Tweed estimated, Bellenger was a tall heavily-built man with thick brown hair. Ruddy-cheeked, a strong jaw, ice-cold blue eyes, he carried himself with the easy assurance of a man accustomed to command.

  He listened in silence as Tweed related the bomb incident at Blakeney, his eyes never leaving Tweed's. He's weighing me up, Tweed thought. Fair enough. He finished speaking and Bellenger crossed his large hands in his lap, then reacted.

  'Nicholls, that Bomb Disposal officer, came to me afterwards. Brought the shell and innards of the infernal device. It's a Cossack, all right…'

  'Cossack?'

  'Code-name for the sea-mine we smuggled out of Russia. Can't tell you how. Came out by submarine. Period.'

  'Understood,' Tweed assured him.

  'Apart from the hydrogen bomb it's the most devilish device invented since World War Two. Don't mind telling you the thing scares the living daylights out of me.'

  'Why?'

  'First the explosive the sample we purloined contained. We've called it Triton Three. Its power is roughly midway between TNI and an atom bomb.'

  'Just supposing,' Tweed said casually, 'we were talking about thirty of these sea-mines – plus twenty-five bombs -and they were all armed with this Triton Three. What effect could that lot have?'

  Bellenger stiffened, leaned forward. Monica, who was watching him from behind her desk could have sworn the naval commander lost colour. He took his time replying, like a man recovering from shock.

  Take out Birmingham,' he responded. The whole city. Three miles radius from impact point. Level every building. No survivors. Inside that three-miles radius…'

  'Jesus!'

  Tweed let slip the blasphemy involuntarily. He stared at his visitor, who stared back. Bellenger straightened up, steepled his hands.

  'Is this theoretical? You chose very precise numbers.'

  'Oh, completely.' Tweed smiled and drank some coffee. Inside the office the atmosphere was electric. He took his time over drinking the coffee – to defuse the tension. His hand was very steady as he replaced cup and saucer on desk. His tone was offhand when he spoke.

  'What is so special about Cossack – the mechanism?'

  Bellenger glanced over his shoulder at Monica. Tweed repeated the assurance he'd given when Bellenger arrived – that Monica had top vetting. 'In fact, if anything happened to me, she'd have to carry on.'

  'Delayed action detonation for one thing. A saboteur could carry an object no larger than the smallest pocket calculator, stand thirty miles from the mine – or bomb -press a button and bang! The most advanced form of the old World War Two magnetic mine we've ever encountered. For one thing…'

  'And for another?'

  'It's size – in ratio to its appalling destructive power. It is quite small. About one foot in diameter. And it's death to any sizeable naval vessel. Take a submarine. They drop it within thirty miles of one of our subs. Our chaps are dead -that means they're so many fathoms under, all engine power switched off. No one even drops a spoon. Cossack homes in on them, even comes up to the hull, attaches itself like the suckers of an octopus with a revolutionary magnetic system. Someone presses the button. Our sub splits in two, is blown out of the water in a million bits.'

  'How does it home in if everything is switched off and silent.'

  The men inside have to breathe,' Bellenger said grimly.

  'So?'

  'Cossack has an ultra-sensitive chemical probe which picks up carbon dioxide – even through a hull of sheet steel. How much carbon dioxide do you imagine a sub's crew breathes out?'

  'Sounds a bit diabolical.' Tweed sipped more coffee. 'But the men who despatch the mine or bomb – from a plane, another sub, whatever. They breathe…'

  'I see where you're heading,' Bellenger commented. 'Cossack's sensitivity to carbon dioxide is controlled. The pocket calculator device again. Press another button and the carbon dioxide probe comes into action. We've no defence as yet. All that – and the Triton Three. Only the timer device is second rate.'

  'I think,' Tweed said, checking his watch under the level of his desk, 'you've put me into the picture.'

  'And now you can put me in the picture. How did that bomb in Norfolk get there? Admiralty only let me come in the hope you'd give me a lead on that.'

  'I simply have no idea, no lead, no clue. I'm sorry.'

  'But you'll let me know if you unearth one?'

  Bellenger was standing up. Not a man to waste time. Either Tweed didn't know or wasn't telling. For the moment. Bellenger recognized a man who couldn't be talked into saying anything he didn't want revealed. They shook hands, Tweed saw him to the front entrance, came back to his office.

&nbs
p; 'Now do you believe Lysenko?' Monica asked vehemently.

  'No. I'm still dubious…'

  'For God's sake. After listening to Bellenger – and Lysenko telling you about the theft from that bloody Sevastopol depot?'

  'Lysenko would know someone had obtained a sample as Bellenger so quaintly puts it. They'll keep careful checks on the numbers of Cossacks they have. It would embroider his story – make it sound more convincing when I found out, as he knew I would.'

  'So you think it's a wild goose chase?'

  'I may know more after Geneva.'

  14

  La-Chaux-de-Fonds, centre of the Swiss watch-making industry, lies high up in the Jura Mountains near the French frontier. The modern buildings are white, antiseptic-looking blocks, the streets laid out on the American grid system, forming perfect rectangles. Set amid rolling green Alpine pastures, the place had an unreal atmosphere – like some vast laboratory, Klein thought.

  Behind the wheel of the Mercedes hired in Geneva, he drove along the rue de la Paix, home of the watch-making factories. 12.55 p.m. The street was deserted. He drove slowly past a three-storey edifice, headquarters of Montres Ribaud, one of the leading watch-makers.

  Pulling in at the kerb beyond Ribaud, he checked the time, kept the motor running. It is doubtful whether Louis Chabot, hidden away in Larochette, would have recognized him. Klein wore dark-tinted wrap-round glasses; a soft hat concealed his black hair; a polo-necked sweater made his lean jaw seem longer.

  Promptly at 1 p.m. Gaston Blanc emerged from the Ribaud building, carrying a large case. Klein watched him approaching in his rear-view mirror. Then – as arranged -he drove slowly on, turned down an equally deserted side street and stopped.

  Gaston Blanc was a small, plump-faced man. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and stooped as he walked. The result of years of bending over a work-bench, Klein guessed. Blanc was Ribaud's Director of Research, reputed to be the most brilliant in Switzerland.

  Klein had the front passenger door open when Blanc arrived. The Swiss deposited his case on the back seat, climbed in beside Klein, who drove off immediately without any kind of greeting.