by Colin Forbes
'Klein here. The delivery is on the way, should arrive before dawn.'
'I shall be here to receive it,' the soft pedantic voice replied.
'Don't forget to give the driver his reward. I shall be there sometime tomorrow.'
'Our friend from the south has arrived…'
'I'll see him…'
'He is restless…'
Klein broke the connection without comment. Short phone calls were a strict maxim with him – even from a public call box. He returned to the baggage container section, took out another key and collected the Samsonite case he had deposited earlier. He checked his watch. He'd have to keep moving.
He carried the case to the men's lavatory, locked himself inside a cubicle and perched the case on the toilet lid. Ten minutes later he came out again. He had entered the cubicle dressed like a businessman. He emerged looking like a holiday-maker.
He was now wearing a windcheater and a pair of clean blue denims. Horn-rimmed glasses completed the transformation. He bought a second-class ticket to Basle and was just in time to board the express. When a girl came along with a trolley he bought a carton of coffee as the train left Geneva far behind. He enjoyed the drink. It had been thirsty work. And once again he had the satisfaction of not having left a single clue behind.
Half an hour after the Basle Express left for northern Switzerland a woman cleaner noticed the toilet in the stationary express at Cornavin which said Occupe. It bothered her – a passenger could be ill inside. She called a guard.
The guard produced a bunch of keys, chose a flat ended instrument and eased back the lock. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and the cleaning woman peered inside. That was when she began to scream and scream and scream…
15
'We may well be chasing a phantom, a man who doesn't exist any more,' Tweed told Paula as the Swissair machine continued its descent.
'Has this phantom a name? Or am I asking the wrong question? I do realize I'm very much the new recruit.'
'Igor will do. Another Russian based in Geneva swears he saw him in the city four weeks ago. I have to decide whether he's right or not. More I can't tell you. Yet… '
He had given Paula the window seat and she was peering out of the window as the plane completed a right-angled turn and headed straight down the centre of Lake Geneva. They were due to land at midday.
'What a marvellous view,' she enthused. 'Those mountains over there. What are they?'
'The Jura.'
The aircraft was half-empty in first-class. The seats behind and in front were empty, so they were able to talk freely as the descent continued. Paula looked at her Swiss watch.
'I wonder where this was made?'
'Probably at La-Chaux-de-Fonds. A town up in those Jura mountains. Funny place. None of your old-fashioned Swiss chalets with window-boxes. More like a child's town built of bricks – then enlarged to normal building size. A bit stark.'
'Do I get to meet this Russian? The one who says he saw this phantom? He knows you're coming?'
'I'll see him first. And no, he doesn't. I'm hoping to catch him off balance.'
He glanced at Paula who was staring out of the window again. She was dressed perfectly for the occasion. A classic two-piece suit with pleated skirt and a pussy bow at the neck of her blue blouse. Would he have to unleash her on Sabarin he wondered? He doubted it. Bloody waste of time, the whole trip. He looked glum as the aircraft descended on the final run-in to Cointrin Airport.
Yuri Sabarin agreed to come immediately to the Hotel des Bergues when Tweed phoned the number Lysenko had given him. Which made Tweed even more sceptical. The Russians normally took their time – to emphasize their self-importance, to show how busy they were. Paula waited in her own room while Tweed paced back and forth in his bedroom. The second surprise was when the Russian arrived on time. The third was his opening remark after he met Tweed.
This is an appropriate place for our discussion. It is here where I saw Zarov.'
'Actually in this hotel?'
Yuri Sabarin was a small, wiry, lean-faced and energetic man who, Tweed estimated, would be in his thirties. He was also dressed smartly in a pale grey suit, blue-striped shirt and a pale blue tie. One of the new breed Gorbachev was using? His command of English was excellent.
'No, outside this hotel,' Sabarin smiled. 'If we could go downstairs to the small restaurant I could show you exactly – Le Pavilion.'
On the spur of the moment Tweed changed his mind, phoned to Paula, asked her to come to his room. Sabarin was not what he had expected. He introduced Paula and they went downstairs in the elevator. Sabarin led the way through the reception hall and into the restaurant Tweed knew well.
It faced the street with windows overlooking the Rhone beyond. 'Watch to see if you think he's telling the truth,' Tweed whispered as they followed the Russian who seemed at home in one of Geneva's best hotels. The PM had allocated a generous budget for what Tweed still felt was a useless exercise.
Sabarin made for an empty window table. They were almost the only customers at three in the afternoon. The Swiss eat early and get back to their desks, abhorring the long business lunch. He pulled out a window chair for Paula and Tweed intervened.
'Why are we sitting here?'
'Because I was – when I saw him…'
'In which chair?'
'This one.' It was the chair he had offered Paula. Tweed shook his head. 'Then I want you sitting there – so we can reconstruct exactly how it happened…'He heard himself speaking and it reminded him of his days back at the Yard in the days when he was investigating a murder case. 'Paula can sit opposite you,' he continued. 'I will sit alongside -so I get a similar view. Ah, here is the waitress. Coffee for everyone. Good, that's settled.'
He sat alongside Sabarin and looked out of the window without speaking for a short time. The sidewalk was immediately beyond the window and passers-by walked close to the glass. He kept up his silence, wanting to unsettle the Russian, to undermine some of his confidence. Thankfully, Paula followed his lead, saying nothing as she also stared out towards the swift-moving waters of the Rhone. Tweed waited until coffee had been served.
'It was after dark when you think you saw him?' he suggested.
'No! It was just about this time of day. That is why I wanted you to come down.' Sabarin checked his watch. 'He walked past this window at 3.10 p.m. exactly.'
'How do you know the time so precisely?'
'Because I looked at my watch before I jumped up and rushed outside. Through the main exit. I was too late. He had disappeared. I came back in here…'
'Wondering whether you'd been mistaken?' Tweed pressed.
'No! It was him. Igor Zarov. There's only one.'
'How was he dressed?'
'Dark blue two-piece suit, blue-striped shirt, plain blue tie. No hat…'
'Colour of shoes?'
'No idea,' Sabarin responded promptly. 'Couldn't see.'
Which made sense, Tweed thought. Even sitting by the window, passers-by walked so close you couldn't see their footwear.
'One thing was different from when I last saw him,' Sabarin continued. 'His face was chalk-white. He used to be ruddy-complexioned – that's the Georgian side coming out. For a second that did make me wonder, but only for a second.'
'When did you last see him?' Tweed fired at him.
'About two-and-a-half years ago. In Moscow.'
That fitted in with what Lysenko had told him, Tweed thought. He disappeared two years ago from East Germany. That was what the GRU chief had said. Sabarin was talking volubly.
'I knew him well. You see, we worked together for a year in a certain section. We went out drinking in the evening. He was a strange chap…'
'What did he drink? A heavy drinker?'
'Vodka, like me. No, one glass was enough. He said he was giving up alcohol. It muddled his brain.'
'A strange chap – strange in what way?'
'First, he was a brain-box. We all knew that. He ha
d a very mixed personality. He could charm any woman.' Sabarin looked at Paula. 'You would have fallen for him. But at other times he was as cold as ice. He frightened all of us when he was in that mood. We felt that if we got in his way and he could have eliminated us with a flick of his fingers, he'd have done just that.'
'When he walked past this window,' Tweed asked, 'do you think he saw youT
'Definitely not. He was walking in a trance, his mind fixed on some problem…'
'Walking fast?' People hurrying past the window came and went in seconds.
'No, he strolled past, very erect, staring ahead…'
'I'd like to try an experiment. Both of you wait here. I'm going to stroll past that window myself. He did come from that direction?'
'Yes. Towards me as I was sitting here – towards the rue du Mont Blanc.'
Tweed left the restaurant by the entrance which leads direct on to the street. He paused outside until an elegant woman walked past towards the window, a woman wearing a cream suit, carrying a fur over one arm, a single string of pearls round her shapely neck. He strolled after her.
As he reached the window he deliberately glanced inside where the Russian was sitting. Even strolling you had to make a deliberate effort to look inside Le Pavilion. He came back through the main entrance to the hotel, sat down again.
'Someone passed this window just before I did. Tell me what they looked like, what they were wearing.'
'A stunning brunette. Wearing a two-piece cream suit. She had a single string of pearls round her neck. Oh, yes, and she carried a sable fur over her right arm.'
'How do you know it was sable?'
'Please!' Sabarin made a dismissive gesture. 'I am Russian. I have attended the fur auctions in Moscow. I certainly know sable when I see it!'
Paula intervened for the first time. Giving Sabarin her most encouraging smile, she asked the question quickly. 'When this man passed you were eating a meal?'
'No. I only came in here for coffee. Why?'
'I just wondered,' she said, and left it at that.
'One more question,' Tweed said, 'and then I think we are done. Oh, your English is very good…' He brought a brief-case up on to the table, took out an envelope. The Engine Room crowd down in the Park Crescent basement had been busy – photographers as well as their Identikit artist.
'Thank you for the compliment,' Sabarin replied. 'I have spent time in London. I used to go into pubs, buy a pint and listen for colloquialisms – how the English of different classes talk. What have you there for me?'
'Four different Identikit pictures.' Tweed looked round the empty restaurant. The waitress was cleaning the counter some distance away. He handed the envelope to Sabarin. 'Are any of them remotely like Zarov?'
Sabarin extracted four large photocopies. The Engine Room had used the same paper, the Identikit artist had drawn three portraits from imagination. The Russian handed the fourth back, inserted the others inside the envelope.
'That's him.'
He had chosen the picture Lysenko had provided at the Gastof zum Baren. Tweed stared at the sketch. By some curious technical trick the eyes were horrifically life-like -almost bulging off the paper.
'It's an excellent likeness,' Sabarin continued. 'Better than a photograph, oddly enough. It has captured his personality. Maybe you can see now why he frightened us when he was in one of his Arctic moods. Ruthless and ferocious as a wild boar. I wonder where he is now?'
'Well, did you believe him?' Tweed asked as they crossed the footbridge over the Rhone.
'Yes, I did,' said Paula, using one hand to stop her skirt flying up. A strong wind was blowing down the lake from the east. 'So the phantom, this Zarov, may be for real?'
'I'm still dubious. Sabarin could have been trained in how to react to my grilling. Why the question about was Sabarin eating at the moment he saw Zarov – if he did?'
'Because a man eating his lunch is less likely to notice what is going on outside the window.'
'Very true. You handled yourself well back at Le Pavilion.'
'Is that why you're telling me a bit more about what's going on?'
'Yes,' Tweed admitted. 'And the man we're going to see is Alain Charvet, an ex-policeman and a contact of mine. Never to be mentioned back at Park Crescent. Charvet, using his old police connections, runs a profitable information consultancy. He knows a lot about what's happening underground in Western Europe.'
'And that man, Beck, who called while we were in the restaurant and thought you were out. Do I get to know about him?'
'Bad news,' Tweed replied as they reached the far bank and turned along the waterfront. 'Arthur Beck. From the Taubenhalde in Berne. Chief of the Federal Police. God knows what he wants – or how he knows I'm here.'
'When we came through Passport Control at the airport I noticed an officer took a long hard look at your passport, then checked it against a list of names before he handed it back.'
'Beck can wait. And you can bet on one thing. He'll be back. At the moment we have other fish to fry. Alain Charvet.'
'Where are we meeting him?'
'His favourite rendezvous. The Brasserie Hollandaise in the Place de la Poste. It's old-fashioned and rather nice. Let me do the talking.'
La Brasserie Hollandaise was almost empty at four in the afternoon. Paula looked round the large room and thought it very Dutch. A quarry-tiled floor, the windows screened by heavy lace curtains, leather banquettes along the walls topped with brass rails. The place was illuminated by large milky globes. Tweed walked towards a corner banquette where a thin-faced man in his early forties sat nursing a beer.
'Alain Charvet,' he introduced. 'This is my new assistant, Paula Grey.'
Charvet stood up, formally shook her hand, his eyes staring straight at hers. Yes, she thought, you'll know me should we meet again. They sat down, Tweed ordered coffee for two, and handed an envelope to Charvet containing a one-thousand franc note.
'Is anything happening? You can talk freely in front of Paula. Fully vetted.'
'What are you looking for?' asked Charvet. 'Not like you to be so vague.'
'I don't really know,' Tweed admitted, heard himself say the words and inwardly cursed the futility of this enterprise. 'Even rumours might help,' he added.
'Rumours are all I have. You know I keep in touch with my friends in France. They keep mumbling about rumours of some huge operation being mounted. Sometimes it's about the hijacking of a ship. I ask you! Then they refer to someone nicknamed The Recruiter. All hot air.'
He was speaking French. Paula was fascinated by the way he used the language. So different from Parisians -but it was said the most perfect French was spoken by the Genevoises. Charvet made a quick gesture as he went on.
'As for this country, there was the big gold bullion robbery two months ago in Basle. Two banks in one night. They got away with twelve million francs of gold.'
Twelve million. Paula did a quick calculation in her head. Over four million pounds. She sensed Tweed's awakening interest as he leaned forward closer to Charvet.
'Both banks in Basle, you mean?'
'Yes. You know the city, of course. They were both near the Bankverein tram stop on the way to the railway station. No clue as to how they moved the gold, but the police have called the robbers The Russian Gang.'
Tweed sat drinking his coffee, absorbing the information. He had a faraway look Monica would have recognized. He was trying to link up this new development with the meagre data he already possessed.
'Why The Russian Gang?' he asked eventually.
'It was the UTS lot, which is surprising. Load of cranks.'
'You mean the Free Ukraine movement?' Paula asked. 'Those pathetic people who were born in the Ukrainian Republic and escaped to the West. They still believe that one day they can bring about a Free Ukraine state -independent of Russia. Mostly they operate out of Munich, pursuing their dream.'
'Yes.' Charvet looked surprised, addressing Tweed. 'Miss Grey has a lot inside her head. M
ost people have never even heard of the UTS.'
'How do the police know?' Tweed asked.
'One of them was dragged out of the Rhine shortly after the robbery, his throat slit from ear to ear. He carried papers which soon led Arthur Beck to Munich – to identifying him. Presumably they organized the bullion theft to finance their activities.'
'Presumably…' Tweed had drifted off into another bout of silence. 'I don't think it's what I'm looking for,' he said eventually.
'Of course not,' Charvet replied. 'I'm just reporting whatever comes to mind. I know I'm not being very helpful.'
'That man your French friends have nicknamed The Recruiter. I don't understand why?'
'Oh, he's supposed to be paying out huge sums to build a team of villains – top specialists in their fields. No one tells me anything specific. You have to realize some of my contacts do spread pure gossip rather than say they have nothing.'
'And that's it?'
'I am very much afraid so.' Charvet peered inside the envelope Tweed had given him. 'This is far too much for rubbishy gossip.'
'Keep it,' Tweed said as he stood up. 'On account of another day.'
'I'msorry,' Paula apologized as they made their way across the footbridge in the dusk. 'It must have sounded as though I was showing off when I babbled on about the UTS.'
'Quite the opposite. Charvet was impressed. That's good. One day I may want you to come and see him if I'm tied up. Now he will talk to you. And he will never let another soul know you exist.'
'Was it all a waste of time?'
'I think so. Charvet makes his living dealing with facts. He has a reputation to keep. That's why he kept emphasizing he was passing on rumours – gossip.'
'What about this gold bullion robbery in Basle? You did seem intrigued by that news. It's the first I've heard of it.'
'Me too. But the Swiss won't want to broadcast a thing like that. Their banks have a reputation for being the safest in the world. One thing puzzles me. Brr! It's getting chilly. I'll be glad to get back inside the hotel.'
'And what puzzles you?'
'That a ramshackle outfit like the UTS could organize not one – but two – successful robberies. And from Swiss banks!'