Deadlock

by Colin Forbes

  'You hardly know her at all,' Tweed told him. He was watching Monica who looked anything but pleased. 'And since I did the spadework I'm attaching her to my office. There's plenty of room in here.'

  'If you insist. Sometimes I wonder who's running the outfit. And I could have gone along to see the PM in your absence . . .'

  'Except that the PM specifically asked for Tweed,' Monica said tactlessly, working off her indignation at the news of the new recruit.

  The lady always does. You might at least send Paula in to meet the nominal head of the SIS when she arrives.' On this piqued note Howard stalked out of the room.

  'Isn't there somewhere else in the building Paula could work?' Monica asked. 'We're very cramped already in here . . .'

  'Cramped!' Tweed stared round at the empty space. 'And you once liked her.'

  'Paula in Norfolk is one thing, Paula taking up residence in this office quite another. It will never be the same again — our talks together about work, I mean.'

  'She won't be here every minute of the day,' Tweed said irritably. 'And I've taken the decision. I've got enough on my mind without domestic problems. Wouldn't you agree?'

  Monica checked her watch. 'Time you left for your appointment at No. Ten. You know how you hate rushing.'

  Tweed stood up and silently went to the clothes rack, put on his Burberry. Monica fidgeted with her pen, drawing meaningless lines on her notepad. She spoke in a subdued, conciliatory tone.

  'I wonder what all these alarming rumours are about?'

  'Maybe I'm about to find out,' said Tweed and walked downstairs.

  As arranged over the phone by Tweed before leaving Beresforde Road, Harry Butler arrived at Newman's flat on the dot of 6p.m. To Newman's surprise-and annoyance - he was accompanied by a second man.

  'Pete Nield, you know him, of course,' Butler explained. 'Tweed decided on the phone this Cockley Ford is an unknown quantity - that we could do with back-up. Pete's brought his own transport - even managed to find a parking slot half a mile away . . .'

  'The two of us could do this job,' Newman informed him.

  'That's what I like,' Nield broke in. 'An enthusiastic reception. An immediate acceptance of the team spirit.' He grinned.

  Newman stood in the living room, studying the two men. Butler was about his build and height, in his thirties, clean-shaven and his expression controlled. He wore an old check sports jacket, blue denims, carried a windcheater over his arm. Just the type of gear an SAS man on leave might choose. He used his left hand to smooth his darkish hair, staring straight at Newman.

  Pete Nield was a different personality and build. Lighter weight, slim, a few years Butler's junior, he had black hair brushed neatly, a small trim moustache. His clothes were smart; a navy blue suit, striped blue shirt, dark blue polka dot tie. His manner was easy, he moved more quickly than the immobile Butler. Newman had observed previously they worked well together as a team.

  'Welcome aboard, gentlemen,' he said, looking at Nield. 'What are you drinking? Then we can get straight to the planning stage.' He indicated a map of East Anglia spread out over the long Regency dining table. 'We're driving up to King's Lynn tonight. I've booked two rooms at The Duke's Head. I'll call them again to reserve one for you, Nield.'

  'King's Lynn?' Butler was studying the map as Nield joined him when they'd decided on drinks. 'Excuse me putting my oar in - you're the boss - but wouldn't a hotel in Blakeney be a better operational HQ?'

  'No.' Newman had climbed the two steps into the kitchenette, was pouring drinks. 'That's where the bomb was planted. Whoever left the offering may be watching the place. At King's Lynn we can maintain the traditional low profile . . .'

  'Christ! Why didn't I think of that?' Butler was appalled. 'You make us look like amateurs at our own game.'

  'Amateurs is not the word I'd use about you two,' Newman remarked, fetching the drinks. 'Cheers! Here's to a successful partnership. I wonder what we'll find at Cockley Ford?'

  'Something's terribly wrong. I can tell . . .'

  Monica, feeling contrite for her earlier behaviour, stared at Tweed as he slowly looped his raincoat over a hanger.

  He winked at her, went to his favourite place, the swivel chair behind his desk, sank into it.

  'Good job other people can't read me the way you can - I am not supposed to reveal anything by my expression.'

  'We have been together a long time. What has happened? Can you talk about it? Want some coffee?'

  'Something has happened. I can talk about it - but only to you. It's extremely confidential. Coffee later. The PM has stunned me. I'm not even sure it's a good idea. And Paula is on the way - phoned her from a call-box . . .'

  'What idea?'

  'You won't believe it.'

  'Try me . . .'

  'The PM,' he said very deliberately, 'wants me to fly to a secret meeting with General Vasili Lysenko, Head of Soviet Military Intelligence, the GRU.'

  'My God! You're not serious?'

  'She is. Very. Gorbachev has been in touch with her -and he was the one who suggested the meeting.'

  'What on earth for?'

  'I'm not sure,' Tweed confessed. 'Apparently the Kremlin is worried stiff about the rumours of a gigantic terrorist outrage being planned.'

  'Normally they'd welcome it. Their attitude doesn't add up. I don't believe a word of it. And surely the PM doesn't?'

  'She was told something in complete confidence by the General Secretary-something she couldn't break her word by telling even me. I get the full details only when I meet Lysenko.'

  'And where is this rendezvous? It could be a trap . . .'

  'Hardly.' Tweed turned to stare at the large map of Western Europe attached to the wall. 'The rendezvous is Zürich. The Swiss already know about it. They're busy laying on security at this moment. Security for protection. Security to ensure total secrecy. They're pretty good at that.'

  'It's amazing. I thought I'd heard everything. When are you supposed to fly there?'

  Tomorrow. That's when Lysenko is flying in direct from Moscow. Any idea of flight times? It has to be Swissair . . .'

  'Starting early, depart Heathrow 8.30, 9.50, then 13.50. I've left out BA flights.'

  'Swissair will be more anonymous. I'll travel under the name Johnson. Lysenko is due to touch down at Kloten at three in the afternoon, local Zürich time. I'll catch the 9.50 - get there ahead of him.'

  'I'll book it. What about the actual rendezvous, the place where the meeting will be held?'

  'No idea. That's been left to the Swiss. They'll find somewhere quiet. Not too far from Kloten Airport would be my guess.' Tweed's mouth tightened. 'Charming. I'm to meet my old enemy for the first time face to face - with no idea of the agenda.'

  'Not to worry. You think like chain lightning on your feet.'

  Trouble is, we'll probably be sitting down,' he joked.

  'Not a word to Paula, I assume?'

  'She can know I'm flying to Zürich. But not why. And she should be due here soon,' he said, checking his watch. I see you've had a desk and chair brought in for her. That was thoughtful. She's completely under your jurisdiction, of course. On probation. For six months.'

  Monica glanced at the desk against the wall, placed so when the new member was sitting she faced both Monica and Tweed. 'I thought I'd put the welcome mat out for her. She'll need help to pass with flying colours.'

  'Up to you,' said Tweed. 'Not perfect timing - with the Zürich thing imminent.'

  'And when has the timing ever been perfect?' Monica asked.

  Paula came into the office and closed the door, then waited for instructions. Tweed introduced her to Monica who, he noticed, eyed Paula up and down as she walked with her to the new desk.

  She had dressed cleverly for her baptism of fire. A severe dark blue two-piece suit, a blouse with a mandarin collar and plain beige tights. No little squirrels running up her shapely legs. She sat down.

  'I'll make coffee,' said Monica, who had phoned Heathrow and
booked Tweed's flight.

  'Please let me do that.' Paula jumped up immediately. 'I'm the probationer. If you'll just tell me where everything is.'

  'I'm afraid we keep it in the top drawer of this filing cabinet,' said Monica. 'Instant, too. Milk and sugar in the same drawer with the crocks.'

  'How does everyone like it?' Paula was taking out equipment when Howard strolled in without knocking. He stopped in mid-stride at the sight of Paula. Checking the knot of his tie, he smiled broadly.

  'Just starting class? Good show. I'm Howard . . .'

  'The Director,' whispered Monica.

  'I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Howard,' Paula said with no particular expression, holding out her slim hand.

  'May I call you Paula? Don't stand on ceremony here. Just so long as everyone does their job.'

  Oh, Christ, thought Tweed, he's trying to be charming and pompous at the same time. Howard held her hand a shade too long, then turned to Tweed.

  'Maybe Paula could pop along to my office for a few minutes - give us a chance to get acquainted and all that?'

  'I could come in a few minutes, Mr Howard,' Paula said quickly. 'I have a job to finish first.'

  'When you're ready, my dear. When you're ready . . .'

  He left the room and Paula arranged the coffee things on a tray. Monica told her where she would find the stove and waited until Paula had left the room before she made her remark.

  'She doesn't like Howard.' She smirked. 'He's on the prowl and she guessed. He's looking for compensation now Cynthia is going her own way - one in the eye for his wife is what he's looking for. And he rather likes the idea. And! Did you notice how she was determined to make our coffee before she went near him?'

  'Yes,' said Tweed and busied himself with a file. Monica already approved of Paula. He'd never have believed Paula could solve the problem so quickly. Now he could concentrate on Zürich - and the unknown spectre which had risen up in his face.

  7

  Tweed peered out of the window of the Boeing 737, staring south at the spectacular view as the machine approached Zürich. The sky was cloudless, to the south the vast panorama of the Bernese Oberland range stretched. Even in May the wave of world-famous peaks were snowbound. Silhouetted against an azure sky, the light was blinding. The Jungfrau, the highest peak amid the chain of other giants, stood out like a monarch of mountains.

  The aircraft began its descent towards Kloten. He forced himself to relax. He had no idea who would meet him. 'A Swiss who will certainly recognize you,' he had been told. Highly informative.

  As he descended the mobile staircase he glanced round at the fir forests surrounding Kloten. One of his favourite airports in the world - quiet, well-organized, peaceful. But this was Switzerland. A familiar figure waited at the foot of the steps, a plump-cheeked man with a ruddy complexion, quick movements, dressed in a navy-blue business suit. Arthur Beck, chief of the Federal Police.

  'Welcome,' said Beck, not using Tweed's name. He took him by the arm, guided him towards a black stretched Mercedes with tinted windows parked near the main building. 'A pleasant flight, I hope?'

  'Yes. Good to see you again, Beck. What's happening?'

  'Straight to business. You haven't changed.' Beck glanced back, saw they were out of earshot of the trail of passengers alighting from the aircraft. '.I have transport -this car. I'm driving you personally to the rendezvous . . .'

  He opened the door of the front passenger seat, closed it as Tweed settled himself, put Tweed's small case in the back and sat behind the wheel.

  'We travel as we did for our earlier arrival, General Lysenko. No motor-cycle outriders, no fuss, nothing to draw attention to ourselves . . .'

  'Lysenko has arrived in Zürich? He wasn't expected until this afternoon.'

  Beck nodded, a gleam in his grey eyes under bushy brows. 'So we thought, too. We had thirty minutes' warning that he was aboard a regular Aeroflot flight coming in. But I was ready for him - waiting at Kloten. I came here from Berne yesterday. I know the Russians.'

  'Where's the rendezvous?' Tweed asked.

  'Not far away. A small village called Nürensdorf. I chose it because it is near Kloten, because it is a sleepy place -no chance of either of you being spotted by reporters. The actual location is a nice old hotel, the Gasthof zum Bären. My old friend, Rosa Tschudi will see you are well fed. She is a superb cook. I go there myself when I come to Zürich if I can.'

  'How many in Lysenko's bodyguard?'

  'None. He travelled by himself as an ordinary passenger.'

  'You've spoken with him?' Tweed probed.

  'Through his interpreter, yes. Where is yours?'

  'Don't spread it abroad. I speak Russian myself now.'

  'Really?' Beck looked surprised. There is no end to your talents, my friend. And you are wondering what kind of a mood our visitor from the East is in? I thought so. Very preoccupied. My guess is he is a very worried man . . .'

  They said no more until they arrived in a small attractive village. The Gasthof was an old three-storey building with a steeply-sloping roof and dark red shutters. Beck parked the car in a space at the side, paused before getting out.

  'Officially the hotel has been taken over for a convention. The only people here - apart from Rosa, who won't have any idea who her guests are - are my people. Men and women. Take a deep breath, we will go inside if you are ready.'

  'Let's get on with it,' said Tweed.

  8

  A large -room overlooking the front, furnished with stripped pinewood cupboards. A large table stood in the centre, four wooden chairs, two easy chairs by the window, masked with a heavy net curtain against the outside world A sideboard with a large array of bottles and glasses. Tweed had asked for coffee downstairs.

  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 ha
ve 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.'