'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 Zurich – 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 Zurich. 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 Zurich? 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 Nurensdorf. 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 Baren. My old friend, Rosa Tschudi will see you are well fed. She is a superb cook. I go there myself when I come to Zurich 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 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.'