Deadlock

'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 detente.'

That's twice you've used the word catastrophe. What makes the man so very dangerous?' He saw Lysenko pause and pressed home his point. 'I need to know far more about him. How come he was able to operate in West Germany? What is his history which makes you so worried?'

'First, he is a natural linguist – the Armenian coming out. He speaks fluent German, French, Italian, English and American. As you know, there is a difference in how the last two races speak the so-called common language. He was brilliant at everything he undertook.'

'Such as? I do need to know if I'm to trace him – which I presume is your hope?'

That is not my hope, it is my prayer.'

For the first time Tweed began to half-believe him. He drank more coffee, a dozen angles flitting through his mind.

'He may simply be dead,' he suggested. 'Operating in West Germany he'd be using false papers. He could have been knocked down by a tram in Frankfurt…'

'Except that he was seen in Geneva four weeks ago.'

Tweed was stunned. His expression remained the same. Now they had got talking in the same language – plus for Lysenko the vodka – the earlier stiff atmosphere between the two men was more relaxed. Tweed still remained guarded as he spoke.

'Seen by who?'

'Yuri Sabarin, member of a United Nations organization in Geneva. Sabarin happened to work closely with Zarov at one time in Moscow. He is observant and cautious. He has made a positive identification under the most gruelling attempts to shake him. Here is his telephone number.' Lysenko produced a white card from a brief-case by his side, handed it across the table. No address. Just a phone number.

'Sabarin has been instructed to meet you, to tell you what happened. You only have to call…'

'We'll see.' Tweed slipped the card into his wallet, drank more coffee, watching Lysenko. The Russian wore a drab grey sports jacket made of a hairy fabric. Linked with his hairstyle, the bristles protruding from his short nose, he reminded Tweed of a wild boar. And boars were dangerous and cunning creatures.

'So Zarov is alive – and in Europe,' Lysenko insisted. 'I am certain at this moment he is planning a catastrophe to obtain his fortune. He is a lone wolf, he simply decided he would have to wait too many years in the Motherland for the high places.'

'That word again. Catastrophe. Why?'

'All right.' Lysenko sighed. 'I was instructed to tell you certain things I would not have thought wise. But…'He splayed his hands. '… I was brought up in the old school – total secrecy. Tell the West nothing. Now we have a quite different chief – a man who has broken some of the moulds revered since 1917. Zarov was the most brilliant pupil at the Planning School. Always we went for the daring scheme – and concealed it from the enemy with a clever smokescreen. He came out top of the class. Again. A superb organizer.'

'Fluent in several languages, you said earlier,' Tweed reminded him. 'But could he pass for a German, a Frenchman, an American, and so on?'

'With the greatest of ease. He is a natural actor. Also, if it is of interest he is a great charmer of the ladies. They are putty in his hands.'

'I still don't see it. Tell me more about the catastrophe thing.'

'His theory was that to succeed in a major operation a great shock should be delivered to the enemy. A catastrophe so enormous it would stun the opposition, make it incapable of reacting. "Terror is the ultimate weapon" was his favourite maxim.'

Tweed shook his head. There's something you're not telling me. He couldn't do all this on his own.'

'True.' Lysenko paused again. Old habits died hard, Tweed thought. 'During his postings to the West he made it his business to build up contacts in the various underworlds. The Union Corse in France, and so on. They never knew who he really was, of course…'

Tweed pounced, seeing his opening at last. 'These postings to the West. Where exactly was he – and when?'

'I have to be careful here…'

'And I need the data – or I'll forget the whole thing,' Tweed snapped. 'I must have somewhere to start if we decide to look for this ghost.'

'You will find he is just that,' Lysenko warned, reaching for a pale green file in his brief-case. He opened it and began reciting in a monotone. 'Brussels, 1982 – with brief trips to Luxembourg City to observe the EEC units there. Paris in 1983. Bonn in 1984…' He looked up. 'Don't you wish to take notes?'

'Not so far…'

'Ah! Your phenomenal memory. The UN in New York, 1984. He went on to London, 1985. He returned to Moscow and was sent unofficially to West Germany in 1985. From that mission he vanished. Not seen again – until Sabarin's sighting in Geneva…'

'You've missed something out.'

'I don't understand…'

'Switzerland. When was he there before he disappeared?'

'In 1983,' Lysenko admitted.

Tweed blew up. 'Listen to me, General. I need the complete history or it's no go. What's this so-called unofficial mission to West Germany in 1985?'

'Classified. I have no authority to…'

'All right. Let's try something else. These official postings-Brussels, Bonn, Paris, London and so on. Now, was he attached in each case to the relevant Soviet Embassy? Don't waste my time.. .'

'Yes, he was.'

'Under his own name? Zarov?'

'I feel you are interrogating me…'

'I am doing just that. You're forcing me to. Now, answer my question, for God's sake.'

Like getting blood out of a stone he mumbled half under his breath but still audibly. Lysenko flushed, glared at Tweed who stared back. The animosity which would always divide the two men was surfacing.

'I am in a very difficult position,' the Russian growled and returned to checking his file.

'It's not a piece of cake for me – being asked to look for a man you've lost and with nothing to go on. Answer my question, please.'

'No, he was never posted to an embassy under his own name.'

'Then I'll need the names he used…'

'Classified.'

'If there's nothing else I can't – and won't – take action.'

'But there is. Very grim information.' Lysenko had calmed down, closed the file, returned it to the brief-case, clasped his hands on the table and began talking.