Deadlock

'Zarov was born in Sevastopol in the Crimea. At one period he was in charge of security at a certain military and naval depot at Sevastopol. He returned there on holiday just before being sent to his final posting in West Germany. The depot stored advanced equipment – including at that time powerful explosive weapons…'

Tweed felt his stomach muscles tighten as Lysenko paused and, away from the disapproving eye of Moscow, drank more vodka. He was coming to the key to the whole unprecedented meeting. Tweed waited, careful to keep silent.

'A consignment of sea-mines and bombs went missing from the depot while Zarov was in the Crimea. A large truck arrived late one night with a signed stamped order for this consignment. Zarov, I should mention, was at one time attached to a highly secret documentation centre in Moscow. He showed great skill in mastering the system -as he did with all he undertook. We had the highest hopes for him.' Lysenko sounded wistful, a side of his character Tweed found surprising. Clearly he had liked Zarov.

'He was an explosives expert, too?'

Tweed awaited the answer with trepidation.

'Ah! He was an expert with explosives – and with weapons. I've never had such a promising pupil.'

'What happened to this truck?' Tweed demanded. 'And please don't tell me that's classified…'

'It was driven – with the correct movement order papers – to the Turkish border along the Black Sea coast. Two days later at midnight the driver of the truck crashed the border at a weak point and disappeared inside Turkey. They also took a lot of sophisticated equipment.'

'Such as?'

'I cannot give technical details. That you will understand. Equipment for the detonation of the sea-mines and bombs by remote control from long distance…'

'How far? What kind of range?'

'Thirty or forty kilometres.'

'I see,' Tweed replied, concealing the shock he felt. 'You must have made enquiries through your contacts in Turkey,' he pressed. 'About what happened to the truck…'

'We found nothing. Eastern Turkey is a remote area -very thinly populated. The only city of any size is Erzurum, which I have no doubt the truck by-passed.'

'What about Istanbul? The Golden Horn harbour?'

'We checked that, too,' Lysenko admitted. 'We estimated as far as we could when the truck would arrive there. A Greek freighter, the Lesbos, sailed for Marseilles at about the right time. It never arrived. It disappeared into thin air. There was an unpleasant sequel – which was what focused our attention on Istanbul. All this is totally confidential, you understand?'

'We've been through that bit.'

'The driver of the truck was an Armenian called Dikoyan. We think now he was one of the few dissidents, a member of the Free Armenian Movement bandits. Zarov is clever. He probably persuaded Dikoyan the huge consignment of explosives was to help the dissidents.'

'And what happened to this Dikoyan?'

The Turkish police fished him out of the Bosphorus shortly after the Lesbos sailed. His throat was cut from ear to ear.'

'Unpleasant, as you said.'

'I told you Zarov is ruthless…'

That consignment of sea-mines and bombs. How big is it?'

Lysenko paused. Tweed could almost hear the wheels whirring in his brain. How much more dare I reveal?

The explosive is very special.' Lysenko was phrasing his reply carefully. 'It's enormous power bears no relationship to the size – or weight – of the sea-mines and bombs.'

'How many did they get out of that Sevastopol depot?'

Thirty sea-mines, twenty-five bombs. It was a big truck.'

'Give me some idea of their explosive power – what we face.'

They have the potential to wipe off the face of the earth a city the size of Hamburg.'

9

Tweed was subdued and businesslike for the remainder of their meeting. He asked for a photograph – several if available – of Igor Zarov. Lysenko shook his head and Tweed jumped on him before he could speak.

'Oh, come on, you must have God knows how many pictures…'

'Had. I told you Zarov was a wizard with documentation. At one time he trained in our documentation centre…' Tweed knew what he meant – the centre where false passports and papers were prepared for agents travelling abroad with new identities. Driving licences, library memberships, medical cards. All the bureaucratic paraphernalia of modern life.

'Before he left for his posting to West Germany,' Lysenko explained slowly, 'he removed from the files every single photograph of himself in existence. He even erased his image from the Central Computer – and substituted another man's.'

'Formidable, as you said,' Tweed agreed.

'I took a precaution before I set out on this trip.' Lysenko reached into his brief-case, produced a large sheet of paper. 'I had an Identikit picture drawn with the aid of the three associates who had known him well. Ruddy-faced, like his father.' He handed over the sheet. That is the best I can do…'

Tweed studied the head and shoulders portrait which, as far as he could tell, had been drawn in charcoal and then photocopied. The image was blurred but the tremendous force of character of the subject came through.

Thick dark hair, a high forehead, hypnotic eyes beneath thick brows, a long nose, prominent cheekbones, a thin mouth, strong jaw, The shoulders were wide, suggesting a man of considerable physical strength. It was the eyes Tweed kept returning to, eyes which held a hint of irony as though Zarov regarded the whole world cynically.

'If that's the best you can provide,' Tweed said eventually.

'It's a good likeness. I can vouch for that…'

'So, what exactly do you hope we can do – assuming we agree to do anything?'

Track him down, hunt him, eliminate him. Before he can put into operation whatever catastrophe he is planning – for which we could be blamed. Especially by the Americans.'

'You've presumably tried to do the job yourselves -assuming always he is alive?'

'With no success.' Lysenko became vehement. 'Do you not see our difficulty? He knows how we operate, which areas to avoid, which people to avoid. You understand?'

Tweed understood only too well. Zarov knew not only the Soviet agents in the West – he'd also know their secret contacts, men and women who passed on information to Moscow for money – who had no traceable connection with the East. Lysenko continued.

'But we regard your network as the best in the world. That he doesn't know about…'

'Because you don't know yourself?' Tweed said quizzically.

'No comment. Will you help? It is in your own interests – the rumours multiply of some entirely new organization being built up in Europe. We believe Zarov is the mastermind. We have not been able to locate one source that really can give us a hard fact. Something in Europe is in great danger – think of that consignment of terrible explosives.'

Tweed pushed his chair back from the table. 'Is that everything?'

'I give you this second card. It has a special phone number in Moscow where you can always reach me. The operator will put you straight through if there is a development. I will expect to be kept fully informed.'

'You'll be disappointed then.' Tweed stood up. 'I don't work that way. Even assuming I take any action at all. That is not my decision.'

'Tweed!' Lysenko had now stood up. 'This I will always swear you invented if repeated.' His rough voice trembled with emotion. Tweed watched him closely. Was this man a far better actor than he had been told? 'It was Gorbachev himself – after reading your file from beginning to end -who told me you were probably the only man in Europe who could find Zarov and deal with him.'

'I repeat, it is not my decision.'

Tweed ended the conversation on that note and then witnessed an extraordinary scene. Lysenko filled his glass to the brim with vodka, swallowed the contents in one gulp and hurled the glass across the room, smashing it against the wall. To your success, my friend!'