Deadlock

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 had 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.'