`I thought we'd get to that.' Grey smiled his moon-like smile. He sat upright in his chair and radiated self- confidence. 'If I knew why Fergusson was sent there – as you pointed out, it is my territory – I might be able to help…'
`Just answer the question.'
`Everything has quietened down since Gorbachev took over – I get the impression the word has gone out. No incidents…'
`You wouldn't call the killing of Fergusson an incident?' Tweed enquired.
'It surprised me very much.' Grey paused to adjust his display handkerchief in his breast pocket. 'I was going to say my impression is Gorbachev wants all quiet on the western front while he consolidates his position at home. He's the development we've been waiting for – the new generation taking over.'
`Which fits in with the gospel according to Gorbachev. New times are arriving. For your information, Mikhail Gorbachev is Stalin in a Savile Row suit. That will be all.'
Monica waited until Grey had left the room, the smile wiped off his face. She turned down the corners of her mouth.
`Saucy bugger. You squashed him beautifully. He's after your job, you know…'
`I know.' Tweed was frowning. 'That's a negative comment on Grey. Give me a positive one.'
`Funny man. Acts like a playboy. But in the field he rides his agents harder than any other sector chief. No mistakes is his motto. No second chance.'
`Which is why I gave him the job. Now, Erich Lindemann. We can just squeeze him in before Bob Newman is due. Resume, if you please.'
`Erich Lindemann. Headquarters, Copenhagen. Penetration zone, Northern Russia. Born bachelor. Speaks German, Swedish and Danish. The very opposite to Grey. I've been to his flat in Chelsea. Neat as a pin. His study walls are lined with God knows how many books. Venerated by his men – he's so careful of their lives. The most reliable of the lot, I'd say. That's it.'
The interview with Lindemann was brief. The chief of the Scandinavian sector arrived wearing a sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows, sports slacks and a casual shirt. He nodded to Monica without speaking and sat in the waiting chair, resting his arms on the chair arms.
`How are things in Scandinavia?' Tweed asked amiably. `Too quiet. The Kremlin is cooking something unpleasant to serve up to us. I've known this sinister quiet before.' `The quiet before the storm?'
`I would say so, yes. May I make a suggestion?' Lindemann asked.
`I'm listening.'
If you don't like the atmosphere in Hamburg, catch the first flight to Copenhagen. I'll be waiting there for you.'
`Would you care to elaborate on that, Erich?'
`I don't think so.'
`Then I'll bear it in mind. Thank you.'
Something curious about Lindemann's personality, Tweed said to himself as the door closed. Without saying much he projected such an aura of force and power he still seemed to be in the room. He had no time to pursue the train of thought. The phone rang and Monica told him Newman was waiting downstairs. The time was exactly noon.
`After what you've told me I don't like it one little bit,' Newman said emphatically. 'This trip to Hamburg smells like a trap. And you could be the main target – not Fergusson…'
`I know,' Tweed agreed.
`Then why the hell walk into it? Send someone else – a couple of men with back-up. They travel on separate flights and meet up. The Hauptbahnhof would be a good place…'
`Because I think you're right. It's me they want.'
`You need a holiday. You're not thinking straight. I haven't the experience you need…'
`You did pretty well on your own inside Estonia – which was inside the Soviet Union. We're only going to West Germany. And I have the worst problem I've ever faced.'
`You have that in spades. One of your top deputies is working for Lysenko – because it will be General Lysenko of the GRU who is behind this manoeuvre. Unless they've sent him on holiday to Siberia…'
`My information is Lysenko is controlling all anti-West European operations from Leipzig. He's one of the very few of the Old Guard Gorbachev has promoted. The rumour is they've established a close personal rapport…'
`There you are,' Newman said, lighting up a cigarette. 'And Lysenko's one ambition after what you did to him last year will be to discredit you – at the least. And now you tell me he has an ally inside this very building. He may well try and kill you…'
`I don't think he'd go that far. The news is Gorbachev wants a period of quiet – while he packs the Politburo with his own supporters. Killing me would create a storm.'
In that assumption Tweed could not have been more wrong.
Four
`Sit down, Lysenko. How is your plan progressing?'
It was typical of Mikhail Gorbachev that he kept the question terse and came straight to the point. The master of the Soviet Union sat in a large chair at the head of the long oblong-shaped table in his office inside the Kremlin, the section which tourists never see, an old, four-storey building deep inside the ancient fortress.
Dressed smartly in a dark grey, two-piece business suit, he shifted his bulk restlessly, his large hands playing with a pencil. His whole personality exuded an aura of physical and mental energy as he studied the GRU general.
`I have just arrived from Leipzig with the latest news.. `I know that. What is the latest news?'
`The trap to lure Tweed to West Germany has been sprung. A close associate of Tweed's, Ian Fergusson, took the bait. He arrived in Hamburg when he heard a Polish refugee had urgent news…'
Lysenko, in his sixties, stockily-built and with a slab-like face, kept his explanation as short as possible. The General Secretary had a short fuse where wafflers were concerned.
`Erwin Munzel, the East German executioner, killed him – made it look like an accident. Tweed won't accept that…'
`You've left a bit out. Who is this Polish refugee? And did Fergusson meet him before he had his accident?'
`Yes, he did. The refugee is Ziggy Palewska, a piece of rubbish. He lives off providing information to whoever will pay for it…'
`And where does he get information from?'
`Other refugees he's friendly with. As you know, Schleswig-Holstein, the part of Germany closest to Denmark, is crammed with refugees who fled from East Prussia and other places after the Great Patriotic War…'
`I know that. Did Fergusson meet him?'
`Yes. Munzel organized the permanent accident shortly after Fergusson had left Palewska's place in Hamburg.'
`This Munzel…'
`Erwin Munzel, General Secretary…'
`I know the name. His father was a Nazi, an SS General?'
`That is so…' Not for the first time Lysenko marvelled at the remarkable range of Gorbachev's detailed knowledge. He wanted to know everything – about everybody. Not a comfortable feeling – but Gorbachev was not a comfortable man to sit down with. Lysenko felt the moisture growing on the palms of his hands.
`And this professional assassin, Erwin Munzel. Also a bit of a Nazi, I hear.'
`He is one of us though…'
`No German is one of us.' Gorbachev's expression froze.
`But if we can point them the other way – against the West, so be it. An expert on accidents, our lackey,
