been told. And he'd noticed Gorbachev had not even assigned a code-name to the heroin. Just 'the cargo'. An additional precaution. Code-names could leak, people speculated what they might mean.
`The cargo' was Gorbachev's pet project. And, as he had said, the effort which had gone into transporting the huge haul had indeed been prodigious. First the endless camel train carrying it out of Pakistan, starting its long journey weeks ago.
It had travelled by a dangerous route. A small section of the route had crossed the eastern 'tongue' of Afghanistan bordered by Pakistan, India, even China – at its most eastern tip – and, to the north, Soviet Russia. They had sent a young Russian general to launch an offensive in the Afghan area against the rebels.
His directive had been to destroy the rebel forces, to occupy the 'tongue'. The Soviet High Command who had sent him had known his task was impossible. It had been a diversion – to keep the Afghan rebels busy while the camel train proceeded across the Pamirs by a pass, then down into the Turanian Plain.
At Khokand the cargo had been put aboard a six-coach armoured train. Only a portion of one coach was needed to store the heroin. A further precaution. The heroin habit was growing inside Russia. The rumour had been spread that the train was transporting armaments.
It had made the long journey to Moscow. There the heroin coach had been uncoupled, attached at dead of night to an express bound for Leningrad. Gorbachev himself had supervised the details of the fabulous journey. Now it would be transshipped by sea to its ultimate destination. By a most devious route. With the aid of Balkan.
Chief Inspector Bernard Carson of the Central Drug Squad was a tall, lanky man in his late fifties and with curly brown hair. His manner was always calm, even off-handed, no matter how great the crisis which faced him. He sat in Tweed's arm chair while Tweed stood by the window. At his request, Monica had left them alone.
`What I've come to see you about doesn't really concern you at all,' Carson explained. 'But I'm a bit bothered.'
`You are?'
Tweed was surprised. He couldn't remember Carson ever admitting to even being ruffled before.
`Word is out on the street that the biggest consignment of heroin ever moved is on its way to this country.'
`May I ask what are your sources of information?'
`Oh, we have a whole underground network of dealers and pushers who – for a consideration – tell us things. They're all keyed up to distribute fast this huge consignment. That's the key to their success. Never hold on to the stuff. Offload it. Fast! Spread it over a small army of pushers. Lose it. Here in London. The Midlands. This poison is spreading through the whole country. I have no doubt the rumour is true.'
`So why come to me?' Tweed asked.
`Because you have your own networks across the whole of Europe. I'd hoped you might hear something. It's the route I want..
Carson said it with unaccustomed vehemence. He drank some of the coffee Monica had brought in earlier.
`It's Holland at the moment, isn't it?'
`That's the gospel according to St John. All my colleagues agree with it. Their eyes – and those of the Customs boys – are glued to Holland.'
`And your view?'
Carson shrugged. 'I just get a funny feeling about this one – that it's different. Never known such activity, anticipation, on the streets. The bastards are practically salivating. It could be that somehow they're bringing in an unprecedented amount – maybe even a hundred kilos. Gambling on getting in the big haul at one throw of the dice. If so, God knows how they hope to do it.'
`Bernard,' Tweed said abruptly, 'I can't help you.' `How come?' Carson looked bewildered.
`Because I'm convinced you know something you haven't told me. You've given me nothing concrete to go on. Forget it.'
Carson stirred uncomfortably in the chair. 'I should have realized you'd sense it. OK. But this is highly confidential… `Tell me. If you're going to.'
`We had a man on the spot in Pakistan, a very good man. He was based at Peshawar. The base the Yanks are using to ship guns and ammo to the Afghan rebels, bless their cotton socks..
`I know where Peshawar is.'
`This is the really confidential bit. Our chap had a contact inside the Soviet Embassy at Islamabad. Bought and paid for. Our chap reported rumours of a large heroin consignment bound for the West. The Soviets must have got on to our man. Pathans were used to carve him up …'
`That's rather horrible. I'm sorry.'
`Goes with the territory. Our man knew that. But some of our back-up people arrived, caught the Pathans in the act.' `What happened to them?'
Carson cocked his right hand like a pistol, made a motion of pulling a trigger. 'Sympathy, the liberal option, doesn't figure in our business. Our chap was still alive – only just. He said one word before he closed his eyes. Sounded like Hansa.'
`You're sure it was Hansa?' Tweed pressed.
`Nearest our people could get to it.' Carson stifled a yawn. `Sorry, I'm twenty-four hours without sleep. Word doesn't mean a damned thing to me.'
`Hansa,' Tweed repeated. 'The Hanseatic League. A federation of major shipping ports banded together to protect their trade interests. Formed in 1241. Founder members Hamburg and Lubeck. Para-military, too. They had armed groups to accompany caravans of goods moving in Europe against roving bandits.'
`History was my worst subject,' said Carson. 'I don't see the connection…'
`Neither do I. Yet.'
Tweed walked over to the new wall map of Western Europe Monica had put up. He took a wooden pointer from a drawer to reach the higher sections. As he spoke, the pointer located the towns.
`Tallinn in Estonia, Stralsund and Rostock in East Germany, then Lubeck, Hamburg and Bremen – to name just a few. There were ninety towns in the League at the height of its power.' He turned away from the map. 'And the funny thing is one of my people also used the same word – Hansa.'
Carson uncrossed his ankles, straightened up, suddenly alert. `So maybe your man could tell us something?'
`He's also dead. Murdered in Hamburg. By the Soviets – or their proxies, the East Germans…'
`Looks as though I came to the right place after all. That is stretching coincidence too far – literally. My man is killed in Peshawar, yours in Hamburg – and in both cases the last word they said was Hansa. It couldn't be…'
`Yes, it could.' Tweed replaced the pointer in the drawer, pushed it shut. 'Bernard, I want you to promise me something.
Not one word about this outside this room. Confidential, you said. Now I'm holding you to it. I want your solemn promise.'
`Reluctantly, yes. But I could check the records…'
`Don't! Take no action. I think I may have underestimated my man who died in Hamburg. Incidentally, if you do lay your hands on a consignment the size of one hundred kilos, what precautions do you take?'
`Every precaution possible. It doesn't always work. With the potential profit that amount could bring in you can't trust anyone. Not even inside the Drug Squad, between you and me.'
`How long ago since your chap in Peshawar was killed?'
`Eight weeks ago. To the day. About four weeks ago we began to get reports of the excitement building up in the streets…'
`So we may not have much time left. I'm up against an unknown deadline.'
Thirty-Five
'Better that the nursing sister who attended Dr Berlin thinks you are a German newspaper reporter,' Falken said as he drove along the highway towards Leipzig. 'You remember her name?'
`Karen Piper.'
`Good. You are still alert…'
`Why shouldn't I be?'
