'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.
'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
