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!'
It was mid-afternoon when Tweed's flight headed back for London. After Lysenko had left, Tweed had sat down and enjoyed the best meal he could remember provided by Rosa Tschudi at the Gasthof. He was grateful for the lunch because now he could think about all he had been told.
Images tumbled through his mind. The blurred picture of Zarov which could not disguise his burning eyes. A large truck crashing the Soviet-Turkish border from Armenia. The body of Dikoyan floating in the Bosphorus, the throat slashed from ear to ear. The Greek freighter, Lesbos, slipping its moorings in the fabulous Golden Horn harbour, sailing to oblivion.
Was any of it true? The GRU had concocted some fairytales in its time: Tweed, of all people, knew that. If so, they had excelled themselves. For what motive? Park Crescent had never had even the hint of the existence of an Igor Zarov. Did he even exist? If so, had Yuri Sabarin really seen him in Geneva recently? All he had was the word of Lysenko, a man who made lying a way of life.
I'm inclined to discount the whole bloody story, he thought. So what new manoeuvre was it intended to conceal? For the first time since he had joined the Service Tweed felt at sea, completely baffled. And he didn't even know what opinion to express when he arrived back. He had never felt so frustrated. Maybe something would happen to bring the mystery into focus. He doubted it.
10
It was mid-afternoon in Marseilles when the man called Klein stood in the shadows of the entrance to the ancient church. Notre Dame de la Garde is perched high above the city like a fortress guarding the great seaport spread out far below. A vast stone terrace spreads away west of the entrance, a terrace surrounded by a low stone wall. Lara Seagrave perched her backside on the flat-topped wall, aimed the Leica camera equipped with a telephoto lens, took more pictures of the harbour and its approaches. There was no one else on the great platform.
Below the wall the ground fell sheer towards the rooftops. Mid-afternoon, the sun at its highest point, beating down ferociously with a burning glare. It was well over 80° in the shade. Lara looked up from the camera and gazed round.
The harsh limestone – of which Marseilles is built – stood out from the bleak, treeless ridges and bluffs which encircle the city. The heat radiated off the rock, a heat haze shimmered, the Mediterranean was a blinding blue, the islands – including the famous Chateau d'If – vague silhouettes.
Lara loved the heat, soaked it up. Twenty-one years old, the step-daughter of Lady Windermere, she revelled in her freedom, in the excitement of the adventure. This was the moment when Klein, tall and thin-faced, wearing a suit of tropical drill, strolled into view, casually walked to a point close to her by the wall and raised a monocular glass looped round his neck.
'What do you think?' he asked in perfect English, staring out to sea, giving no hint to a watcher that they knew each other.
'Doesn't seem right for hijacking a ship,' she replied.
'And why not?'
'The harbour entrance is too narrow. It's like a snake the way it winds about. No easy escape route inland either if things go wrong. See how crammed together the old buildings are. The traffic jam in the streets. I feel it's not what you're looking for.'
She spoke in her upper crust accent, hardly moving her lips as she, also, gazed out to sea. She forced herself to stay cool, although the nearness of this man always excited her. Mustn't show it, she reminded herself. He doesn't approve of that.
'I'm inclined to agree with you,' Klein said. 'Best have a look at the next port. Le Havre.' His voice was cold, remote, his pale features contrasting strongly with Lara's sun-baked complexion. She was probably that colour all over, he mused. She loved sunning herself in the nude -one aspect of her sensuality.
'I'll leave tonight then?' she suggested.
'No. Tomorrow. And by train. From the Gare St Charles. I don't trust airports. Too easy for the security people to check each passenger. Go to Paris. I've reserved a room for you at The Ritz. Take another train from there to Le Havre. I'll meet you in five days' time. Friday – in the restaurant at The Ritz for dinner. You have enough money?'
