Timers. Scuba divers. Marksman. Lara. Explosives. Banker.
Like other lone wolf characters, Klein had a habit of talking aloud to himself, but was always aware of what he was doing. It helped to concentrate his thinking. He began now.
Timers. Let's hope Gaston Blanc has them ready. A genius with miniature instrumentation. The only problem is after he hands them over. No loose ends… Scuba divers. Luxembourg swarms with them. Marksman? Paris. The Englishman would be ideal. Lara…'
The problem with Lara was to keep her occupied until the time came for her to piay a role she had no idea - fortunately – she was destined for. A member of one of Britain's most distinguished aristocratic lines. Again, ideal. He'd send her on more wild-goose chases, Klein decided.
The last two items were all organized. It took money to persuade people to cooperate in an unknown operation -a lot of money. Well, he'd already obtained that.
Klein reckoned he'd calculated the amounts just right. Four thousand for Lara. With the promise of a quarter of a million pounds. Four thousand was not enough to tempt her into walking away. Not with a fortune dangled in front of her.
Louis Chabot had been a different proposition. A professional. Ten thousand francs for starters. The promise of two hundred thousand, the equivalent of?20,000. More money than Chabot had ever earned before. Not too much, not too little – that was the delicate balance.
Greed. That was the motive force. Estimate the level of greed with a man – or a woman – and you had them in the palm of your hand. A compulsive checker, Klein looked at his list again. Explosives. In place. Banker. Everything arranged.
Whichever way he looked at it, Klein felt sure he had overlooked nothing. Already rumours about the hijacking of an unknown vessel were spreading. The essential smokescreen. You couldn't recruit people on the scale he was operating at without whispers reaching the authorities. So, give them something to chew on, the wrong thing.
Of course there would be casualties. Hundreds of them. But you couldn't mount the biggest operation since World War Two – against the biggest target in Western Europe -without casualties. You couldn't make an omelette without breaking eggs – a two hundred million pound gold bullion omelette.
And, Klein, a careful man, thought, as he used a lighter to set fire to the sheet from his notepad, then dropped the blackened remnant into the ash-tray, he hadn't left a single clue behind. Who in the world was there to stop him?
13
Tweed returned to Park Crescent at 7 p.m. Howard and Monica were waiting for him in his office. They looked up expectantly as he walked round his desk, sank into his chair.
'Well,' Howard pressed, 'what did the PM say?'
'I have to investigate the Zarov thing. Sheer waste of time, I'm sure…'
'You didn't tell her that?'
'Of course I did. She's frank, expects frankness. But I have to check it out.'
'How on earth are you going to do that?' Howard crossed his well-creased trousers carefully and drank more of the coffee Monica had supplied. 'Not a damned thing to go on,' he continued. 'Doesn't she realize that?'
'It's that conversation she had when Gorbachev phoned her. I don't think she's told me everything that was said. I'll just have to get on with it.' Tweed waved a hand in the air. 'A search for a phantom.'
'With not a damned thing to go on?' Howard repeated.
'Not quite true.' Tweed fingered his tie, a sure sign to Monica he wasn't happy about the situation. 'First, there is Yuri Sabarin, the Russian in Geneva who swears he saw Igor Zarov a few weeks ago.'
'What about him?'
'I'm flying to Geneva tomorrow to interview him. Grill him, if you like. He'll probably back-track under pressure…'
'And what else is going for you?' Monica asked. 'Like some coffee? Yes, you look fagged out. I'll make a fresh pot.'
'Thank you. While I'm in Geneva I'll also start checking my personal contacts. Then go on to Paris. Check with someone who knows everything that happens in the quiet streets…' A reference to the quiet streets which house Soviet embassies. 'Then,' he continued, 'I may go on to my contact in Brussels.'
'Why those cities?' Howard asked.
'According to Lysenko this Zarov was stationed in them at various times.' He reached inside his brief-case he'd dropped beside his desk, extracted the photocopy of Igor Zarov, put it on the desk facing Howard. 'That's who I'm supposed to track down. If he's still alive. ..'
'You sound doubtful,' Howard observed as Monica returned with a tray and began pouring coffee.
'I am very doubtful – despite the PM's views. I'm also wary.'
'Wary?' Monica queried. She looked at the picture. 'That's him?'
'Wary and suspicious. Lysenko could be up to something. The only thing is he seemed genuinely worried – even frightened.' He pushed the picture towards Monica. 'Get the Engine Room boys in the basement to run off two dozen copies. It will be tricky – making copies from a copy. Then send one to Chief Inspector Benoit of the Brussels police, Rene Lasalle in Paris, Otto Kuhlmann in Wiesbaden and Arthur Beck of the Swiss Federal Police in Berne. I'll draft a letter to them later to go with the photocopies.'
'Why so many policemen?' asked Monica. 'Instead of all the Intelligence chiefs?'
Tweed showed wry amusement, watching Howard. 'Oh, didn't I tell you? The PM has given me a temporary appointment as a Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad. And, Monica, check all the files on Soviet embassy personnel over here for the past three years…'
'Ye Gods!'
'Yes, it will take awhile. But Zarov was in London, 1985. The point is this – Lysenko told me his postings, but not the names he worked under. Undoubtedly not Zarov. He'll have been a commercial attache officially, something like that.'
Howard sat with a stunned look. 'You did say you've been given a special attachment to Scotland Yard? Your old stamping ground?'
'Youngest Superintendent, Homicide Squad,' Monica said with relish. 'After he left Military Intelligence, before he came here.'
'I was just lucky,' Tweed commented.
'I still don't understand it,' Howard protested. 'That's never been done before. A split allegiance – to the Service and to Scotland Yard.'
'Nonsense!' Tweed waved a hand. 'I didn't ask for it. The PM's idea. It will give me more clout with the police on the continent.'
'I don't like it,' Howard said stiffly. 'She should have consulted me.' He stood up to leave.
'Send her a memo,' Tweed suggested.
Howard glared, shot his cuffs, and walked out of the room. He closed the door very quietly behind him. Monica giggled, refilled Tweed's cup. 'He's hopping mad again. He'll be impossible for days.. .'
'I won't be here for days. There's something else. That bomb at Paula's house in Blakeney. A Captain Nicholls and his team defused it. Nicholls said it was a new type – he'd been shown a sample obtained by Commander Bellenger of Naval Intelligence. Call Admiralty after I've gone home – try and get Bellenger to come and meet me here before I have to catch the flight for Geneva.'
'Will do.' Monica frowned. 'Funny isn't it? A Soviet bomb is planted in Norfolk – then the Kremlin asks for assistance finding this mysterious Zarov character. And you were told by Lysenko a huge cargo of sea-mines and bombs had gone missing from their Sevastopol depot. Doesn't make sense.'
'Maybe it will after I've talked with Bellenger. Any word from Newman out in Breckland?'
'Not a dicky bird. You know Bob – he'll go his own way, only report in when he's got something.'
True.' Tweed had put on his Burberry, was about to go home when he made the casual remark. 'Where is Paula now?'
