a brief-case up on to the table, took out an envelope. The Engine Room crowd down in the Park Crescent basement had been busy – photographers as well as their Identikit artist.
'Thank you for the compliment,' Sabarin replied. 'I have spent time in London. I used to go into pubs, buy a pint and listen for colloquialisms – how the English of different classes talk. What have you there for me?'
'Four different Identikit pictures.' Tweed looked round the empty restaurant. The waitress was cleaning the counter some distance away. He handed the envelope to Sabarin. 'Are any of them remotely like Zarov?'
Sabarin extracted four large photocopies. The Engine Room had used the same paper, the Identikit artist had drawn three portraits from imagination. The Russian handed the fourth back, inserted the others inside the envelope.
'That's him.'
He had chosen the picture Lysenko had provided at the Gastof zum Baren. Tweed stared at the sketch. By some curious technical trick the eyes were horrifically life-like -almost bulging off the paper.
'It's an excellent likeness,' Sabarin continued. 'Better than a photograph, oddly enough. It has captured his personality. Maybe you can see now why he frightened us when he was in one of his Arctic moods. Ruthless and ferocious as a wild boar. I wonder where he is now?'
'Well, did you believe him?' Tweed asked as they crossed the footbridge over the Rhone.
'Yes, I did,' said Paula, using one hand to stop her skirt flying up. A strong wind was blowing down the lake from the east. 'So the phantom, this Zarov, may be for real?'
'I'm still dubious. Sabarin could have been trained in how to react to my grilling. Why the question about was Sabarin eating at the moment he saw Zarov – if he did?'
'Because a man eating his lunch is less likely to notice what is going on outside the window.'
'Very true. You handled yourself well back at Le Pavilion.'
'Is that why you're telling me a bit more about what's going on?'
'Yes,' Tweed admitted. 'And the man we're going to see is Alain Charvet, an ex-policeman and a contact of mine. Never to be mentioned back at Park Crescent. Charvet, using his old police connections, runs a profitable information consultancy. He knows a lot about what's happening underground in Western Europe.'
'And that man, Beck, who called while we were in the restaurant and thought you were out. Do I get to know about him?'
'Bad news,' Tweed replied as they reached the far bank and turned along the waterfront. 'Arthur Beck. From the Taubenhalde in Berne. Chief of the Federal Police. God knows what he wants – or how he knows I'm here.'
'When we came through Passport Control at the airport I noticed an officer took a long hard look at your passport, then checked it against a list of names before he handed it back.'
'Beck can wait. And you can bet on one thing. He'll be back. At the moment we have other fish to fry. Alain Charvet.'
'Where are we meeting him?'
'His favourite rendezvous. The Brasserie Hollandaise in the Place de la Poste. It's old-fashioned and rather nice. Let me do the talking.'
La Brasserie Hollandaise was almost empty at four in the afternoon. Paula looked round the large room and thought it very Dutch. A quarry-tiled floor, the windows screened by heavy lace curtains, leather banquettes along the walls topped with brass rails. The place was illuminated by large milky globes. Tweed walked towards a corner banquette where a thin-faced man in his early forties sat nursing a beer.
'Alain Charvet,' he introduced. 'This is my new assistant, Paula Grey.'
Charvet stood up, formally shook her hand, his eyes staring straight at hers. Yes, she thought, you'll know me should we meet again. They sat down, Tweed ordered coffee for two, and handed an envelope to Charvet containing a one-thousand franc note.
'Is anything happening? You can talk freely in front of Paula. Fully vetted.'
'What are you looking for?' asked Charvet. 'Not like you to be so vague.'
'I don't really know,' Tweed admitted, heard himself say the words and inwardly cursed the futility of this enterprise. 'Even rumours might help,' he added.
'Rumours are all I have. You know I keep in touch with my friends in France. They keep mumbling about rumours of some huge operation being mounted. Sometimes it's about the hijacking of a ship. I ask you! Then they refer to someone nicknamed The Recruiter. All hot air.'
He was speaking French. Paula was fascinated by the way he used the language. So different from Parisians -but it was said the most perfect French was spoken by the Genevoises. Charvet made a quick gesture as he went on.
'As for this country, there was the big gold bullion robbery two months ago in Basle. Two banks in one night. They got away with twelve million francs of gold.'
Twelve million. Paula did a quick calculation in her head. Over four million pounds. She sensed Tweed's awakening interest as he leaned forward closer to Charvet.
'Both banks in Basle, you mean?'
'Yes. You know the city, of course. They were both near the Bankverein tram stop on the way to the railway station. No clue as to how they moved the gold, but the police have called the robbers The Russian Gang.'
Tweed sat drinking his coffee, absorbing the information. He had a faraway look Monica would have recognized. He was trying to link up this new development with the meagre data he already possessed.
'Why The Russian Gang?' he asked eventually.
'It was the UTS lot, which is surprising. Load of cranks.'
'You mean the Free Ukraine movement?' Paula asked. 'Those pathetic people who were born in the Ukrainian Republic and escaped to the West. They still believe that one day they can bring about a Free Ukraine state - independent of Russia. Mostly they operate out of Munich, pursuing their dream.'
'Yes.' Charvet looked surprised, addressing Tweed. 'Miss Grey has a lot inside her head. Most people have never even heard of the UTS.'
'How do the police know?' Tweed asked.
'One of them was dragged out of the Rhine shortly after the robbery, his throat slit from ear to ear. He carried papers which soon led Arthur Beck to Munich – to identifying him. Presumably they organized the bullion theft to finance their activities.'
'Presumably…' Tweed had drifted off into another bout of silence. 'I don't think it's what I'm looking for,' he said eventually.
'Of course not,' Charvet replied. 'I'm just reporting whatever comes to mind. I know I'm not being very helpful.'
'That man your French friends have nicknamed The Recruiter. I don't understand why?'
'Oh, he's supposed to be paying out huge sums to build a team of villains – top specialists in their fields. No one tells me anything specific. You have to realize some of my contacts do spread pure gossip rather than say they have nothing.'
'And that's it?'
'I am very much afraid so.' Charvet peered inside the envelope Tweed had given him. 'This is far too much for rubbishy gossip.'
'Keep it,' Tweed said as he stood up. 'On account of another day.'
'I'msorry,' Paula apologized as they made their way across the footbridge in the dusk. 'It must have sounded as though I was showing off when I babbled on about the UTS.'
'Quite the opposite. Charvet was impressed. That's good. One day I may want you to come and see him if I'm tied up. Now he will talk to you. And he will never let another soul know you exist.'
'Was it all a waste of time?'
'I think so. Charvet makes his living dealing with facts. He has a reputation to keep. That's why he kept emphasizing he was passing on rumours – gossip.'
'What about this gold bullion robbery in Basle? You did seem intrigued by that news. It's the first I've heard of it.'
'Me too. But the Swiss won't want to broadcast a thing like that. Their banks have a reputation for being the safest in the world. One thing puzzles me. Brr! It's getting chilly. I'll be glad to get back inside the hotel.'
'And what puzzles you?'
