East. For the moment he had the show to himself. He handed her the sheet Beck had given him with the details Geneva Forensic had provided of the probable height and weight of the killer of Gaston Blanc.
'Convert those decimals into feet and inches, stones and pounds. I never did like it when we went decimal.'
'One hundred and ninety centimetres,' she read out. 'Weight a hundred and ten kilogrammes. The man is a giant, as Beck said. Will do …'
Take these,' Tweed continued, pulling sheets of paper out of his brief-case and a plastic bag. 'You remember Colonel Romer said the sheets were chemical analyses of the explosive used to blow the vaults in Basle. The bag has debris collected from inside the same vaults. The lot goes urgently to Commander Bellenger of Naval Intelligence. You'll find his number in Monica's red card index box, top right drawer. Here's the key she left in my drawer. Don't tell Bellenger where I got them from – I just want to know if he can tell me the explosive used.'
'Will do…'
'Call this chap, Jacob Rubinstein, gold bullion merchant. Mention Colonel Romer's name. Make an appointment for me to see him today. Tell him I'm Special Branch. Give him my phone number if he wants to call back to check. Tell him fifteen minutes of his time will be enough if he tries to delay the appointment. Oh, ask Bellenger to send a courier to collect that stuff. It's top secret.'
Tweed paused, realizing he'd been firing instructions like a machine-gun. Paula's raven mane was bent over her desk, hand flying across her notebook as she made shorthand notes.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'You're new and I'm piling it on a bit.'
'Are you?' She looked up and smiled. 'You've forgotten -I ran my own pottery business. Often I'd have two phone calls on the go at once – a buyer from San Francisco wanting urgent delivery, the Wisbech factory on the other line so I could give immediate information. The Americans like that.'
'Just as long as you can cope…'
She had continued writing in her notebook as he spoke. Now she looked up again. 'I've converted those decimal figures. A giant of a man. Height six foot three, weighs seventeen stone.'
'Doesn't sound like Zarov. I'll call that Moscow number. No, leave it to me. You deal with the other jobs…'
The Moscow girl operator asked him to wait after he'd given her the number. To Tweed's surprise Lysenko came on the line within thirty seconds.
'Something you missed giving me on Zarov,' Tweed told him. 'His height and weight.'
'Let me check the file. That was a bad omission on my part.'
Tweed cupped the mouthpiece with his hand, speaking to Paula. The Bear is friendly. Because he wants something. That is, he wishes to give me the impression he wants something…'
He broke off as Lysenko came back on the line. 'Ready? I have the data. Height one hundred and eighty-three centimetres, weighty seventy-eight kilogrammes. Has there been a development?'
'Absolutely nothing. One thing else I wanted to know. Are your own people still searching for him?'
'Of course. But with no hope of success. I told you, Tweed. The devil knows our organization, the people and places to avoid. I understand you interviewed Yuri Sabarin. You have been active. Was Sabarin a help?'
'He did his best. But it didn't take me any further. Thank you for the data. With the Identikit picture it gives me a more complete picture of Zarov. If he's still alive. I am still very doubtful.'
'We have heard more disturbing rumours – that the Americans are behind the planned catastrophe…'
'Somebody was short of material for a report. That's pure idiocy. Where did the report come from?'
'Paris,' Lysenko said after a brief pause. 'And you will be reporting progress to me?'
'I told you before I work in my own way. You've dropped this in my lap – leave it there. Goodbye.'
Tweed cut the call before Lysenko could reply. Paula was watching him. She hadn't understood a word because they had spoken in Russian. Tweed clasped his hands behind his head, shook it.
'Zarov is a hundred and eighty-three centimetres tall, and weighs seventy-eight kilogrammes. Translate that into English for me.'
She scribbled in her notepad. 'Six feet tall, twelve stone in weight. As opposed to Beck's six foot three and seventeen stone.'
'There you are. Not the same man at all. I thought it was stretching to assume the same killer dealt with Dikoyan, the Armenian driver found in the Bosphorus, plus the couple of UTS corpses dragged out of the Rhine, plus Gaston Blanc. Back to square one.'
'Are you sure?' Paula tapped her pen between her small white teeth. 'Surely Beck's people got these measurements, estimated the killer's likely weight, from the blood-stained coat they found in a locker at Geneva Cornavin.'
'Yes. So?'
She doodled on her pad as she talked. That had to be a pretty audacious, smart and well-organized killer who murdered Blanc on the express. Wouldn't you agree? He must have even been carrying a suitcase – something like that – to shove the blood-stained coat inside while he was still in that lavatory.'
'Agreed,' Tweed said thoughtfully, watching her closely.
'And when he dumped the case with the coat inside that locker he'd know the police would find it sometime. Beck probably found it faster than he anticipated.'
'Go on…'
'We've agreed he's very clever. Clever enough to foresee the Swiss police's forensic experts would come up with an estimate of his height and size – from that coat. So, maybe he wore a coat several sizes too large. Perhaps he was six feet tall, weighed twelve stone. Back on stage, Mr Igor Zarov?'
'I slipped up there.' Tweed gazed at her in admiration. 'I could have done with you in my days at the Yard. You think like a detective.'
'I'd better make my phone calls now. Rubinstein first, then Bellenger.'
Her hand was reaching for the phone when it rang. She spoke briefly, her tone businesslike, then gestured towards Tweed's instrument. 'It's Bob Newman for you.'
'Tweed, a brief report,' Newman said crisply. 'Butler and I are going in to Cockley Ford this evening. I've found out…'
'Where are you calling from?' Tweed broke in quickly.
'A public phone box, of course.' Newman sounded irked. 'You think I've lost my marbles?'
'Sorry, a lot is happening here
'One or two things are happening up here, too. As I was saying, I've found out interesting data on the background of the good Dr Portch. Tell you when I come in.'
'Be careful at Cockley Ford, The place has a peculiar atmosphere. When do I see you?' Tweed asked.
'Tomorrow. Early afternoon at a guess.'
'Good. I want your company on a trip – to Paris. OK?'
'If you say so. 'Bye.'
'Paris?' Paula repeated as she wrote down phone numbers. 'Do I get to know why? Or is that indiscreet?'
'Not at all. I'm flying over to see another of my private contacts. Can't give you his name – even Monica doesn't know. I have a string of them, built up over the years. They expect me to respect their secrecy. I'll be staying at the France et Choiseul, rue St Honore…'
'I reserve two rooms? For you and Bob. For how long?'
'Two days, I think. Details of the hotel are in a file Monica keeps, bottom right-hand drawer. I may then go on to Antwerp – again to meet a contact. I'll phone you when I know.'
He broke off as the phone rang. 'One of those days, I can sense it,' he muttered as Paula answered, then looked at him, hand over mouthpiece.
'A Rene Lasalle of the French DSI wants to talk to you…'
'Tweed here. How are you, you old ruffian?' Tweed asked in English.
'Fine. I'm not sure I'm calling the right person…' In the pause Tweed could almost see Lasalle shrugging his shoulders. '… but it is a delicate matter. I know you will handle with the finesse. ..'
'Rene,' Tweed interjected, 'does it help if I tell you I've been appointed a temporary Commander of the Anti- Terrorist Squad?'
