`I have just arrived from Leipzig with the latest news.. `I know that. What is the latest news?'
`The trap to lure Tweed to West Germany has been sprung. A close associate of Tweed's, Ian Fergusson, took the bait. He arrived in Hamburg when he heard a Polish refugee had urgent news...'
Lysenko, in his sixties, stockily-built and with a slab-like face, kept his explanation as short as possible. The General Secretary had a short fuse where wafflers were concerned.
`Erwin Munzel, the East German executioner, killed him — made it look like an accident. Tweed won't accept that...'
`You've left a bit out. Who is this Polish refugee? And did Fergusson meet him before he had his accident?'
`Yes, he did. The refugee is Ziggy Palewska, a piece of rubbish. He lives off providing information to whoever will pay for it...'
`And where does he get information from?'
`Other refugees he's friendly with. As you know, Schleswig-Holstein, the part of Germany closest to Denmark, is crammed with refugees who fled from East Prussia and other places after the Great Patriotic War...'
`I know that. Did Fergusson meet him?'
`Yes. Munzel organized the permanent accident shortly after Fergusson had left Palewska's place in Hamburg.'
`This Munzel...'
`Erwin Munzel, General Secretary...'
`I know the name. His father was a Nazi, an SS General?'
`That is so...' Not for the first time Lysenko marvelled at the remarkable range of Gorbachev's detailed knowledge. He wanted to know everything — about everybody. Not a comfortable feeling — but Gorbachev was not a comfortable man to sit down with. Lysenko felt the moisture growing on the palms of his hands.
`And this professional assassin, Erwin Munzel. Also a bit of a Nazi, I hear.'
`He is one of us though...'
`No German is one of us.' Gorbachev's expression froze.
`But if we can point them the other way — against the West, so be it. An expert on accidents, our lackey, Munzel?'
`He's quite brilliant.'
`He had better be when he deals with this Tweed. The new policy is apparent — I emphasize apparent — arm's-length friendship with the Americans while Reagan is president. After that, we'll get someone softer. No American president in my time will be as tough and realistic as Reagan. In the meantime, no serious incidents to destroy the illusion.'
`The death of Tweed will look like an accident,' Lysenko assured his chief. 'But it is essential to our plan. Only Tweed could detect the major operation under way to demoralize Britain — and maybe even defeat all our efforts.'
`Then he must go...' Gorbachev paused and Lysenko pushed back his chair. 'Keep your backside in that chair, I'm not finished,' Gorbachev growled. 'Is Balkan still in place? It should make your job easier — knowing what Tweed is doing almost before he knows himself.'
`Balkan is the best agent we've ever had. We can't miss so long as he is in London. Plus his other function.' Lysenko waxed enthusiastic. 'Balkan is the most audacious manoeuvre we have ever pulled off. Tweed would go berserk if he discovered the truth. He would never believe it possible...'
`Time you flew back to Leipzig to oversee the operation. Is Markus Wolf still useful? He's held that job a long time now.'
Gorbachev was referring to the chief of East German Intelligence based in East Berlin. He watched Lysenko closely, searching for any doubt in tone of voice or expression.
`I cooperate with Wolf very well...'
`You direct Wolf,' Gorbachev corrected him. 'Never forget he also is another bloody German.' Seated, he waited until Lysenko had almost reached the exit door before he barked out the warning.
`You could get over-confident where Tweed is concerned. I was rereading his file last night. That man is very clever — so, very dangerous. Go!'
Five
`Guy Dalby...' Monica again recited her résumé from memory. `... head of the Mediterranean sector. The largest of all the territories. Zone of operations includes France, Spain, Italy, Turkey, Portugal and Switzerland. HQ in Bern. Our best linguist. He speaks French, German, Spanish, Italian and Arabic. Also the best admin man. Very methodical. Well organized in his job — and his private life. Penetration areas Libya and the Middle East. Our most well-informed man on terrorists, even outside his own zone. That's it.'
`His private life — so well organized, you said,' Tweed asked.
He sat back again in his chair, eyes almost closed. He had returned from having lunch with Newman at Inigo Jones, a restaurant where the tables were arranged so you could have a private conversation without fear of being overheard. And no one else Tweed knew frequented the place.
`Married to a French girl. Lives in Woking, Surrey. It has the best train service in the country for commuting to London. Also he can drive across country to Heathrow without touching London — which makes it easier for him to slip abroad unnoticed. Has no friends among his neighbours. They think he's an accountant with his own practice. Perfect cover.'
`The perfect man?' Tweed commented with a touch of irony. `Tell him I'd like a word...'
Dalby, dressed in a conventional grey suit, walked in and sat down without a glance at Monica. He whipped the cat-lick higher up his forehead and waited, leaving Tweed to make the opening move. Typical Dalby tactic.
`Guy, why did you ask what was the motive behind Fergus- son's murder during our meeting this morning?'
`Track down the motive and you're close to the people who did the job. Howard is back a day early, by the way. He'll be up to see you soon I think.'
`Thank you for the warning.' Tweed, Monica noted, was at his most ironic. And he already had the information. Newman had told him over lunch that he'd seen Howard aboard the same flight which had brought him from Paris.
`What is the atmosphere like in your sector, Guy?' Tweed continued. 'You'll be on your way back to Bern soon, I take it?'
`By a late flight this afternoon. To Geneva, then on by train to Bern. The atmosphere?' Dalby cocked his head to one side in a bird-like gesture Monica knew so well. 'Very odd. I was going to ask to see you, but you got in first. The other side has withdrawn most of its top agents back behind the Curtain. Something is up...'
`A conference with Gorbachev so he can drum into them his new strategy?'
`Perhaps.' Dalby sounded unconvinced. 'The last time they did this it was the prelude to a major operation. I don't like it — I've put all my people on top alert. They're getting in touch with every contact they know. Someone must know something. I'll be glad to get back into the field.'
`And how is your wife?'
Monica bent her head over her file and had trouble keeping a straight face. A typical Tweed ploy when he was puzzled — to switch the conversation abruptly from one topic to another. `Going fishing,' he called it.
`Renee has gone back to Paris. We're separated. There's a full report on Howard's desk. I have two men following her...'
`I wouldn't worry over-much. She was thoroughly vetted. I'm sorry to hear it though...'
`I'm not. The French have funny habits. She couldn't keep her eyes off other men. At parties. In a restaurant. I tackled her and we had our last flaming row. Packed her bags and off she went. I'll be glad to get back to some real work. Is that all? Can I go now?' Dalby asked perkily.
`Why not?'
Monica waited until they were alone before she spoke. Her voice was full of disapproval.
`I'm not a bit surprised about Renee. I suppose he didn't catch on earlier because he's away so much.'
`And what does that catty remark mean?'
`That she was promiscuous. I saw her twice in London clinging on the arm of a man — a different one each time. You could tell what she was doing with them the way she walked and looked.'
`I'm sure you could. As you know, I'm catching the plane to Hamburg, so we'd better get on. Masterson is last on the list …'
`Harry Masterson is fun,' Monica began. For the first time she didn't sound as though she were speaking by rote. She really has a crush on him, Tweed thought as she continued her description.
`Chief of the Balkan sector. Headquarters, Vienna. Zone covers Austria, Yugoslavia and Greece. Operates in the most dangerous penetration areas — Hungary, Rumania, Bulgaria and the Ukraine. Speaks German, Serbo-Croat, Greek and Russian. A gay dog since his divorce — even before it..
No note of disapproval for Masterson, Tweed observed.
`... has a succession of girl friends. All of them in this country, all of them British. Very careful not to get involved once he leaves for Vienna. Very popular with his agents — he'll take any risk he asks them to undertake. Has been behind the Iron Curtain seven times before you stopped him. Can hold his drink. At a party I once saw him — he was loaded — walk into the street with an unopened bottle of champagne perched on his head. He walked along the centre white line, arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. All for a bet...'
`Your enthusiasm wouldn't be running away with you?'
Monica wouldn't stop. She continued in full flood. 'Lives in a lovely old cottage at Apfield near Chichester. Mixes with the yachting crowd but wouldn't set foot on a boat. Hates them and says so. That's a tribute to his personality. Boaty people are very sensitive about their hobby. He doesn't give a damn. "Bloody boats," I once heard him say at Cowes, "they never stay in one place." They made him a member. Can you believe that?'
`If you say so, Monica. Call him. Let's get it over with. I'm beginning to feel I'm conducting a series of interrogations.'
`Isn't that exactly what you are doing?' she asked and picked up the phone.
`The general situation in the Balkans?' Tweed asked and watched Masterson through half-closed eyes.
`Bloody boring. Nothing doing. Can't understand it. Never known the roubles go to ground like this before. Something sinister in the wind. I'll damned well dig out what it is..
`Go to ground, you said. What exactly does that indicate?'
`It indicates what I said. All enemy agents have dived into their burrows like a bunch of flaming rabbits. You can walk down the Kärntnerstrasse in Vienna and back up again all day without seeing one suspicious character. That's suspicious in itself. Vienna is the espionage centre of Europe east of Geneva. The place is losing all its character...'
`Slow down, Harry. I've got the picture. What does that picture suggest to you?'
`They're preparing something really nasty, of course. Pull out, lull us into a state of spending our time in the bars. Then, bingo! Launch the operation. Always the same technique. Moscow got into, a rut years ago. I keep telling you that. So what do I have to do to convince you? Take out an ad in
The
Times
?'
`It could be the new leadership assessing the situation...'
`Assessing my ass! We'd better brace ourselves, Tweed — and you'd better watch your back on that Hamburg jolly. From what I hear the only big feature recently has been the killing of poor Ian Fergusson. Hamburg is what it's all about. Not that Hugh Grey has caught on yet. Too busy dusting off Howard's chair before he plants his poncy behind in it. God, I'd hate to work under him. Come to think of it, I wouldn't...'
`He's got a tricky job,'.Tweed pointed out when he could edge in a word. 'That's the sector where you can't tell one German from another — East or West...'
`So, why didn't one of his feelers warn him Fergusson was on to a one-way trip? I'd have known if he'd been heading for the Balkans.'
`Which is your way of saying you don't much like each other.'
`I hate the guts he doesn't have...'
`On that punch-line maybe we'd better end this chat. You'll never better it,' Tweed assured him.
`You watch your back!'
Masterson, his ruddy complexion flushed beneath the coal- black hair, waved a minatory finger at Tweed, gave Monica his quick salute and was gone. Through the door without opening it was Tweed's impression.
`Isn't he marvellous?' Monica cooed, her own face flushed a pinkish tinge.
`I believe that bit about walking the white line with the champagne bottle now,' Tweed told her. `So, we've seen the lot. Any clue as to which one sent Fergusson into the abyss?'
`Nothing I spotted. Did I miss something?'
The door opened again and Masterson reappeared. He closed it and stood staring at Tweed as he spoke.
`I hope you took me seriously. I meant it. I know what I'm talking about. I'm pretty sociable — and that party at Grey's farm...' He stopped. 'Oh, hell, you've had a bellyful of me.'
Monica made a fuss about being busy when Masterson had left the room for the second time. Tweed watched her as she moved files around and then reached for the phone.
`Hold that call,' he said. 'Now, tell me what all that was about. Some party at Grey's farm out on the Wash. What party?'
`It was a couple of years ago. July 14.' She looked embarrassed but Tweed waited, compelling her to go on. 'Grey had a birthday party. Paula acted as hostess — his wife had pushed off and he and Paula were living together...'
`Get to the point. Who were the guests?'
`The four men who are now sector chiefs. Masterson, Dalby and Lindemann. It was Grey's birthday. He asked them all to come for dinner. They happened to be on leave at the same time. So, it seemed an ideal opportunity.'
She stopped and studied Tweed's expression. He looked amused. 'You're thinking I was one of their main topics of conversation?'
`They might have asked you to join them...'
`Why should they? They were all lower down the ladder — men in from the field and in search of relaxation. I'd have put a real damper on their having a free-and-easy time. They need something to get the tension out of their systems. How is it you remember the date so well?'
`July 14? Bastille Day.'
`Of course. And all this time you've kept quiet — thinking I'd be offended?'
`How was I to know how you'd react? It wasn't a piece of information which affected our work. If it had been, I'd have let you know soon enough.'