The Janus Man (2 page)

`Never tasted a decent claret in his life,' Howard had once summed him up.

`That would help him in his work?' Tweed had enquired. `You know what I mean. Bloody brain-box and cold as ice. Like a grand master of chess, our Erich...'

Harry Masterson shot his cuffs clear of the sleeves of his dark blue business suit and waved a hand as he spoke.

`Presumably while you're checking out Fergusson we all carry on as usual? I'm due to leave for Vienna, as you know. My people get slack if I'm not there to boot their asses.'

`Business as usual,' Tweed agreed. 'You get off to Vienna as planned...'

Masterson. Forty-six. A head of hair as black as coal, neatly brushed with a centre parting. A large head, strong features, a commanding personality. A snappy dresser with a string of girl friends. Divorced by his wife when caught in a position which could hardly be described as a compromise. Impatient, he was the dominating character among the five gathered round the table. Chief of the Balkan sector.

`Good hunting in Hamburg,' he wished Tweed. 'Get the bastard who fixed up poor Ian. You will, of course...'

`We'll have to see,' Tweed said. 'And unless there are some questions I propose closing this brief meeting.'

He glanced at Monica, who sat silent at a small table by the wall, pencil poised over her notebook from which she would later prepare the minutes of the meeting. It was a role she took over when Tweed wanted no distraction. But her main reason for being there this time was quite different.

Tweed looked at Guy Dalby who so far had not contributed a word. A reserved man of forty-four, chief of the Mediterranean sector, he had a compact frame and his dark brown hair looped over his forehead in a cat-lick. He spoke now, terse and to the point.

`What do you think was the motive behind Fergusson's murder?'

`No idea. That's what I'm going to find out...'

Tweed rose from the table, pushed his chair under it and made the announcement in a casual tone.

`Before you go about your normal duties I'd like to see each of you in my office later this morning. Separately, please.'

It was a faint hope — that in private conversation he might notice something about one of them which seemed out of place. A very faint hope indeed.

Two

Bob Newman flew into Heathrow aboard Flight AF 808 from Paris. He liked the Airbus — you had plenty of space. The stewardess watched him as he unfastened his safety belt. She wouldn't have minded going all the way with the Englishman.

In his early forties, she guessed. An easy manner, a strong face but the eyes and the mouth hinted at a sense of humour. He would, she was sure, have been fun. He nodded to her as he left the aircraft and walked up the narrow corridor towards Arrivals.

It felt strange — setting foot in England again for the first time in a year. The memory of his late wife, Alexis — killed by the Russians in Estonia, a faraway nowhere place on the Baltic — flooded back. The pleasant side of a marriage which had gone sour, which had been on the verge of the final break-up, filled his thoughts as he went through Passport Control.

The seated official looked at him twice. He had been recognized. Well, he was used to that. You couldn't become one of the most successful foreign correspondents in the world with your photo plastered across God knew how many papers and not expect recognition. Something he could do without.

Settled inside a taxi on his way to his flat at Chasemore House in South Ken, Newman's relaxed expression changed. He gazed out of the window grimly. A wasted year of his life, drifting round Europe, never able to settle anywhere for long, refusing to take on any of the many assignments offered.

So why had he taken on this weird job of acting as bodyguard — for God's sake! — to Tweed? Because it might give him a chance to do damage to the other side? Newman didn't ever delude himself — it was because the offer gave him a purpose in life.

He didn't like the fact that he would be carrying a gun. A crack shot — the SAS had seen to that — Newman had never shot a man in his life. Not yet, he thought bleakly.

Also the job intrigued him. He liked Tweed, admired him as a real pro. He'd worked with him before more than once. Why, he wondered, had Tweed himself accepted the idea of protection? It was out of character. As the cab carried him closer to his flat, all that Newman knew of what lay before him was they were going to Hamburg. Had something happened there already? Well, he'd find out soon enough.

Three

`What did you think of their reactions, Monica?' Tweed asked.

The two of them were alone in his Park Crescent office at the HQ of the SIS. Beyond the net-curtained windows was a view across towards Regent's Park. Tweed stared at the view, not seeing the sunny day as he sat behind his desk.

`The problem is I don't know any of them well enough. They're all newly-appointed, brought in out of the field to replace the men who held their jobs before. That was a clean sweep you made. How did Howard take your pushing out the Old Guard?'

`Not happily, of course. A couple of them were drinking companions at that toffee-nosed club of his. But the PM gave me only two options. Take on Howard's job — or bring in a younger team. She thinks it's time a younger generation took over at sector chief level. And I chose them. The trouble is I made a major error of judgement — to say the least — with one of them. Which one is the draconian question...'

`I'd hoped you would replace Howard himself...'

`I've already told you why not.'

Tweed's tone was abrupt, dismissing a topic he didn't want to discuss any further.

`How are you going to start in Hamburg? You haven't anything to use as a lead as far as I can see..

She broke off as the phone rang. Her expression glowed when she heard who was on the line. She handed the receiver to Tweed.

`It's Bob Newman. Calling from his flat. He's just arrived from Paris...'

`That you, Bob?' Tweed's tone was businesslike. 'Look, we won't talk over the phone. Welcome back. Can you get over to see me? Good. Noon will do fine. Mind how you cross the road. You look right first, now you're back from the continent! See you …'

`He sounded a bit remote,' Monica commented. 'Not his usual buoyant jokey self.'

`The main thing is he's agreed to act as chaperon,' Tweed grimaced. 'I love the idea of having a chaperon...'

`Don't forget the PM's instructions. She said Newman must be next to you wherever you go...'

`Do stop nagging...'

`And you didn't tell me how you're going to start off when you get to Hamburg.'

`Visit the hospital where Fergusson died. Apparently he said a few words which made no sense to the doctor. They might make sense to me. Then a few quiet words with Ziggy Palewska.'

`The Polish refugee who settled in Hamburg? What's Ziggy got to do with anything — apart from the unsavoury way he makes his money?'

`That was why Fergusson went to Hamburg — to see Ziggy. He'd sent me a message saying he had urgent and serious news. Now, before you wheel in Hugh Grey, tell me what you know about him.'

Tweed sat back in his chair, clasped his hands in his lap and behind his horn-rimmed glasses he closed his eyes. Monica was used to this exercise. Her chief was using her as a sounding- board to clarify his own thoughts. She spoke from her phenomenal memory without referring to her card index of staff.

`Hugh Grey. Remarried an attractive brunette called Paula six months ago. Just about the time he was appointed sector chief for Central Europe. Under your reorganization that sector includes West Germany, Holland and Belgium. Penetration zones where he runs underground agents are East Germany, Poland and Czechoslovakia. Speaks fluent German, French and can get by in Italian and Spanish. Headquarters, Frankfurt-on-Main.'

`A bit more about his domestic background, please.'

Tweed was motionless, his eyes still closed, his mind concentrated totally on Hugh Grey.

`Paula Brent — that was her maiden name — is twenty-nine. Which makes her ten years younger than Hugh. She has built up a thriving pottery-making business based in King's Lynn. She makes up the designs herself, has a growing export market.

Especially in the States. Very bright girl, Paula. A stunner to look at. Lives a lot of the time at Hugh's farmhouse out on the Wash in Norfolk. The export deals are made over the phone. Then suddenly she's flying off to LA. Getting back to Hugh, he's madly sociable. Throws dinner parties at the farmhouse when he's home on leave. Enough?'

`For now, yes.' As an afterthought Tweed added, 'I do know Paula. Very independent type. The best sort of new businesswoman. And would you ask Hugh to come and see me now? Stay at your desk while we're talking …'

`Only one more question,' Tweed said to Grey, 'and then we can let you get on. Hamburg is your sector. Fergusson was killed in Hamburg. Is something stirring in your part of the world?'

`I thought we'd get to that.' Grey smiled his moon-like smile. He sat upright in his chair and radiated self-confidence. 'If I knew why Fergusson was sent there — as you pointed out, it is my territory — I might be able to help...'

`Just answer the question.'

`Everything has quietened down since Gorbachev took over — I get the impression the word has gone out. No incidents...'

`You wouldn't call the killing of Fergusson an incident?' Tweed enquired.

'It surprised me very much.' Grey paused to adjust his display handkerchief in his breast pocket. 'I was going to say my impression is Gorbachev wants all quiet on the western front while he consolidates his position at home. He's the development we've been waiting for — the new generation taking over.'

`Which fits in with the gospel according to Gorbachev. New times are arriving. For your information, Mikhail Gorbachev is Stalin in a Savile Row suit. That will be all.'

Monica waited until Grey had left the room, the smile wiped off his face. She turned down the corners of her mouth.

`Saucy bugger. You squashed him beautifully. He's after your job, you know...'

`I know.' Tweed was frowning. 'That's a negative comment on Grey. Give me a positive one.'

`Funny man. Acts like a playboy. But in the field he rides his agents harder than any other sector chief. No mistakes is his motto. No second chance.'

`Which is why I gave him the job. Now, Erich Lindemann. We can just squeeze him in before Bob Newman is due. Résumé, if you please.'

`Erich Lindemann. Headquarters, Copenhagen. Penetration zone, Northern Russia. Born bachelor. Speaks German, Swedish and Danish. The very opposite to Grey. I've been to his flat in Chelsea. Neat as a pin. His study walls are lined with God knows how many books. Venerated by his men — he's so careful of their lives. The most reliable of the lot, I'd say. That's it.'

The interview with Lindemann was brief. The chief of the Scandinavian sector arrived wearing a sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows, sports slacks and a casual shirt. He nodded to Monica without speaking and sat in the waiting chair, resting his arms on the chair arms.

`How are things in Scandinavia?' Tweed asked amiably. `Too quiet. The Kremlin is cooking something unpleasant to serve up to us. I've known this sinister quiet before.' `The quiet before the storm?'

`I would say so, yes. May I make a suggestion?' Lindemann asked.

`I'm listening.'

If you don't like the atmosphere in Hamburg, catch the first flight to Copenhagen. I'll be waiting there for you.'

`Would you care to elaborate on that, Erich?'

`I don't think so.'

`Then I'll bear it in mind. Thank you.'

Something curious about Lindemann's personality, Tweed said to himself as the door closed. Without saying much he projected such an aura of force and power he still seemed to be in the room. He had no time to pursue the train of thought. The phone rang and Monica told him Newman was waiting downstairs. The time was exactly noon.

`After what you've told me I don't like it one little bit,' Newman said emphatically. 'This trip to Hamburg smells like a trap. And you could be the main target — not Fergusson...'

`I know,' Tweed agreed.

`Then why the hell walk into it? Send someone else — a couple of men with back-up. They travel on separate flights and meet up. The Hauptbahnhof would be a good place...'

`Because I think you're right. It's me they want.'

`You need a holiday. You're not thinking straight. I haven't the experience you need...'

`You did pretty well on your own inside Estonia — which was inside the Soviet Union. We're only going to West Germany. And I have the worst problem I've ever faced.'

`You have that in spades. One of your top deputies is working for Lysenko — because it will be General Lysenko of the GRU who is behind this manoeuvre. Unless they've sent him on holiday to Siberia...'

`My information is Lysenko is controlling all anti-West European operations from Leipzig. He's one of the very few of the Old Guard Gorbachev has promoted. The rumour is they've established a close personal rapport...'

`There you are,' Newman said, lighting up a cigarette. 'And Lysenko's one ambition after what you did to him last year will be to discredit you — at the least. And now you tell me he has an ally inside this very building. He may well try and kill you...'

`I don't think he'd go that far. The news is Gorbachev wants a period of quiet — while he packs the Politburo with his own supporters. Killing me would create a storm.'

In that assumption Tweed could not have been more wrong.

Four

`Sit down, Lysenko. How is your plan progressing?'

It was typical of Mikhail Gorbachev that he kept the question terse and came straight to the point. The master of the Soviet Union sat in a large chair at the head of the long oblong-shaped table in his office inside the Kremlin, the section which tourists never see, an old, four-storey building deep inside the ancient fortress.

Dressed smartly in a dark grey, two-piece business suit, he shifted his bulk restlessly, his large hands playing with a pencil. His whole personality exuded an aura of physical and mental energy as he studied the GRU general.