Colin Forbes - Deadlock

'You'll be disappointed then.' Tweed stood up. 'I don't work that way. Even assuming I take any action at all. That is not my decision.'

'Tweed!' Lysenko had now stood up. 'This I will always swear you invented if repeated.' His rough voice trembled with emotion. Tweed watched him closely. Was this man a far better actor than he had been told? 'It was Gorbachev himself – after reading your file from beginning to end -who told me you were probably the only man in Europe who could find Zarov and deal with him.'

'I repeat, it is not my decision.'

Tweed ended the conversation on that note and then witnessed an extraordinary scene. Lysenko filled his glass to the brim with vodka, swallowed the contents in one gulp and hurled the glass across the room, smashing it against the wall. To your success, my friend!'

It was mid-afternoon when Tweed's flight headed back for London. After Lysenko had left, Tweed had sat down and enjoyed the best meal he could remember provided by Rosa Tschudi at the Gasthof. He was grateful for the lunch because now he could think about all he had been told.

Images tumbled through his mind. The blurred picture of Zarov which could not disguise his burning eyes. A large truck crashing the Soviet-Turkish border from Armenia. The body of Dikoyan floating in the Bosphorus, the throat slashed from ear to ear. The Greek freighter, Lesbos, slipping its moorings in the fabulous Golden Horn harbour, sailing to oblivion.

Was any of it true? The GRU had concocted some fairytales in its time: Tweed, of all people, knew that. If so, they had excelled themselves. For what motive? Park Crescent had never had even the hint of the existence of an Igor Zarov. Did he even exist? If so, had Yuri Sabarin really seen him in Geneva recently? All he had was the word of Lysenko, a man who made lying a way of life.

I'm inclined to discount the whole bloody story, he thought. So what new manoeuvre was it intended to conceal? For the first time since he had joined the Service Tweed felt at sea, completely baffled. And he didn't even know what opinion to express when he arrived back. He had never felt so frustrated. Maybe something would happen to bring the mystery into focus. He doubted it.

It was mid-afternoon in Marseilles when the man called Klein stood in the shadows of the entrance to the ancient church. Notre Dame de la Garde is perched high above the city like a fortress guarding the great seaport spread out far below. A vast stone terrace spreads away west of the entrance, a terrace surrounded by a low stone wall. Lara Seagrave perched her backside on the flat-topped wall, aimed the Leica camera equipped with a telephoto lens, took more pictures of the harbour and its approaches. There was no one else on the great platform.

Below the wall the ground fell sheer towards the rooftops. Mid-afternoon, the sun at its highest point, beating down ferociously with a burning glare. It was well over 80° in the shade. Lara looked up from the camera and gazed round.

The harsh limestone – of which Marseilles is built – stood out from the bleak, treeless ridges and bluffs which encircle the city. The heat radiated off the rock, a heat haze shimmered, the Mediterranean was a blinding blue, the islands – including the famous Chateau d'If – vague silhouettes.

Lara loved the heat, soaked it up. Twenty-one years old, the step-daughter of Lady Windermere, she revelled in her freedom, in the excitement of the adventure. This was the moment when Klein, tall and thin-faced, wearing a suit of tropical drill, strolled into view, casually walked to a point close to her by the wall and raised a monocular glass looped round his neck.

'What do you think?' he asked in perfect English, staring out to sea, giving no hint to a watcher that they knew each other.

'Doesn't seem right for hijacking a ship,' she replied.

'And why not?'

'The harbour entrance is too narrow. It's like a snake the way it winds about. No easy escape route inland either if things go wrong. See how crammed together the old buildings are. The traffic jam in the streets. I feel it's not what you're looking for.'

She spoke in her upper crust accent, hardly moving her lips as she, also, gazed out to sea. She forced herself to stay cool, although the nearness of this man always excited her. Mustn't show it, she reminded herself. He doesn't approve of that.

'I'm inclined to agree with you,' Klein said. 'Best have a look at the next port. Le Havre.' His voice was cold, remote, his pale features contrasting strongly with Lara's sun-baked complexion. She was probably that colour all over, he mused. She loved sunning herself in the nude -one aspect of her sensuality.

'I'll leave tonight then?' she suggested.

'No. Tomorrow. And by train. From the Gare St Charles. I don't trust airports. Too easy for the security people to check each passenger. Go to Paris. I've reserved a room for you at The Ritz. Take another train from there to Le Havre. I'll meet you in five days' time. Friday – in the restaurant at The Ritz for dinner. You have enough money?'

'I've got over three thousand pounds left. Plenty…'

'I'll see you then.'

'What about the photographs I've taken? I never expected to see you up here.'

'Destroy them. Wait five minutes after I've gone, then you can leave here…'

He drifted away like a ghost. Despite the heat she shivered with anticipation. For Paris. She hadn't even looked him in the eye. I never expected to see you up here… Klein always did the unexpected. Ever since that first meeting at a party in a flat near Harrods. She'd seen him watching her across the room. When he came up to her she didn't trust her luck. The other guests babbling away were crashing bores. This man was not only good-looking; he was intelligent, amusing, made her laugh.

'I'm Reinhard Klein. Consultant for a German armaments firm. A bit hush-hush – what I do.'

'You sound so English,' she'd remarked.

'Who says I'm not?' He'd grinned and she threw her normal caution to the winds. He could charm the birds out of the trees. And he had certainly charmed Lara. 'The Germans like to think they're dealing with one of their own kind…'

'You mean…'

'I mean I'd like to take you out to dinner. Send you home as soon as you've had enough…'

That was how it had started. She had learned practically nothing about his background, and this air of mystery intrigued her. Klein had – by the end of the evening -heard the story of her life.

She'd endured the usual debutante-style education. After prep school it had been Roedean. She whipped through her exams, got high marks, hated the whole childish business, simply couldn't wait to get out into the real world.

'I was good at languages,' she had told him. 'I went to a perfectly awful finishing school at Gstaad in Switzerland. To pass the time I became fluent in French and German. The other girls chased stupid men…'

'You don't like men?' Klein had probed.

'Not the kids – the twenty-year-old lot. They're callow, can't talk about anything except Henley and Glyndebourne. And bedding girls. I prefer older men. And I want to make a lot of money while I'm still young enough to enjoy it…'

Klein had showed interest in that remark – and her ability as a linguist. He'd tested her, chatting in German and French. She'd told him how her mother had died young, killed in a car crash. Then her merchant banker father had married Lady Windermere.

'He's not very bright about women,' she'd explained. 'I didn't like my mother. All she thought about was mixing with so-called high society. My step-mother turned out to be a disaster area as far as I was concerned. Wanted me out of the way.' Lara had mimicked her: 'My dear, the duty of an attractive girl in your position is to find some wealthy young man with prospects. Love doesn't come into it. You can get that elsewhere later. If you must…'