Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`I understand.' Lysenko still stood stiffly to attention.

`Relax, Comrade. I'm not going to eat you. Yet! One thing worries me. Tweed. I told you I read his file. He is the one man who might sniff out this immense heroin consignment.'

`He is still in London. Balkan has confirmed that. He says he is certain Tweed will return to Germany. Tweed never gives up…'

`That is why I worry. You know the tremendous effort put into transporting the consignment secretly to Leningrad. Munzel has failed once. Normally he wouldn't get a second chance. He only has this fresh chance because you say he is the best. And it must be done by an East German. No risk of egg on our face.'

`Wolf does know about the other consignment which will be moving shortly – the shipment of arms from Czechoslovakia via the DDR to Cuba for Nicaragua.'

`Doesn't matter. That is a little local affair compared with the heroin. Down to you, Lysenko. Supervising the transport of the heroin into England. That's all.'

Gorbachev stared at Lysenko from under his thick eyebrows. He had almost more hair in the brows than on the rest of his balding head. He waited until his visitor reached the door before he gave a last instruction.

`Lysenko! No communication, no reference to the heroin by the normal channels. Telephone, teleprinter or computer. The Americans have developed sophisticated equipment to penetrate our communications system. The problem has not been solved. If you have to contact me, use the phone – but refer to it as "the cargo". Just that phrase. Your plane is waiting. Get back to Leipzig…'

General Vasili Lysenko had a lot to think about on the flight to Leipzig. At Moscow he had boarded the Tupolev 134 as the first passenger, bypassing the normal formalities and security checks. They had given him his own section of the aircraft closest to the air crew's cabin, curtained off from the rest of the plane.

He was always relieved to leave Gorbachev's presence still holding his present rank. You just never knew which way the General Secretary was going to jump next. He was turning the Soviet Union upside down. No one who didn't come up to scratch was safe, regardless of position or track record.

Dawn was a bar of lurid light on the distant horizon. Lysenko was unaware of it as he thought of what he had been told. And he'd noticed Gorbachev had not even assigned a code-name to the heroin. Just 'the cargo'. An additional precaution. Code-names could leak, people speculated what they might mean.

`The cargo' was Gorbachev's pet project. And, as he had said, the effort which had gone into transporting the huge haul had indeed been prodigious. First the endless camel train carrying it out of Pakistan, starting its long journey weeks ago.

It had travelled by a dangerous route. A small section of the route had crossed the eastern 'tongue' of Afghanistan bordered by Pakistan, India, even China – at its most eastern tip – and, to the north, Soviet Russia. They had sent a young Russian general to launch an offensive in the Afghan area against the rebels.

His directive had been to destroy the rebel forces, to occupy the 'tongue'. The Soviet High Command who had sent him had known his task was impossible. It had been a diversion – to keep the Afghan rebels busy while the camel train proceeded across the Pamirs by a pass, then down into the Turanian Plain.

At Khokand the cargo had been put aboard a six-coach armoured train. Only a portion of one coach was needed to store the heroin. A further precaution. The heroin habit was growing inside Russia. The rumour had been spread that the train was transporting armaments.

It had made the long journey to Moscow. There the heroin coach had been uncoupled, attached at dead of night to an express bound for Leningrad. Gorbachev himself had supervised the details of the fabulous journey. Now it would be transshipped by sea to its ultimate destination. By a most devious route. With the aid of Balkan.

Chief Inspector Bernard Carson of the Central Drug Squad was a tall, lanky man in his late fifties and with curly brown hair. His manner was always calm, even off-handed, no matter how great the crisis which faced him. He sat in Tweed's arm chair while Tweed stood by the window. At his request, Monica had left them alone.

`What I've come to see you about doesn't really concern you at all,' Carson explained. 'But I'm a bit bothered.'

`You are?'

Tweed was surprised. He couldn't remember Carson ever admitting to even being ruffled before.

`Word is out on the street that the biggest consignment of heroin ever moved is on its way to this country.'

`May I ask what are your sources of information?'

`Oh, we have a whole underground network of dealers and pushers who – for a consideration – tell us things. They're all keyed up to distribute fast this huge consignment. That's the key to their success. Never hold on to the stuff. Offload it. Fast! Spread it over a small army of pushers. Lose it. Here in London. The Midlands. This poison is spreading through the whole country. I have no doubt the rumour is true.'

`So why come to me?' Tweed asked.

`Because you have your own networks across the whole of Europe. I'd hoped you might hear something. It's the route I want..

Carson said it with unaccustomed vehemence. He drank some of the coffee Monica had brought in earlier.

`It's Holland at the moment, isn't it?'

`That's the gospel according to St John. All my colleagues agree with it. Their eyes – and those of the Customs boys – are glued to Holland.'

`And your view?'

Carson shrugged. 'I just get a funny feeling about this one – that it's different. Never known such activity, anticipation, on the streets. The bastards are practically salivating. It could be that somehow they're bringing in an unprecedented amount – maybe even a hundred kilos. Gambling on getting in the big haul at one throw of the dice. If so, God knows how they hope to do it.'

`Bernard,' Tweed said abruptly, 'I can't help you.' `How come?' Carson looked bewildered.

`Because I'm convinced you know something you haven't told me. You've given me nothing concrete to go on. Forget it.'

Carson stirred uncomfortably in the chair. 'I should have realized you'd sense it. OK. But this is highly confidential… `Tell me. If you're going to.'

`We had a man on the spot in Pakistan, a very good man. He was based at Peshawar. The base the Yanks are using to ship guns and ammo to the Afghan rebels, bless their cotton socks..

`I know where Peshawar is.'

`This is the really confidential bit. Our chap had a contact inside the Soviet Embassy at Islamabad. Bought and paid for. Our chap reported rumours of a large heroin consignment bound for the West. The Soviets must have got on to our man. Pathans were used to carve him up …'

`That's rather horrible. I'm sorry.'

`Goes with the territory. Our man knew that. But some of our back-up people arrived, caught the Pathans in the act.' `What happened to them?'

Carson cocked his right hand like a pistol, made a motion of pulling a trigger. 'Sympathy, the liberal option, doesn't figure in our business. Our chap was still alive – only just. He said one word before he closed his eyes. Sounded like Hansa.'

`You're sure it was Hansa?' Tweed pressed.

`Nearest our people could get to it.' Carson stifled a yawn. `Sorry, I'm twenty-four hours without sleep. Word doesn't mean a damned thing to me.'

`Hansa,' Tweed repeated. 'The Hanseatic League. A federation of major shipping ports banded together to protect their trade interests. Formed in 1241. Founder members Hamburg and Lubeck. Para-military, too. They had armed groups to accompany caravans of goods moving in Europe against roving bandits.'

`History was my worst subject,' said Carson. 'I don't see the connection…'