Deadlock

7

Tweed peered out of the window of the Boeing 737, staring south at the spectacular view as the machine approached Zurich. The sky was cloudless, to the south the vast panorama of the Bernese Oberland range stretched. Even in May the wave of world-famous peaks were snowbound. Silhouetted against an azure sky, the light was blinding. The Jungfrau, the highest peak amid the chain of other giants, stood out like a monarch of mountains.

The aircraft began its descent towards Kloten. He forced himself to relax. He had no idea who would meet him. 'A Swiss who will certainly recognize you,' he had been told. Highly informative.

As he descended the mobile staircase he glanced round at the fir forests surrounding Kloten. One of his favourite airports in the world – quiet, well-organized, peaceful. But this was Switzerland. A familiar figure waited at the foot of the steps, a plump-cheeked man with a ruddy complexion, quick movements, dressed in a navy-blue business suit. Arthur Beck, chief of the Federal Police.

'Welcome,' said Beck, not using Tweed's name. He took him by the arm, guided him towards a black stretched Mercedes with tinted windows parked near the main building. 'A pleasant flight, I hope?'

'Yes. Good to see you again, Beck. What's happening?'

'Straight to business. You haven't changed.' Beck glanced back, saw they were out of earshot of the trail of passengers alighting from the aircraft. '. I have transport -this car. I'm driving you personally to the rendezvous…'

He opened the door of the front passenger seat, closed it as Tweed settled himself, put Tweed's small case in the back and sat behind the wheel.

'We travel as we did for our earlier arrival, General Lysenko. No motor-cycle outriders, no fuss, nothing to draw attention to ourselves …'

'Lysenko has arrived in Zurich? He wasn't expected until this afternoon.'

Beck nodded, a gleam in his grey eyes under bushy brows. 'So we thought, too. We had thirty minutes' warning that he was aboard a regular Aeroflot flight coming in. But I was ready for him – waiting at Kloten. I came here from Berne yesterday. I know the Russians.'

'Where's the rendezvous?' Tweed asked.

'Not far away. A small village called Nurensdorf. I chose it because it is near Kloten, because it is a sleepy place -no chance of either of you being spotted by reporters. The actual location is a nice old hotel, the Gasthof zum Baren. My old friend, Rosa Tschudi will see you are well fed. She is a superb cook. I go there myself when I come to Zurich if I can.'

'How many in Lysenko's bodyguard?'

'None. He travelled by himself as an ordinary passenger.'

'You've spoken with him?' Tweed probed.

'Through his interpreter, yes. Where is yours?'

'Don't spread it abroad. I speak Russian myself now.'

'Really?' Beck looked surprised. There is no end to your talents, my friend. And you are wondering what kind of a mood our visitor from the East is in? I thought so. Very preoccupied. My guess is he is a very worried man…'

They said no more until they arrived in a small attractive village. The Gasthof was an old three-storey building with a steeply-sloping roof and dark red shutters. Beck parked the car in a space at the side, paused before getting out.

'Officially the hotel has been taken over for a convention. The only people here – apart from Rosa, who won't have any idea who her guests are – are my people. Men and women. Take a deep breath, we will go inside if you are ready.'

'Let's get on with it,' said Tweed.