by Colin Forbes
'I just hope to God he hasn't crossed the border.' Tweed's gaze switched to the wall map. 'Peter Toll is brilliant but still impetuous.'
`Why use Newman? He has his own people…'
`Because he might need someone new. All four of our sector chiefs report a weird lack of activity by the opposition. Toll will have spotted that. So, he sends in someone fresh. Let's pray I'm wrong.'
`And why, may I ask,' Monica said tentatively, 'are you taking Diana Chadwick with you when you visit the famous four in their warrens?'
`Just to get a second opinion.'
`Oh, really? I don't think we're being frank any more. You have some other motive…'
Tweed stood up behind his desk, stretched his arms, suppressed a yawn. 'You go home now. Me too. I'll find you a cab. I have to visit that detective, Portman, tomorrow – no, today.'
Monica put the cover on her typewriter. 'And what about Harry Butler and that German he's interrogating at Heathrow?'
`We'll leave them there until I can get Toll. Harry can last out an incredible number of hours. Maybe the German can't.'
`I'll try Toll again in the morning.'
`Do that.' Tweed helped her on with her coat. 'I want news of what has happened to Newman.'
Newman stopped, braking his cycle, dropping his feet to the road, standing with legs splayed on either side of his machine. The crisis had come. He was ice-cold. Falken also stopped. Newman threw up one hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the car's headlights, holding the cycle with the other.
`Border Police!' the arrogant voice shouted again. 'Papers! Your papers!'
There were two of them, both clad in grey military greatcoats and rammed down over their heads were peaked caps with oblong-shaped cap badges. They had stepped forward into the lights, one of them held a carbine loosely in his right hand.
`Lay your cycles on the ground!'
Newman obeyed, stood up slowly, very erect. His left hand reached up slowly to his breast pocket. The guard with the carbine levelled his weapon, aiming it at Newman's chest.
`What are you doing?' his companion shouted.
`Getting out my papers. You asked for them. Kindly examine this folder:' Newman's tone was deceptively quiet. 'And tell that lout with you to lower his gun…'
`Lout?'
The talking man stepped forward, raised his clenched fist.
`Hit me and I'll see you spend the rest of your natural life behind bars!' Newman thundered. 'River Police. Special Security Section. Look at it, idiot!'
He thrust the opened folder under the man's nose, keeping a grip on the document. He held the folder at a slanting angle in the light from the car. The guard lowered his fist, took a step back. Newman took a step forward.
`Blundering fools!' he stormed. 'I'm a senior officer – on special assignment tracking down drug smugglers. You may have ruined the whole operation. Turn out those goddamn car lights. Give me a torch. Come on! Move, damn you!'
Psychological intimidation was not the only motive for raising his voice. Somewhere close behind Gerda was coming along the road, cycling in their rear. He was warning her.
`Go back and turn off the headlights,' the guard told the man with the carbine. 'I have a torch here,' he went on, producing the torch from the capacious pocket of his greatcoat. Newman snatched it from him, switched it on and beamed it straight into the man's eyes. He blinked and lifted his own hand. The cap badge of the Border Guards now showed clearly, the badge Toll had shown Newman at the farmhouse when he identified the different police forces in the DDR for Newman.
`Now you know what it's like,' Newman ranted on. 'To have a light shone at you point-blank. Only the mist may have stopped those headlights alerting the gang of bastards I'm after. Have you children?' he demanded. 'And what is your name?'
`Karl Schneider,' the guard said sullenly. 'And I have a boy and a girl…'
`You want the boy to grow up a drug addict? Hooked on heroin?' he shouted. 'Because that is what this anti-social gang of swine are peddling.' His voice dropped, became silky. 'Show me your identification. I may have to report this operation went wrong because of your crazy intervention…'
`We only do our duty.'
In a cowed tone, the words trailing off as Schneider gave Newman his folder. The Englishman checked it by the light of the torch, repeated the number three times as though impressing it on his memory, then shoved it back at the German.
`Your duty,' he sneered. 'Your fumbling incompetence, you mean.'
`Incompetence?' Schneider, indignant, perked up. 'And who is this man with you?'
`Josef Falken, Bird Sanctuary Conservation Service,' Newman rasped. 'Co-opted to assist me. He can move like a cat – which is more than you can do.' He raised his voice. said incompetence. Instead of waiting by your car quietly, then waving us down with this torch, calling out in a normal voice, you have to illuminate half the Harz Mountains. And had we run for it your car is parked the wrong way – it would need a three-point turn before you could have come after us. By then we'd have disappeared into the mist. Perhaps,' he continued with a heavy sarcasm, 'you'd like to waste more time checking my companion's papers? That will look good on the report I may make. Especially if we miss our rendezvous with the gang of vipers we are hunting.'
`That will not be necessary,' Schneider replied. 'Please to proceed. And if you can see your way to overlooking this unfortunate incident. I have two children and a wife…'
I will think over your request. Come, Falken, we have wasted too long already..
They cycled off together past the parked car which now showed no headlights and pedalled through the fog-bound silence without speaking for several minutes.
`What about Gerda?' Newman asked eventually.
`She will have heard your voice, she will take to the forest, go round the Border Police, pushing her bike, then return to the road and catch us up. That is why we are moving slowly. You know, my friend.. Falken paused as though seeking the right words, `… that was a truly remarkable performance you put up. You are a natural actor. You overwhelmed them by the sheer force of your personality. I kept silent for fear of spoiling the show. Welcome to Group Five.'
`I know the type,' Newman said tersely. 'I've met them before. At the bottom of the heap, they bully any even further down. And they ass-crawl to their superiors. I loathe them.' `You think that Schneider will report the incident?'
`It was a gamble,' Newman admitted. 'If Schneider thinks I will not submit a report he'll keep quiet. If he decides that I'm likely to report him, he'll try to get in first. But I'd bet money he'll sleep on it. Then he may think it is too late. We can only hope.'
`My own estimate of the situation exactly.'
`May I ask where we are going? What information you will be providing for me to take back with me?'
`Why not?' Falken smiled. 'Soon we change our form of transport. We have a long way to go and cycling is too slow – hut an excellent procedure near the border. First, however, I am intrigued how you knew we have a drug problem building up in the DDR.'
`I asked Toll what special job I might be assigned to as a member of the River Police. He told me about the heroin.'
`In some ways that man has no idea what conditions we have to work under. Which is why we take our own decisions. In other ways he often surprises me. He is only recently promoted – so naturally I wish to learn all I can about his ability. I have to think of the lives of the men and women I am responsible for. You may laugh, but they look up to me as a father-figure.'
`I'm not laughing. Talking about father-figures, what do you know about Dr Berlin?'
`My God!' Falken chuckled as he kept up his steady pedalling pace. 'You must be telepathic.'
'Why?'
`I asked Toll to send a reliable emissary so I could pass on verbally what we have learned about the august and much- venerated Dr Berlin…'
`You sound ironical…'
`I should. Your Dr Berlin is a fake.'
`You can prove
that?'
`With the most solid evidence. Of course, if you were able to check the records at the Leipzig hospital where he went for treatment when he returned from Africa many years ago, you would find he was suffering from a rare tropical disease.'
`So what evidence do you have?'
`I want you to hear it for yourself. We shall transfer to a car shortly. Do you want a pee?'
`Yes. I'm all right for food – I ate well before I crossed over this evening…'
They dismounted and Falken pushed his cycle a few feet off the road, staying close enough so he would hear Gerda if she arrived. `She has a squeaky rear tyre,' Falken explained as they relieved themselves. 'I told her not to fix it. You will like her-but she is very tough. Women can be more ruthless than men..
They were remounting their cycles when Newman heard the squeaky rear wheel approaching through the mist. Falken commented on his acute hearing, took out a small torch and waved it slowly to one side and back again. A slim silhouette appeared out of the mist and braked.
Gerda would be in her late twenties as far as Newman could tell. Her hair was concealed beneath a head-scarf and she had a strong nose and a well-defined chin. She stared at Newman as she shook hands solemnly.
`I heard you dealing with the Border Police,' she commented. `You have had much experience of this kind of work?'
`Not really, no. Just regard me as the new boy.'
`Gerda,' Falken broke in, 'has an Uzi machine-pistol concealed under that folded windcheater in her cycle basket. Can you use the weapon?'
I was once trained to handle it, yes,' Newman replied, and left it at that. 'Now where are we going when we reach the car?'
`To let you interview someone about the real Dr Berlin. You are going to meet a witness…' He stopped speaking as Newman turned to look back the way they had come. 'What is it?'
`I can hear a car coming slowly. It could be Schneider and his sidekick, checking up on us…'
Gerda vanished off the road like a ghost, Pushing her cycle at speed. Newman noticed she had swiftly turned off her lights. Falken chuckled again before he replied, taking the sting out of his remark.
`Mustn't get paranoid, Albert Thorn. They are probably simply returning to their police barracks at Wernigerode. At this game you suspect everything and everyone, I agree. But also remember you will meet many who are merely proceeding on their lawful occasions.'
The slow-moving car's headlights illuminated them from behind, then were dipped. As the vehicle passed them Schneider leaned out of the window, calling to them in a hoarse voice.
`Good hunting, Mr Thorn…'
The car moved faster and was gone, its engine sound muffled almost immediately by the mist. Gerda rejoined them, jumped into her saddle and pedalled behind them.
`I thought there was a trace of irony in Schneider's voice,' Falken commented. 'And he made a point of letting you know he remembered your name…'
`Now who's getting paranoid?'
Falken shook with laughter. For a few seconds his cycle wobbled. Then Gerda overtook them, riding ahead. She gestured for them to halt, jumped nimbly from her machine and pushed it up a narrow track on the right-hand side of the road.
`We have reached the car,' Falken explained as they followed. `It's a Chaika, a Russian car. It gives a certain authority to anyone riding in it. And if you think your recent experiences have been a little tense, they were nothing.'
`What's coming?' Newman asked.
They laid the machines on the ground and helped Gerda who was already using her gloved hands to haul away great clumps of loose undergrowth, exposing the hidden Chaika, swathed with a neutral-coloured blanket over the bonnet to protect the engine against the cold.
They next hid the three cycles, covering them thoroughly with the loose undergrowth. Gerda checked the finished product, walking all round the buried machines before she pronounced that she was satisfied. Under her arm she had tucked the windcheater concealing the stubby-nosed Uzi machine-pistol.
Falken settled himself behind the wheel of the Chaika, his long legs hunched. Newman, at his request, sat beside him and Gerda squeezed herself in behind them. The ignition fired at the sixth attempt.
`What's coming?' Newman repeated. 'Where are we going?'
`To visit the witness you will interview. Concerning gentle and shy Dr Berlin – who does not like his photograph being taken. Our destination, my friend? The centre of Leipzig – only the throw of a stone from the building containing Markus Wolf's headquarters. And at the moment he has a guest, a certain Soviet GRU general – military intelligence. Vasili Lysenko. He must be planning a major operation. Come on! Let's go!'
He swung the Chaika on to the track, turned on to the road and followed the direction Schneider had driven along.
Newman thought the chill of the forest night had increased enormously.
Twenty-Four
London's Soho had not improved, Tweed decided as he walked along the street. But at least he felt safe now. No longer any reason for keeping an eye open for cripples who might be skilled assassins. It was good to be back in peaceful Britain.
But soon, he thought, he would get restless again – restless to return into the field, to Germany. The human mind was a weird instrument. Always next, the spice of variety. Portman Investigations read the metal chrome plate attached to the side of the open doorway. First Floor.
He was surprised that the plate was shining and clean. He walked inside and started mounting the old bare wooden staircase. He put a hand on the banister rail and hastily withdrew it. The rail was greasy to the touch.
The twin of the chrome plate outside was attached by the side of a closed door, minus the reference to the floor. He knocked, three hard raps. It was opened quickly and Tweed had another surprise. He was expecting something sleazy and shifty.
`Mr Portman?'
`Mr Tweed? You're prompt. More than most of my clients are. Come in, take a pew. Now, how can I help you along the twisted pathways of life in this vale of sorrows?'
A small, round-faced jolly-looking man in his mid-forties, Mr Samuel Portman. Plump-bodied, like a well-fed pheasant. Tweed wondered why he'd likened him to that fowl, then remembered what he'd dined off the previous evening with Diana. His blue, pin-striped suit wasn't Savile Row, but it was well-pressed and clean. Almost Pickwickian in appearance – without the spectacles. Tweed produced the folder and showed it.
`Special Branch…'
`Oh, really? Your girl who made the appointment didn't say.'
`We don't believe in the maxim it pays to advertise.' Tweed put the folder back in his pocket, his manner amiable. 'Paula Grey. One of your clients. Hawkswood Farmhouse, Norfolk. Why did she employ you?'
`I couldn't possibly disclose that. Confidential, our investigations. The keystone of our relationship…'
`You've tried, made the right noises, now stop wasting my time.' Tweed's tone had hardened. 'I can always take you back to headquarters. The investigation I'm conducting is very serious, may involve terrorists. Don't worry about Paula, she's no connection. Let's start again. When did you begin checking on Hugh Grey?'
`Well, since you're Special Branch, I suppose I must make an exception. I don't like it, mind you, don't like it at all… `We don't like terrorists. Get on with it, man.'
`Just over two years ago she came to see me. August it was. A very hot day. I couldn't-really understand it. You see… Portman hesitated. `… they weren't married then.'
`I know that. Get to the point.'
`She asked me to follow Hugh Grey, to report on his movements. She said she thought there was another woman. I haven't been able to find a trace of that. He goes abroad a lot. The number of times I've seen him off from Heathrow. Always to Germany. I couldn't follow him. The expense, you see.'
`And each time,' Tweed said casually, 'you found it easy – to follow this Hugh Grey?'
`No.' The little man admitted it reluctantly. 'Paula Brent – as she was before they married – phoned me the
day before he was due to go off from Hawkswood. I'd drive out next day, wait for him near a crossroads out of sight, then pick him up. He knew I was on his track. He'd wait till he came to a traffic light near Much Hadham, slow down, then shoot across on the amber. I couldn't risk following through on the red. They might revoke my licence if the police caught me. They don't much like us – the police. And once he followed me here to Soho.'
`Tell me.'
`I lost him. Much Hadham again. Then I was driving through London and I picked him up in my rear view mirror. Couldn't believe it. Where would he pick up that skill? He's something in insurance. He was still with me when I arrived in Soho.'
`So he knows who you are? What you are?'
`Not bloody likely.' Portman perked up. 'I parked the car, then walked into a solicitor pal's office near here.'
`Surely he waited for you?'
`No. You see, I have an arrangement with the solicitor in question. He needs me from time to time. I foresaw I might have this problem one day. The plate outside the solicitor's office reads – I'm making up the other names – Blenkinsop, Mahoney and Portman. He thought I was a solicitor. It must have puzzled him.'
`How can you be so sure of that?'
`Blighter walked in to reception and asked the girl. He said he was Special Branch.' Portman stared at Tweed, watching his reaction.
`Cheeky sod,' Tweed replied immediately, expressing just the right amount of indignation. 'Give me your impression of Hugh Grey.'
`Full of confidence. But then these insurance chaps have to be – peddling the sort of stuff they do. I wondered if he was mixed up in drug smuggling, if his girl, later his wife, suspected the same thing.'
'Why?'
`Frequent trips abroad. The way he sometimes knew I was on his tail, the way he ditched me, and the way he enquired about me here in Soho. The skill,' Portman repeated, 'that's what I don't understand. Plus the cheek of the devil. Doesn't sound like insurance to me at all.'
`Must have cost his wife a fortune hiring you. Two years is a long time.' Tweed was probing, searching for he wasn't sure what. Portman clasped his hands behind his head, a gesture which reminded Tweed of Guy Dalby.
