by Colin Forbes
`Oh, I understand now.' Lysenko smirked. 'Two men and also an attractive girl, Hecht told you. I know that area – there are rye fields everywhere. We can imagine what they are doing, can't we?' He smiled lecherously. 'One girl with two men – she must be lively.'
Wolf did not smile. An austere man, he did not appreciate the dirty mind Lysenko was displaying, revelling in his vision of what was taking place. And so odd, he thought as he returned to his desk. The Russian had a brilliant mind for espionage. Yet where sex was concerned he was a common lecher.
`I am putting more men on the streets of Leipzig,' he decided. 'Everyone possible will have their identities thoroughly checked. If there is something wrong with those three suspects they will walk into a trap.'
`What are you basing your suspicions on?'
`The continued disappearance of Schneider of the Border Police. The fact that his farm truck was discovered in that hollow by the highway. I think he has been killed. And now I must check on the imminent movement of those armaments from Skoda in Czechoslovakia bound for Rostock and shipment to Cuba.'
Newman pressed himself against the stone wall of the bridge. Behind him Gerda did the same thing, holding the Uzi. Down in the quiet of the gulch they could hear voices above them. Some of the Vopos had left their vehicles to stretch their legs.
`Good place for a pee,' a voice suggested. 'I'll clamber down under the bridge in case someone comes along…'
`Think I'll join you.' A second voice.
Newman glanced at Gerda, then froze. He could hear scrambling feet on the rocky, weed-strewn slope by the side of the bridge. A small rock came loose, rolled down and settled in the middle of the track. More loose stones followed it. He heard a curse.
`Let's relieve ourselves here, Gunter. You'll break your bloody leg. There are some big rocks under this mess.'
There was the faint sound of water gushing against the wall of the bridge. Silence for a few seconds. Followed by the receding scramble of feet carefully picking their way back up the bank. Newman glanced at Gerda, who shook her head with relief.
Now there were voices talking above them, the two men leaning on the parapet as far as he could tell. They went on for several minutes before the lighted cigarette stub dropped just beyond the archway. It landed amid a clump of tinder-dry grass. There had been no rain for weeks from the and state of the parched gulch. The clump began to smoulder, ignited.
`Gunter, you stupid sod, you've started a fire. Better get down there and put it out. There have been enough warnings on TV…'
Newman knew he had seconds to decide. Was someone still looking down over the parapet? He pointed to the clump for Gerda's benefit. Moving carefully, watching where he put his feet, he peered out from under the arch, looking up, sideways. No one. He put his foot firmly on the burning grass, pressed down, held his foot there, removed it, slid back under the arch. He waited, sweat streaming down his forehead.
`Hey, Gunter! Don't bother. It's gone out. Just watch it in future…'
A clap of thunder like the boom of a siege gun muffled the rest of his sentence. It was suddenly very dark. Large spots of rain began falling. The cloudburst came without warning. Rain hammered down into the gulch, turned to hail. Doors slammed above them. Hailstones the size of large peas came down. They heard them pounding the roofs of the two cars parked on the bridge. Then solid sheets of rain. Newman retreated further away from the arch, alongside the camper. The sound of car engines starting up, driving off.
`Gerda, I want a word with Falken. Do you mind staying for a few minutes. It needs someone outside to hear another car coming.'
`Go talk with Falken.'
Newman climbed into the cab, walked into the living quarters. He sat opposite Falken, told him quickly what had happened. Through the rear windows he would see the rain falling, blotting out his view down the gulch after a few yards.
`Falken, a word about this Dr Berlin business. All right, he's a fake. The Piper woman convinced me. But what is he really up to? Why take all this trouble to establish him in the West? I have a friend in the British SIS. High up. And he needs to know all you can give me.'
`We think he's Balkan, the code-name for the controller of the vast Soviet spy network in the Federal Republic. When I say Soviet, I mean by proxy. Markus Wolf is his immediate controller, but the Russians pull the strings.'
`And how on earth do you know all this?'
The scepticism was obvious in Newman's tone. Falken hesitated, eased his leg into a more comfortable position along the couch. Beyond the rear windows the rain had become a solid wall of water pounding down.
`My friend simply won't believe you,' Newman pressed. 'Not without background details. Would you? In his place?'
`No. This is highly confidential. Somewhere in the DDR I know a senior officer in Intelligence. He wants to clear out to the West when his father dies. The father is eighty-nine. He'll need my help to cross the border. He's building up his credit balance with me by passing on information. He heard about Balkan. By accident. Is that enough for your friend? It has to be.'
`That will do nicely…'
`I was going to tell you about Balkan later – just before I left you with Gerda. But not my source.' Falken smiled. `You reporters are very persuasive chaps. You have to be, I suppose.'
`And when do I start the journey along the escape route? Soon, I hope. For your sake as well as mine. You can do without having me on your back. I reckon our luck is due to run out pretty soon now…'
He stopped speaking as Gerda pushed open the door separating the cab from the living area. She squelched in her shoes. Taking them off, she took out a fresh pair from a cupboard, used a cloth to partially dry her feet before putting them on.
`You'd better come and see what's happening, Emil. I think we have trouble.'
Falken heaved himself up on one elbow, opened the flap of one of the cupboards above the couch. Newman asked him what he was looking for.
`Walking stick. I'm coming with you…'
Newman found the stick, a heavy briar with a curved handle. Falken took it from him, planted his legs on the floor and stood up. He grinned as he tested his damaged ankle.
`That's better. Now Gerda has bandaged the ankle I have support. Let's see what's wrong.'
Newman followed Gerda beyond the flap door, holding it open for Falken, and stared through the windscreen. The gulch had turned into a river, inundating the track. Water sluiced down the banks, the level was rising as they watched it. Weeds torn away by the force of the deluge floated on the surface. The curtain of rain reduced visibility to only a few yards.
`Is this camper amphibious?' Newman asked grimly.
`I wonder whether we can make it,' Falken mused aloud. `The camper has a high chassis. Even so. The drains, the soakaways have got blocked over the years.'
`I say we start now,' Newman said. 'It can only get worse.'
`We were just going to eat,' Gerda protested. 'I'm hungry.'
`Always eat, sleep and pee when you can. The first two will have to wait. I suggest we deal with the third while we're still under the arch..
`There's an elsan lavatory at the back,' Gerda reminded him.
`We may want to leave no trace that we've occupied this vehicle,' Falken said as he opened a door. 'No, Emil, don't help me. I must learn to get as mobile as I can. Gerda, get out the other side of the camper.'
Newman stood alongside Falken as they relieved themselves. The German went on talking, his stick hooked over one arm. The noise of the rain was like flails beating the ground. Both men stood on a stone ledge projecting from the stonework, just above the water level.
`You drive, of course,' Falken said. `Gerda can feed you – so we accomplish two tasks at the same time. The danger is the water will flood the engine…'
`I know. I've had to cope with that before.' He glanced beyond the arch. 'The one advantage is we're hardly likely to be seen while this lasts.'
`Especially from the air.'
`
The air?'
`A traffic helicopter. One of Wolf's machines. They'll all be grounded. This rain may save us.'
Newman drove out from under the arch cautiously. He'd had to switch the ignition on six times before the engine started. Not a good omen. The windscreen wipers gave him no vision. They'd lost the battle with the downpour before they started swishing.
He drove slowly beyond the bridge, just able to see the banks on either side, steering a course midway between them. It was pure hell. Then he felt the track descending down an incline.
Jesus! They were moving into deeper water. The rain hammered the roof above the cab. Rivulets of water poured down the windscreen. He bumped over something unyielding. Another of those bloody sleepers. Just so long as he didn't hit another rock. The speedometer registered 10 kph. The engine felt sluggish. He leaned forward, hardly able to believe his eyes. Ahead of the camper a wave was travelling over the surface away from him, a wave built up by the high bumper of the vehicle. God, no wonder the engine was protesting. Gerda sat in the passenger seat beside him, holding a sandwich made of rye bread and cheese. He was ferociously hungry. He shook his head. 'Not now, thanks. I need both hands for the wheel.'
`So, I feed you, like a bear at the zoo. Bite off what you'd like.'
She held the sandwich close to his mouth. He took a bite and chewed. Between eating four large sandwiches he risked taking one hand off the wheel, took the cardboard cup of hot coffee and drank. Sensibly, she only half-filled the cup each time. The world became a different place.
Falken stood behind them, leaning against the door with one shoulder, supporting himself with the stick. He kept checking his watch, leaning forward, looking for landmarks. He watched the odometer. The rain slashed down as heavily as ever. Newman glanced out of the side window. The camper seemed to be floating. They had reached a level stretch. The engine started coughing. It was flooding. Here we go, he thought.
His knuckles were white with gripping the wheel. Then he felt the angle of the track changing, climbing. He kept to the same speed, resisting the temptation to press his foot down a little. The engine was still coughing. Hold out, just a few more yards. Please!
`Now you eat, Falken,' Gerda said.
She had a cloth spread out on her lap. It held a pile of the sandwiches she'd made back in the living area. She held one up to him.
`Help yourself, Gerda..
`No! The cook eats last. Take it!'
He took it, devoured it, swallowed some of the coffee she had poured into the cup from the thermos. Only when he had eaten four sandwiches did she start helping herself. The rain still sluiced down, but the camper was moving through shallower water. Newman increased speed gradually – to shake the water out as much as to move faster.
`How far to that level crossing?' he asked.
`About a kilometre, I guess,' Falken said. 'And I am guessing. If I could see ahead I could tell more accurately.'
`No danger of driving past it?'
`None at all. The gulch disappears. Just don't drive any faster.'
`You're joking, I take it?'
The rain began to ease off. They could see further ahead. Newman noticed they were climbing, the banks of the gulch were dropping. He ate another sandwich, drank more coffee. Eat when you can. Gerda folded the empty cloth, picked up the thermos and went back inside the camper. Newman took advantage of her absence to ask the question.
`When does Gerda take over from you?'
`In Leipzig. I may have to leave you quickly. Don't look so worried – I can manage with this stick. That's partly why I've been standing here, to test my ankle. When we do reach the level crossing and head for the highway, drive fast. Inside the speed limit, but fast. We're behind schedule. For you. Gerda simply has to get you to the rendezvous for the last stage of your journey.'
`Last stage? Sounds like a bloody long one.'
`It is. And it could be the worst – the very worst. You won't be able to relax for a second. No sleep for you all night. Think you can stand it?'
`I have a choice?' Newman enquired.
`None at all.'
Thirty-Nine
The traffic jam on the main highway leading into Leipzig went on for ever. The camper was stationary. Concrete multi-storey apartment blocks of a Leipzig suburb rose on either side. Newman rested his arms on the wheel, trying to control his impatience.
The next vehicle ahead was a Volvo. Behind him a big diesel truck shut out the view. He was glad it wasn't the other way round. At least he could see what was happening ahead, could watch the Vopos trying to sort out the mess, waving on cars in the opposite direction. Single-line traffic. That is all I need, Newman thought as Falken hobbled into the cab, sagging into the passenger seat.
`We are very late,' Falken observed.
`You have a rendezvous with someone?'
`No, but you and Gerda have. With someone who cannot wait. I'll be glad when you're on your way. We don't care who gets Dr Berlin – as long as someone does. I've lost valuable men because of that swine.'
`Any other information I can pass on for you?'
`Yes. That is what I came to see you about. Tell Peter Toll at Pullach Markus Wolf has broken the code for our radio transmissions. That is why they have ceased. Tell him switch to the Weimar system. Weimar the town. He'll know what to do.'
`I feel hemmed in here – more so than back at the zigzag. What happens if I'm challenged?'
`You bluff your way through. You've done it before…'
`And supposing I don't pull it off? Where do we go?'
`You have to carry off a bluff. Look around you – there is nowhere to run, to hide. It's that damned storm. It must have flooded stretches of the road. Now, listen to me. You have to get out to pass on the information inside your head. You think only of yourself. In Leipzig, if Gerda gets into trouble and you can slip away, you do so. No heroics. We have expended too much effort to have you caught.'
`You mean I just leave her in the lurch?'
`You leave her to cope on her own. She will expect it. That is an order. And now I will get back inside, lie down on the couch on this side with a travelling rug thrown carelessly over my legs. Gerda is huddled up behind you. Three become one.'
`I don't follow that…'
'We were stopped at the road-block just before we reached the Radom farm. The patrol saw two men and a girl. We were stopped again by those two Intelligence men on the country road. They also saw two men and a girl. Either may have reported us to Leipzig. Now we try to look just like one man on his own. If they come up to us they're likely to arrive on the driver's side – at your window. Do the best you can.' Falken paused as he prepared to lift himself up. 'And if Pullach really wants to help us, they will send you to join us as a member of Group Five.'
Newman was left alone. He pursed his lips. Falken had just paid him the highest compliment. He had little time to dwell on the subject. A Vopo, very fat with a beer belly, was walking down the line of stationary traffic, glancing at each vehicle.
Let me have men about me that are fat. The quotation flashed into Newman's mind. Shakespeare. Julius Caesar? He wasn't sure. He lowered the window. The portly Vopo hitched up his Sam Browne belt, peered in Newman's window.
`And where are you off to?'
`Supposed to be a holiday. I don't know whether she'll come now. Camping out in this weather?'
`If she likes you enough, Comrade. Make her like you enough.' The Vopo's jowls shook with amusement. 'You'll keep her warm enough inside there. Just the two of you?'
`Why would I need her mother?'
The jowls shook again. Newman thought he was probably the first driver who had not grumbled at the hold-up.
`How long before we start moving?' Newman asked. 'You have a difficult job, I know. But if I'm late her mother will get back before we leave.'
`We can't have that, can we?'
The Vopo walked back the way he had come to the traffic control point. He disappeared but within two minutes the tr
affic flowing in the opposite direction stopped. The traffic ahead of the camper began moving forward. As he passed the control point Newman waved thank you to the fat Vopo who personally waved him on, giving a significant wink. All boys together…'
Which one of you is Janus? Tweed asked himself the question as he looked round the four sector chiefs on either side of the conference table at Park Crescent.
Harry Masterson, his chin showing traces of another five o'clock shadow, drummed his fingers quietly on the polished surface. Hugh Grey, seated on Tweed's right, had his usual eager-beaver look, ready for anything. Erich Lindemann to the left, waited, pad and four coloured pencils arranged neatly in front of him. Guy Dalby sat perfectly still, his eyes never leaving Tweed, who cleared his throat.
`Gentlemen, I've summoned you to this rather early morning meeting to save time. You can all return to your respective European headquarters at the first opportunity. By now your people may have come up with some theories about the lack of opposition activity. It worries me. It signals some major operation. But what? I hope you find out quickly. I have a feeling we're short of time.'
`And what will you be doing?' Dalby asked in his brusque, businesslike manner. 'Where can we contact you?'
`I return to Hamburg.' Tweed paused, his eyes scanning the four men, searching for the smallest reaction. 'I fly back there within the next forty-eight hours…'
`Maybe some protection this time? Discreetly, of course,' Grey suggested.
`No!' Tweed was emphatic. 'I go alone. I work better that way. As to contact,' he addressed Dalby, 'call Monica. Talk to her as though you're talking to me. I'll be keeping her posted.'
Masterson grinned, smoothed down his jet black hair with one hand. 'Can't keep away from the field, can you? Itchy feet – that's your problem.'
`I especially expect results from the Balkan sector,' Tweed rapped back. 'That's where the hornet's nest is.' He switched his gaze. 'Any comment, Erich?'
Lindemann was scribbling away on his pad with the red pencil. Which one was that? Tweed was too far away to see. Lindemann laid down the pencil, folded his hands.
