The Janus Man

by Forbes, Colin

He beat a tattoo on the table, left the room, waited outside the closed door until he heard her turn the key, then took the lift to the lobby. Peter Toll was tall and lean, clean-shaven, in his early thirties, a man who smiled easily and was one of the most quick-witted men Newman had met. He wore rimless spectacles and moved agilely. They shook hands.

  `Care for a stroll along the river?' Toll suggested.

  `Why not?' Newman waited until they were outside and walking beyond where the tables with people drinking stood on the pavement. 'How did you know I was here? Where to find me?'

  Toll pushed his glasses further up his long nose, a gesture Newman remembered. 'It's my job to know when suspicious foreigners arrive in the Federal Republic,' he joked.

  `Come off it, Peter, you want something. You haven't travelled all the way from Pullach just to pass the time of day.'

  `What a cynical chap you are,' Toll continued in English. 'I could be here checking a situation and decided to call in on an old friend …'

  `Get to the point, I don't want to be away from the hotel too long.'

  `Of course not, Diana Chadwick is a fascinating woman so they tell me.'

  `How did you know I was here?' Newman repeated. `Through Bonn...'

  `Don't you mean Wiesbaden?'

  `Kuhlmann would never inform me of your presence — not without pressure from the Chancellor. Kuhlmann is strictly concerned with the hideous killings of foreign girls. He's Criminal Police.'

  `Now we're getting somewhere. What made Kuhlmann pick up the phone to Pullach?'

  `Your continuing interest in Dr Berlin. Plus the arrival of Tweed.'

  `And what is your interest in Dr Berlin?'

  They had reached the point alongside the old town where an old hump-backed pedestrian bridge spanned the river. Toll led the way over the bridge and up a path between trees past a boathouse.

  `Frankly, I wish I knew. Let's talk in German now.' Toll had switched to his native language.

  `Vague answers don't interest me,' Newman replied in German. 'What's wrong with Dr Berlin?'

  `On the surface nothing. He's got a world-wide reputation as a saint, a man dedicated to the welfare of the have-nots. But he keeps disappearing for long periods. Our best men have tried to keep track of his movements. He's a bloody conjuror — and plays the trick on himself. The vanishing trick. And he's so close to the border — it's at the end of the Mecklenburgerstrasse — the road he lives on...'

  `I know. You have to have something more solid than that.'

  `Leipzig. Twenty years ago he played the same vanishing trick in Africa. One morning he's in Kenya, the next he's disappeared. Reported dead in the jungle. Then he pops up in Leipzig. Treated for some obscure tropical disease. Hey presto! Eighteen months later another vanishing trick. He appears in the Federal Republic. First you see him, then you don't. People like that worry Pullach.'

  `Still pretty vague. What do you want me for?'

  `Your German is pretty good.'

  They had emerged off the footpath on to a road and beyond that on to the highway leading to police HQ at Lübeck-Süd. Newman lit a cigarette and studied Toll who smiled back in the most innocent manner.

  `Go on,' Newman snapped.

  `You could still pass for a German. In the right clothes.' `So my German is reasonable. Where does that get us?' `Reports arriving at Pullach say Markus Wolf is running some major operation — from Leipzig.'

  `What kind of an operation?' Newman asked.

  `That's what we need to find out. The Russians are pulling the strings behind Wolf.'

  Par for the course. What do you want me to do?'

  `Go behind the Iron Curtain …'

  For several minutes Newman remained silent, and they walked together alongside the highway through the countryside. In the distance loomed the isolated complex of Lübeck-Süd. Behind them the green spires of Lübeck's churches speared up above the trees.

  `Why me?' Newman asked eventually.

  `Because, you see...' Toll was talking very fast. `... as I said, you can pass, for a German. Because Wolf has arrested many of our agents in a sudden swoop. Communications across the border have been largely cut. That, I think, explains the strange lack of activity of the opposition's agents in the West. Some are lying low, some have been temporarily withdrawn.

  The information about our lost men seems to come from London. I am informing Tweed of that fact when I can contact him...'

  `I don't know where Tweed is,' Newman said easily, 'but when you return to Pullach call London. You know Monica? Good. She may be able to get a message to him. And now, once again, why me?'

  `I have one group underground inside East Germany Wolf knows nothing about. Led by a formidable man and a girl. You are not known in The Zone. It will be dangerous, but I think you could manage it.'

  'Manage what?'

  `Contact this group, find out direct from them — verbally — what is happening. I dare not use one of my own men who may be identified. And we are in the middle of reorganizing our radio communications system. The old one is blown.'

  `You make it sound easy. How the devil could I ever hope to cross the border?'

  That I can arrange...'

  `With what chance of success?'

  `Guaranteed. I can only give details when you have agreed.'

  `If I agree. I have to sleep on it.'

  `Don't sleep too long...'

  `And don't push it. I think we'll turn back now. I want to get back to the Jensen.'

  `Of course, of course.' Toll was at his most amiable and went on speaking in the same light-hearted way, as though discussing a holiday. 'We do know that your old friend, General Lysenko, is in East Germany, peering over Wolf's shoulder...'

  `You're sure Lysenko is involved?' Newman's tone sharpened.

  `Quiet sure. So, he is the man you would be up against in the last analysis. Only fair to lay all the cards on the table. You know me...'

  `I know you. Feed the dog the food he likes, get him in a good humour. Hold back the bits that might give him indigestion.' `Now, Bob, when have I ever done that to you?'

  A hurt tone in Toll's voice. His face expressed indignant disbelief. A good actor, Peter Toll.

  `Just now,' Newman said as they turned down back towards the Trave and there was the distant sound of people laughing and talking. Another gloriously sunny day with glimpses through the trees of boats proceeding up and down the river.

  `I don't understand,' Toll began.

  `I won't even think about your offer unless you tell me exactly how I would cross the border. Where. How.'

  `That is top secret information.' Toll paused, pushed up his glasses to the top of his nose. 'You go over straight through the minefield belt past a certain watchtower further south. The guards in that tower have been bribed. I have them in my pocket.'

  'Oh, really? I do know something about the defences along the border. Each watchtower has three men on duty. Three men — not two. They worked out long ago that you might bribe two but the third man would always be the joker. He could pretend to agree, then report the other two to his superiors and gain promotion.'

  `Correct,' Toll agreed. `Let us go and sit on the grass by the river. No one can overhear us.' He waited until they were sat side by side. `All three have been bribed — with gold. There is something about gold which draws out the avarice in men. They have been paid one-third of the agreed amount. They get the balance when they have safely passed you through — and back again on the return trip.'

  `What about the watchtowers on either side?'

  `They are some distance away, but they will be taken care of. One of the bribed guards will contrive a short-circuit. No one will be able to operate a searchlight...'

  `And how do I choose a walk through the minefield?'

  `The watchtower chosen overlooks a dummy section of the minefield. It is the route used by Wolf to infiltrate agents into the West. We know, but he doesn't know that we do know. We have taken the risk of letting his men through w
ithout intercepting them. Most important — we have not even followed his agents as they came through to avoid any of them becoming suspicious and reporting back. That was a very considerable sacrifice.'

  `You have been more audacious than I anticipated. How many of your people at Pullach know about this open route?'

  `Two. Myself and my chief. We have trusted no one. I would accompany you personally to the crossing point. At night, of course...'

  `And supposing I did get through? How far do I have to travel to meet this underground unit?'

  `Group Five, we call it.' Toll clasped his hands between his legs bent at the knees. `The leader, a formidable man, as I have said, will be waiting for you just beyond the minefield belt. He will have an extra bicycle for you. Travelling at night through countryside you make no noise on a bike — also you hear any car coming a good way off. Plenty of time to hide away from the road. I have given you all the data I am prepared to reveal until you decide — far more than I intended.'

  `I also said where? I need to know the location.'

  `Oh, my God! I suppose it's because you're a bloody reporter. You want every detail you can dig up. All this is confidential. Tweed must not know a word about it. We are working on the cell system...'

  `Cell system?'

  'No more than three members of a group know the identity of each other. The crossing point is near the ancient town of Goslar. And Group Five may have information on Dr Berlin. Satisfied?'

  `Goslar? That's the Harz mountains area.'

  `Which is difficult for the Vopos to control — or patrol. Now, what do you say? Incidentally, I am staying at the Movenpick Hotel. Under the name Allan Seeger. What do you say?'

  `What I said before. I'll sleep on it.'

  Newman didn't sleep on it. He lay awake most of the night. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing Diana was safe in her bedroom on the same floor. And that was the only satisfaction he did have.

  Peter Toll had laid his bait with great skill. The crossing into East Germany might provide vital data on Dr Berlin. That fitted in neatly with what Tweed was trying to discover — the real role played by the elusive guardian of refugees. The reference to Lysenko was further temptation.

  It seemed to provide a chance to deal a heavy blow against the Russian who had masterminded the murder of Newman's wife, Alexis, in Estonia further up the Baltic the previous year. If he was planning a major operation and it flopped that could be the end of General Vasili Lysenko. Gorbachev was not reputed to be a man who dealt kindly with subordinates who didn't deliver.

  As he stirred beneath the sheets Newman was torn two ways. The idea of action appealed to him — he was feeling restless. But could he trust Peter Toll? Guaranteed. That was the word he had used about the border crossing. And by implication his safe return on the way back. Bollocks! No one could guarantee he'd cross safely inside East Germany — let alone return undetected.

  The bland assurance of Toll worried Newman. He needed someone unknown to contact Group Five. But Newman was known to the GRU. Damnit, they had him on their bloody computer. All through the night he twisted and turned in bed, dripping with sweat from the humid atmosphere. Or was he sweating at the prospect of finding his way through that alleged dummy minefield? Was it still a dummy? Wolf had a habit of changing things round, never sticking to the same routine for too long. Cunning as a fox, Markus Wolf.

  He fell into an uneasy sleep at 3.30. The dawn light coming in through the windows he had left uncurtained woke him. He got up, bathed, shaved, dressed, lit a cigarette and stared out on the deserted streets of Lübeck. The leaning towers with their witches' hats leered at him. He'd decide after an early breakfast.

  `You're on your way to Heathrow. Aboard Flight BA 737, wearing a check suit very similar to the one you have on now..

  Newman had entered an empty compartment at Hamburg Hauptbahnhof on the train back to Lübeck after seeing Diana off. Aboard Flight BA 737. He had helped her check in her single case, had taken her to the entrance to Final. Departures, where he had left her. He had returned to the station, boarded the train which had now left Hamburg behind, and Peter Toll had appeared, entered his compartment and made his statement as he sat down.

  `What the hell do you mean?' he asked.

  `One of our people who looks rather like you,' Toll explained and smiled. 'He's carrying a passport in your name. Officially you're now thirty thousand feet up and approaching London. That way the opposition forgets about you. They did have a man on your tail but we've arrested him. He'll be out of circulation until you get back over the border from the East. When they know he's gone missing—which will be soon because he won't report on your movements — they'll check with the contact inside Hamburg Airport. He'll go through the passenger manifests. Your name will come up as having left Germany.'

  `Would you mind very much,' Newman asked sarcastically, `telling me how long you've been planning this thing?'

  `Over several weeks.' Toll smiled and waved a reassuring hand. 'We don't cobble up an operation like this overnight. Ever since I knew you were in Lübeck with Tweed.'

  `On the bare-faced cheeky assumption I'd agree to your scheme?'

  `I just hoped you would...'

  `Like hell you did. Anything else I should know about?'

  `A lot. A moving train is the best place for an intensive briefing. And when we get to Lübeck, I'll need a signed note from you authorizing me to collect your things. I can pack them...'

  `They're already packed. One case,' Newman said in clipped tones.

  `Good. That will save me time. You put on these dark glasses and this hat...' He produced from a plastic bag a Tyrolean hat with a tiny red feather in the hat-band... and collect the key for Room 104 at the Movenpick. You're registered as Thor Nickel. It's a busy hotel and you've been there two days. The man who looks like you occupied the room. All the loose ends are tied up once I get your case out of the Jensen and pay your bill. Here's a notebook for you to write them the instruction for me to deal on your behalf. We leave the train separately at Lübeck. You can walk to the Movenpick. Wait in Room 104 until I arrive. I think I've thought of just about everything.'

  `Good for you.'

  `Look, Bob. We're dealing with pro's. You have to disappear into thin air before you make the crossing...'

  `You've really thought of everything? What if they enquire at the Jensen when you've cleaned up there? They could learn someone collected my case. Why would I fly to London and leave that?'

  `I'll chat to the manager while I'm paying your bill. Gossip on about how the lady you were escorting to her flight was taken ill just before checking in. You decided to go with her — and sent me to collect your bag. OK?'

  `That sounds fairly convincing,' Newman admitted. `One other thing, I'm not carrying any weapons across...'

  `Agreed.' Toll looked at Newman's hands. `You're carrying a deadly pair of weapons at the end of your arms. SAS trained.'

  `If this thing goes right I shouldn't have to hurt anyone...'

  `Which is exactly how we've planned it. Three days inside The Zone, the information is passed to you verbally, you come out with it inside your head. No problem.'

  `People say that just before everything turns into a disaster area.'

  `First night nerves?' Toll joked. 'Just before the opening performance on stage?'

  `Just cynical.'

  Toll left the compartment shortly after that, carrying a note Newman had written to the manager of the Jensen. They would disembark from the train separately at Lübeck.

  Newman tried on the Tyrolean hat, checking his appearance in the mirror. It fitted perfectly. And that gave him an eerie feeling — the BND file on him at Pullach must be pretty detailed. The addition of the dark glasses altered his appearance entirely, gave him a detached, almost sinister, look.

  Toll knew his job Newman thought as he sat down again. With the heatwave going on half the population were wearing tinted spectacles. At Lübeck he got out and saw Toll in the di
stance striding away. He had disappeared when Newman emerged from the station.

  He walked the short distance to the Movenpick, and beyond the hotel the twin towers loomed. They looked more normal than they had when he had stared at them from his window early that morning after his almost sleepless night.

  He turned left off the pavement, crossed the open space in front of the Movenpick and entered the lobby of the hotel. He was heading for the concierge to collect his room key in the name of Thor Nickel for 104 and the first person he saw was Kurt Franck.

  Twenty

  Tweed was waiting at Heathrow when Diana Chadwick carried her case out of the Customs exit. She spotted him immediately, rushed forward, dropped her case and hugged him.

  `Oh, I'm so glad to see you. No, listen to me first,' she went on as he released her and before he could speak. 'There's a man on the same flight who looks terribly like Bob Newman. He's even wearing a similar suit — but it isn't Newman. Here he comes now.'

  Tweed glanced at the exit. She was right. The resemblance was remarkable, but it was not Newman. Tweed stood by Diana, watching as the new arrival paused, looking round. He seemed in no haste to leave the airport. Then he put down his bag, felt inside his breast pocket and produced an airline folder which he examined. He checked his watch and put the folder back inside his pocket.

  `Wait here,' Tweed said. 'I'll only be a moment, maybe a few minutes. But wait here,' he repeated.

  Diana was one of those remarkable girls who never detained you by asking why. Tweed wandered round among the departing crowd, came up behind the look-alike and bumped into him.

  `I do beg your pardon,' Tweed said quickly in German, 'I wasn't looking where I was going..

  `That's all right,' the man replied automatically in the same language.

  Tweed moved fast. He went to the British Airways counter and chose an attractive-looking girl, getting in just ahead of a man who was approaching her.

  `Can I use your phone, please? It's an emergency.' He showed her his Special Branch folder, a document carefully forged in the basement at Park Crescent. She reacted by passing him the phone and turned her attention to the man who was waiting. Tweed dialled a number, kept his voice down.