He inserted the tweezers gently inside a slit in the thick sole of Newman's shoe, withdrew them holding the edges of three small photographs of Newman. He studied the photos.
`What are the tweezers for?' Newman asked.
`Part of my job. Essential equipment — like the field-glasses. I use them for extracting a thorn — any impediment — which may have lodged in the foot, say, of one of my sanctuary birds or fowl. I last used this on a rare goose.'
`And who does this cottage belong to?'
`The lock-keeper. Let us call him Norbert. An old man who is nearly seventy. He was anti-Nazi during the war. Afterwards he was anti-Communist. He says there is no difference. Both have their secret police. Both brain-wash the young, continue the process with youth movements. Both have concentration camps for non-believers. The Russians call it the Gulag. For some men the world is never right. Such a man is Norbert who looks after the lock.'
`Where is he now?'
`Probably in his flat in one of those monstrous blocks. This canal is still used occasionally for transporting coal aboard small barges. He has a schedule. He is here to open the lock-gates two days a week. We have forty-eight hours here and then we must leave — before Norbert returns. I have an arrangement with him...'
`This Norbert, he smokes cigars?'
`You have a keen eye. Yes, he does. Now, these photos. Taken I suspect before your appearance was altered?'
`Yes...'
`Do not tell me how your appearance was altered. In case.I am caught and interrogated after you have left us and before you reach freedom.' He glanced at Newman, then back at the photos. 'It does not matter. These prints are blurred — deliberately, I suspect. They will pass for you. Too good a likeness is always something which draws attention to you under inspection.'
`What are they for?'
`This.' Falken produced a folder from his pocket. 'Border Police pass. And I have the correct glue ready — the glue used by those who prepare these passes.' He held up a small bottle on the table.
`How the devil did you get that? And the pass?'
let us say I have friends of friends inside a certain documentation centre.'
He had placed one of the photos over a ruled box in the folder, checking it for size. He marked the photo on the back with a pencil and used a small pair of very sharp scissors — again extracted from the chamois folder — to trim the print.
`I'm asking too many questions,' Newman suggested.
Falken smiled again without stopping work. 'And you may have observed I am not answering too many of them. But one thing I will tell you. The day after tomorrow we drive in to Leipzig. Prepare yourself.'
`We persist,' Wolf said to Lysenko, who sat opposite him on the other side of his desk. 'Now I need that chair. You can sit in my secretary's chair over there, behind her typewriter.'
`Why the hell should I?'
`Try to look like a member of my staff,' Wolf continued. 'I just heard on that phone call I took we have a visitor. A Karl Schneider, member of the Border Police. Just flown in to see me at my request.'
`So?'
`Your German is improving. Schneider reported to his superior he met two men in the forest close to the point where an agent from the West crossed the border.'
`That would be a long shot...'
`On the night the crossing was made? And Schneider met the two men close to one o'clock in the morning. The timing also is right. We will see what he has to say. I check every lead, however slim. Now, the chair...'
There was a timid rapping on the door. Lysenko jumped up, walked rapidly to the typist's chair and sat down. He opened a notebook on the desk and was glad he was wearing civilian clothes. Wolf called out, 'Come in.' He studied the visitor, wearing the uniform of the Border Police, peaked cap tucked under his arm.
`Please to sit down,' Wolf said amiably, gesturing towards the vacant chair.
He watched Schneider as the visitor walked nervously to the chair and seated himself. He put his cap in his lap and fiddled with it. Foxy eyes, Wolf noted. An ambitious man, he guessed. A cut above the average, but they selected personnel for the Border Police with care. Wolf nodded encouragingly and spoke softly.
`Tell me what happened. Please take your time. Any little detail may be important. I listen. You talk. You will find I am a good listener. Start at the very beginning and omit nothing. Relax, please. I am interested...'
Schneider sat silent for a short time, marshalling his thoughts. During the flight he had sweated over what lay before him. Now it was all so different. Wolf waited patiently. Lysenko was fascinated. This was a side of the German's character he had not seen. Wolf was treating the policeman like a good-humoured relative, a favourite uncle.
Schneider began to talk. Wolf listened without interrupting his flow of thought. A sturdily-built man, he was thinking, but the Border Police were subject to near-military discipline, a para-military force. He waited until Schneider had finished before asking a question.
`The other man who didn't speak. What was his name?' `He told me, Comrade, but I've forgotten...'
`It doesn't matter. This Albert Thorn.' Wolf took one of the printed posters being distributed throughout the DDR out of a drawer in his desk. 'Is this the man?'
Schneider studied the poster of Newman, frowned, puckered his thick lips. He knew that what he said next might affect the whole outcome of this strange interview, maybe of his career.
`I'm not sure,' he said eventually. 'It could be him.'
`What colour were his eyes?'
`Brown,' Schneider replied promptly.
Wolf opened the file on Newman which had been flown in from Moscow. Eyes: blue.
`Schneider, come and look at this map with me. Show me where you stopped these two men on cycles.'
The map of the DDR was spread out over a large table. Schneider bent over it, took the pencil Wolf offered and marked the place with a cross. The phone rang, Wolf excused himself, picked up the receiver and carried on a brief conversation before ending it. He turned round, ignored Lysenko, looking at Schneider.
`A report from the daytime teams searching the woods in that area. Three bicycles have been discovered hidden beneath some undergrowth. Close to where you stopped those two men...'
`There were only two of them.'
`No matter. I hear you were once a farmer. Is that so?' `For five years.'
`So you are an observant man. Farmers work the fields alone. They develop good powers of observation.' Wolf walked back to the map. 'Supposing I asked you to drive over this area — in civilian clothes — searching for these two men. Normally I'd send someone with you — but you will be less conspicuous without a guard. You would be willing to do that on your own?'
`Yes. But which area?'
`Here.' Wolf traced a route on the map with a pencil. 'From Wernigerode — where your barracks are — down to Aschersleben, on to Eisleben and to Halle...'
`I know the area. There is an elevated highway here.'
`We will supply a truck — equipped with a radio — and a suit of clothes, the kind worn by farmers. Also a gun. You patrol that route back and forth. See if you spot anything. Agreed?'
`Of course...'
`Go down to the next floor. Room 78. I will phone to tell them to expect you.' Wolf held out his hand. 'Good luck, Mr Schneider. This could mean promotion for you.'
`Oh, God, come quickly,' Gerda called out from the kitchen.
Falken jumped up, ran out of the room, followed by Newman. At the window Gerda pointed towards the elevated highway. An armoured car was slowly proceeding down the track leading to the cottage, just leaving the highway.
`Crew of two men, maybe three,' Falken said tersely. 'All armed. Plus the vehicle's machine-gun. We have a problem.'
Twenty-Six
`Did you get through to Peter Toll?' Tweed asked as he shut his office door. 'And I'm short of time. We've just got back from Masterson's place. I've left Diana at Newman's flat. We are going on to talk with Erich
Lindemann.'
`I got through,' Monica said quietly. 'I think you'd better speak to him yourself. Shall I get him?'
`Do that. Please.'
He kept the folded Burberry over his arm as he wandered over to the wall map and again studied the border area. Monica's reply had an ominous ring.
`He's on the line,' she called out.
`Tweed here. Is that Peter Toll? At last. I've had a devil of a job reaching you. I want to know the whereabouts of the man who accompanied me to Germany. No names. Yes, I know we're on scrambler.'
`I have no idea...'
`Toll.' Tweed was at his most formal. 'Don't muck me about. I have Walther Prat under lock and key.'
`I wondered...'
`You wondered what had happened to him. Why he hadn't flown back to Münich. Now you know. And you know what I know. We could arrange an exchange possibly,' he went on sarcastically. 'My man for yours...'
`That's ridiculous. We cooperate...'
`Like you cooperated recently? You went ahead without saying a word to me. I want him back. Quickly.'
`Two weeks...'
`Like hell. Four days. Send out an alert. My next call is to your chief.'
`The situation is delicate. One week...'
`Four days,' Tweed repeated. 'No result by then, I call your chief.'
`There is no need to be hasty.. Toll sounded worried. `I've said my last word on the matter. If anything should go wrong I'll fly to Münich myself. You're on probation.' `That's not for you to say..
`I just said it. And, by God, I meant it. That's all.' `What about Walther Pröhl?'
`He stays here until I get my man back.'
Tweed slammed down the phone, his expression grim. Again he glanced towards the wall map. Then he shook his head and folded the Burberry more tidily over his arm.
`You were pretty rough on him,' Monica observed. 'And I take it you were referring to Newman's disappearance.'
`Yes to both statements. I know now he has sent Bob into The Zone — without telling his chief. I'm worried stiff about it. Trouble is, Toll wants to do it all by himself, prove himself — because I happen to know he is on probation in his new post.'
`You do that yourself sometimes,' she reminded him gently. `Do things without letting Howard know. You know the reason why you're so furious?'
`I suppose you'll tell me.'
`Peter Toll is a younger version of yourself.'
Tweed paused near the door. 'You could be right.' `And what about Newman? Will he be all right?'
`I hope to God he will. He speaks fluent German. He will if he continues to think for himself. Now, time to go and have a friendly chat with Lindemann.'
`What was the verdict on Harry Masterson?'
`Inconclusive.'
`That's a bit of luck,' said Tweed and drove the Cortina into a vacant parking slot. 'That's where Lindemann lives,' he went on, pointing out to Diana who sat alongside him an old one-storey lodge at the entrance to a mews south of the Fulham Road.
`Looks cosy. He certainly takes care of the place,' she remarked as she got out of the car.
Which was true, Tweed thought as he attended to the meter. The lodge had white stucco walls, freshly painted, as were the windows. The lower part was hidden by a privet hedge, neatly trimmed into a box shape. Beyond the wrought-iron gate was a tiny garden, no more than three feet wide. A garden mostly paved with small bricks broken by two round flower beds. The roses were in bloom, all the dead-heads carefully removed. Quite a contrast to Harry Masterson's unkempt wilderness.
Tweed raised the shining brass door knocker and rapped three times. The door had a fish-eye spyhole and when it was opened Erich Lindemann stood in the tiny hall beyond, clad in a pair of tennis flannels, velvet smoking jacket and a polka dot bow tie.
`Well, don't just stand there. Come in.'
The usual, direct-approach Erich. Tweed introduced Diana as a potential recruit to General and Cumbria Assurance. She shook hands stiffly, not smiling. Tweed wondered if she'd had the same shock as himself.
Those blasted paintings of Harry's. They distorted your view of people. Lindemann looked more skull-like than Tweed recalled. They went inside and Tweed smelt faintly the aroma of some scented disinfectant.
`Tea or coffee?' Lindemann offered as he led them into a small living-room with mullion windows overlooking the mews entrance.
`Coffee for me, please,' Diana replied.
`Me, too,' Tweed said.
They looked round the room as they sat together on a turquoise couch which had no cushions. The room was sparsely furnished. Against the opposite wall stood a dining-table, the long side pushed against the wall, its surface gleaming. Tweed could now smell furniture polish. In one corner stood a hoover still plugged into the wall socket. Lindemann had vanished inside the kitchen which had a swing door, now closed.
Sparse but immaculate. Tweed stood up, wandered over to a high cabinet. Bookshelves crammed with volumes behind glass doors at the top; at the bottom a flap closed, the key in the lock. He turned the key carefully. No sound. It was well-oiled. Lowering the flap, he peered inside.
At least a dozen bottles of Haig whisky stood in a row like soldiers standing at attention. Lindemann was a teetotaller — had never been known to take even a glass of wine. One bottle half empty. Behind it stood a tumbler half-full. Tweed sniffed at it. Whisky. He closed the flap, turned the key, went back to the couch. Diana leaned towards him, so near he caught a waft of perfume above the smell of table polish.
`Nosey, aren't we?'
He shushed her and the swing door opened. Lindemann beckoned to Tweed to join him. 'There are some Economists in the cupboard beside you,' he told Diana in his dry voice.
`Who is she?' he asked Tweed once inside the kitchen. There was coffee bubbling in a percolator, a dish of pastries neatly arranged on a plate.
`Diana Chadwick. I told you. Good background. Speaks German fluently. I'm not sure yet..
The kitchen was little more than a galley. Tweed was reminded of the galley aboard the Südwind. He was standing close to Lindemann and a fresh aroma wafted into his nostrils, the aroma of peppermints. His host was sucking one.
`Was it wise to bring the Chadwick girl?' Lindemann asked.
`Why do you say that?'
`She doesn't know about Park Crescent?'
`No. Of course not. What is all this about, Erich?'
`I have seen her before. In Oslo.'
`When and where?' Tweed kept his voice down.
`I can't remember. I am simply sure it was her. That it was Oslo. Good strong coffee for you? What about Miss Chadwick?' `The same.'
Lindemann had turned away to fetch a pile of crockery from the other side of the kitchen. Tweed lifted up a cloth carelessly thrown on the worktop. It seemed out of place with the rest of the well-organized kitchen. Under the cloth was an opened green tube of peppermints. He dropped the cloth back over them. Why conceal the tube?
`We are ready.'
Lindemann had arranged the tray. Cups, saucers, highly- polished silver spoons, plates, the pastries. Tweed took a last glance at the row of knives suspended over the sink, hanging from a magnetic strip of metal. No chef's knife.
`Danish pastries,' Lindemann said, offering the plate to Diana. 'Very bad for the figure.'
Behind his back Tweed stared. Lindemann had never before joked with an attractive girl in his experience. His tall form stooped over Diana, almost deferentially. She looked up and gave him her warmest smile as she thanked him. Tweed was about to sit beside her again when Lindemann took his place.
`The host's privilege,' he said to Tweed. 'You'll find that arm chair adequate, I'm sure.'
`These pastries are delicious,' Diana enthused. She turned to face her host, her blue eyes half-closed. 'You get them from a local delicatessen?'
`Actually, I make them myself.' Lindemann looked pleased. `They are much better if you buy them from a shop in Copenhagen. Have you been there, Miss Chadwick?'
`Diana. Pl
ease. No, not so far. I would love to go there one day. You really are an excellent cook..
`Living alone, one learns to look after oneself...'
Tweed remained silent while they chatted. They finished off the pastries and Diana asked could she see his kitchen. Lindemann jumped up.
`Of course.' He turned to Tweed. 'Make yourself comfortable in my study. You know where it is.'
The moment they had disappeared inside the kitchen Tweed went over to the bookcase, checking the volumes. Histories of the Scandinavian countries. The great sagas of legend. Biographies. Napoleon. Bismarck. Bernadotte, Napoleon's general who became King of Sweden. Laurence Olivier. Amateur theatricals.
He left the bookcase, crossed the room and opened the door to the bathroom, locking it behind him. An old-fashioned roll-top bath. Above the wash-basin a wooden cupboard. He opened it. Two shelves. Shaving kit on the top one. Bottles on the lower shelf. He picked up one which was half-empty and examined the label. Hair Tint. Sable Colourant. He placed it back on the shelf exactly as he had found it, flushed the lavatory, unlocked the door and emerged as Diana walked out of the kitchen, handbag under her arm, followed by Lindemann.
`I really think we ought to go,' Tweed said. 'Just thought we'd call in on you, make sure you were enjoying your leave.'
`I'll be glad to get back to work. There are a dozen policies I ought to attend to personally.'
`Excuse me just a second,' Tweed remarked suddenly. 'I think I left my Dunhill pen in your study.'
He opened the door and pushed it half-closed. The tiny room was empty. On Lindemann's desk a pad he had been making notes on was upside down, a glass paperweight perched on top.
Tweed lifted the weight, turned over the pad. Covered in figures in Lindemann's small handwriting, figures which looked like salary computations for his staff in Copenhagen. He replaced the pad, put back the paperweight and walked back into the sitting-room. There was no one else in the place. He had half-expected to find a hidden visitor.
The Janus Man Page 23
