The Janus Man

by Forbes, Colin

  He looked round the loft, checking for traces of his using it as a refuge. There were none. He had cleared up carefully. Reaching down, he picked up the straw hat and rammed it over his head, then took the curved pipe from his pocket — already filled with tobacco — and clenched it between his teeth.

  He descended the ladder slowly, arrived at the bottom and ran heavily to the open barn door. He peered out. No sign of life. He went back to the ladder — the only evidence that the loft existed — and hauled it down until he held it parallel to the straw-strewn floor.

  His arm muscles felt the strain as he carried it outside and round the back of the barn. Very slowly he lowered it inside the grass-choked ditch which ran alongside the rear of the barn. He spent several minutes straightening the grasses until it disappeared from view, then he returned to the front and started along the track leading to the country road.

  An hour later, having caught the bus from Burg, he sat on the platform at Puttgarden station. While he waited for the train to Lübeck he struck matches, lighting and relighting his pipe.

  Franck was in a confident mood. With his changed appearance he'd be safe in Lübeck. He'd stay at the hotel opposite the Hauptbahnhof — the International as far as he could remember. From there he would call Martin Vollmer in Altona for news of Tweed's movements.

  Confident because the police hue and cry would be a thing of the past. Or at the worst they'd have him as a low priority. During his time on Fehmarn Island other crimes would have been committed. The police were like the press. Kurt Franck was yesterday's news.

  Twenty-Nine

  Newman drove the Chaika up the cinder track, the headlights swung in a wide arc as he turned east on to the highway. Behind them the lock-keeper's cottage was in darkness. Beside him sat Falken. Gerda had the dirty end of the stick — cramped in the back. Beside her was propped up the canvas-covered bundle which contained the corpse of Karl Schneider.

  `The lake...'

  It was Gerda who had thought of the place where they should deposit the motionless passenger. She had come running in from the kitchen with her suggestion. At first Falken shook his head.

  `A long way off our route.'

  `But you said we should leave here this evening,' she pressed. `We can drive through the night, then go on to Radom's farm. We will be close to Leipzig for the morning. You can phone her to tell her we shall be early.'

  `I suppose you could be right...'

  `I know I am right. Aren't you always going on at me about we must be flexible in our plans, ready to change them at a moment's notice if the circumstances warrant it?'

  `It will be dangerous.. Falken had glanced at the chained bundle lying on the floor. 'There are patrols out at night.'

  `It may be even more dangerous to stay here. You said they'd probably send people out to find him — why he hadn't come back.'

  `The lake it is, then …'

  Newman had been impressed with the care they took to erase all traces of their stay in the cottage. Gerda used a dust-pan and brush to sweep black bread crumbs off the flagstones, had then used it to sweep the fading relics out of the fireplace. She had emptied her pan in the canal.

  Falken had carried out a final inspection of every room. When they had gone out across the fields to collect the Chaika they left every window and the door open — to disperse all fumes from the fire, all warmth.

  After backing the car, they re-covered the farm tractor exactly as they had found it. When they returned to the cottage the interior was cold and fume-free. They closed the windows, locked the door, left the key under the paving stone outside where Falken had found it.

  `I'll drive,' Newman had said. 'You've both been without any sleep for Lord knows how long.'

  `So have you, my friend,' Falken pointed out.

  `Don't argue. I'm Emil Clasen — of the Border Police. If we are stopped they'll be more likely to accept me than you.'

  `I'm supposed to be in charge of this unit and everyone tells me what to do,' Falken said good-humouredly.

  `Nobody's ordering you about,' Newman said as he got in behind the wheel. 'Just do what I say and we'll all be happy.'

  The moment he turned on to the highway Newman experienced the feeling of being a hunted man. It had been unnerving — easing the canvas bundle into the Chaika. At one second the body had seemed to move inside its mummified wrappings of its own accord. Gerda has gasped. Newman had told her it was just the weight of the chains as he finally heaved it inside.

  Driving along the highway no one noticed Schneider's truck which was still parked in the hollow for storing hay. Newman was driving just inside the speed limit. Suddenly he realized both hands were clamped tightly to the wheel. Bad driving. He forced himself to relax, to hold the wheel with a lighter grip.

  A police patrol car came towards them, its light flashing on the roof. Falken uttered a warning and Newman snapped his head off. 'Who's driving this bloody thing? Sorry,' he added after a moment. The patrol car was slowing down as they came closer.

  It passed them as Newman maintained exactly the same pace. In his rear view mirror he saw the patrol car increase speed rapidly. Falken had glanced into his wing mirror.

  `Why did they do that?' Newman asked.

  `A test. Had you altered speed, showed signs of nerves, they might have stopped us. They are full of little tricks.'

  `Bugger them.'

  No one spoke for a long time after his pithy comment. Newman was aware of controlled tension inside the car. With the cargo they were carrying it was understandable. Everyone was frightened, edgy. Then they came to a side road.

  `Turn here,' Gerda called out. 'We are close to the lake.'

  Lysenko yawned, exposing a metallic filling in his teeth. He walked to the window and gazed down. Two o'clock in the morning. The fluorescent lamp standards threw an eerie light over deserted streets. He felt the stubble on his chin, turned to stare at the German.

  Markus Wolf sat hunched like a Buddha behind his desk, studying a file. The man seemed to have inexhaustible reserves. He never stopped working. The green lampshade he had pulled down on the pulley suspended over his desk glowed on his impassive features. He looked up.

  `Time I sent out patrols to look for Schneider. He should have reported back hours ago. I think something has happened to him.'

  `What can you do?' snapped Lysenko.

  `What I've just said. Send out armed patrols. Give them a description of the farm truck Schneider was driving. It can't have vanished into thin air. And we know the exact route that Schneider was following. I'm sending out a team of cars — all in radio contact with each other. They will also stop any vehicles they find travelling at this hour. On top of that the DDR is plastered with posters of Newman...'

  `If it was Newman. You told me you'd had reports from your people at Hamburg Airport. No sign that the man who travelled under his name has returned. He could be in London.'

  `He could be.' Wolf sounded unconvinced. 'But Tweed is a tricky man.'

  He reached for the phone and gave a stream of orders, his voice a flat monotone.

  The night was still, soundless, the air heavy. Beyond the man- high reeds and bulrushes the lake was a large expanse of black nothingness, like a vast parade ground of tar.

  They had driven the Chaika as close as they could. Now Newman and Falken were heaving out the canvas-wrapped corpse. It seemed to have grown heavier, as though the body had already swollen up. Gerda stood on guard a hundred metres back, holding the Uzi, head cocked to one side as she listened.

  `This is a bloody nightmare,' Newman said. 'I'll take the head and you handle the feet.' The bundle lay on the hard earth outside the car. They lifted it and the body sagged in the middle. Gerda had told them that at this point the lake went straight down, thirty metres deep.

  They staggered under their burden. One of the links of the chains slipped, made a rasping noise like a death rattle. They nearly jumped out of their skins.

  `Keep moving,' Newman gasped.
He just wanted to get rid of the thing, to get back into the car. They reached the edge of the black water and Falken called out a warning. The ground had become slippery mud. They stood still and lowered the body to the ground, resting for a moment. They had to heave it as far out as possible. Falken was sceptical of Gerda's assertion that the lake sheered straight down at the edge.

  `Ready?' Newman called out.

  At her listening post Gerda frowned. She could hear traffic noises on the distant highway. One vehicle. An interval. Then a second. Another interval. A third. A strange time of night for traffic. Most people went to bed early. There was nothing to do, nowhere to go during the early hours in the DDR.

  Newman and Falken began swinging the bundle back and forth as much as they could manage. Like a child's swing, gradually going higher. Their night vision was good now and they watched each other. Newman nodded. They'd drop it if they didn't do the job now. They let go.

  The late Mr Schneider sailed out over the lake, dropped with a heavy splash into the water, then stayed there, only half-submerged. Something flew out of the reeds, slammed into Falken, almost knocking him down. There was a honking sound. Newman stared as Falken's arms moved with the agility of urgency. God, what was it?

  Falken came forward. His right arm was coiled round the neck of a huge goose, his hand clasping it behind the nape of its neck. He stopped a few feet from Newman. It had a pink beak, pink webbed feet. It was honking like mad, making enough noise to wake half the district it seemed to Newman. Falken made odd sounds and Newman realized he was talking to the thing, quietening it.

  `A grey lag,' Falken told him. In England they'd call it an Eastern Grey Lag. You have the Western variety. See the ring on its leg? It has escaped from one of the sanctuaries.'

  `What the devil is happening?' Gerda had come running down the beaten pathway. 'What is it?' Falken repeated what he had told Newman.

  `We will keep it,' he said. 'As long as I hold it like this, there is no danger of your being pecked while driving,' he assured Newman.

  `Why take that with us?' Gerda demanded.

  `Camouflage. If we are stopped. I do belong to the Conservation Service. In any case I would want to rescue it. One wing is slightly injured. It needs attention.'

  `And why, therefore,' Gerda demanded, her voice pitched higher than normal, 'are we hanging about?'

  `Because of that,' Newman replied, pointing to the lake.

  The goose had quietened down. On the surface of the lake the canvas-wrapped body floated, still only half-submerged. Gerda stared in horror. God, was it going to stay like that? The same thought was in the mind of the two men as they stood and gazed at the floating hump.

  It was suddenly terribly silent. The goose remained still in Falken's grip. Then the hump rolled away from them, sliding slowly below the surface. There was a ripple —no more —marking where it had descended to the depths. The ripple also vanished and the black water was again smooth as a sheet of oil.

  Gerda gasped with relief. 'Let's go. Now. Get away from all this …'

  `We shall soon be at Radom's farm,' Gerda called out from the back of the car. 'And I've just remembered — they have geese. Won't there be a problem with Pinky?'

  Pinky was the nickname she had given to the grey lag. Newman was behind the wheel as they drove on along the deserted highway through the night. Falken, sitting beside him, still held the goose in the same manner, its beak turned away from Newman. It seemed quite happy with Falken and hadn't honked once since they'd got back inside the Chaika.

  Newman guided the car round a long bend. Beyond it was a long straight stretch. Red lights, winking, stood in the highway about half a kilometre ahead. He reduced speed, staring at the lights. Three cars, nose to bumper, were parked across the full width of the highway.

  `Trouble,' Newman said as the red lights came closer. `Road block,' Falken commented. 'Checkpoint. Who are they looking for, I wonder?'

  Thirty

  Munzel was feeling pleased with himself. He had provided himself with good cover. Just by keeping his eyes open, by taking the opportunity when it presented itself. Now he felt safe. In Lübeck. In Travemünde. He thought about the police. Up yours!

  Boarding the train at Puttgarden, he had wandered slowly along the corridor, looking for an empty compartment. He had passed one with only a girl inside when the idea came to him. From her way of dressing he could tell she was German. And a brunette. Not a blonde.

  As he'd glanced in she'd looked up. She'd more than looked — she'd held his stare, then looked slowly away. One knapsack on the rack above her pretty head. He went back, opened the door.

  `Do you mind if I sit in here?' he had asked at his most polite, giving her an engaging smile.

  `Please do. I'm only going to Lübeck. Then you can have the compartment to yourself.'

  'But I'm going to Lübeck too...'

  Heaving his backpack on to a corridor seat, he'd sat opposite her. He put himself out to be amusing, to make her laugh. She liked the look of him, he could tell.

  `I'm a trainee for hotel management at a place in Hamburg,' she told him. 'I've just come down from Copenhagen. It is so nice there — but the last week I thought I'd like some German food...'

  She was small and slim with a good figure and a fine pair of legs. She wore jeans and a flowered blouse. A red windcheater lay on the seat beside her.

  Ten minutes before they reached Lübeck he had persuaded her to team up with him. She had laid down conditions. A room of her own. Naturally, he had agreed. His mind churned. That presented a problem when he registered at a hotel. He wanted the best possible cover, re-entering Lübeck. Then he had his brainwave.

  Alighting at the Hauptbahnhof, he asked Lydia Fischer if she would watch his backpack while he phoned his parents. There were no police in the entrance hall as he went inside a booth and dialled Martin Vollmer's number. Vollmer immediately asked where he had been. 'I took a vacation,' Munzel snapped. Code terminology for going into hiding. 'Any news of Tweed?' he'd continued. 'I'm back in Lübeck.' Vollmer had said no, and would Munzel call in daily at noon?

  Munzel chose the nearest hotel, the International, across the street from the station. Inside the reception hall he left Lydia with his backpack in a chair and walked to the reception counter. The night clerk looked sleepy and bored.

  He registered as Mr and Mrs Claus Kramer, explained he had just caught a dose of the flu which he didn't want to pass on to his wife, so he booked two rooms — a double for himself, a single for his wife. When he'd got beyond the infectious stage they'd both occupy the double. The clerk showed no interest in his explanation and reached for two keys.

  They had eaten in the hotel dining-room. The place wasn't cheap but Munzel had wads of money, mostly 100-DM notes. No travellers' cheques. After the meal Lydia had said she was tired and she had gone straight to bed. Munzel had a drink in the bar and went to bed himself.

  Now, lying in bed, he couldn't sleep. He felt exhilarated, an arrogant pleasure in his own cleverness. About three weeks earlier clean-shaven Kurt Franck — with a trim haircut — had stayed at the Movenpick by himself. Who would associate the bearded man with the golden locks and the hiker's outfit with Franck? Especially as he had become a couple. Mr and Mrs Kramer — and staying at the International, a mere couple of hundred metres from the Movenpick further up the street? A nice bluff, he congratulated himself. Now all he had to do was phone Vollmer each day. Vollmer had told him they were confident Tweed would be coming back.

  He stretched his long thick legs under the duvet, then sat up, swung his feet on to the floor and unstrapped the sheath containing the broad-bladed knife from his leg. This was what had been keeping him awake. He slipped the sheath with the knife inside under his pillow, stretched out again and was asleep in a few minutes.

  Inside the room they shared at the Movenpick, Sue Templeton stood naked under the shower, shampooing her blonde hair. She bathed daily and revelled in the hot jets of water spiking her skin. They
were stimulating her.

  `Ted!' she called out. 'Fetch me a towel. I forgot it...'

  `You'll forget your pantyhose one of these mornings.' Handing her the towel, he felt her grasp him by the forearm and just had time to slide off his dressing gown before she hauled him inside with her. 'Stupid cow,' he told her. 'But I could get to like it...'

  `And who didn't want to report that killer to the police?' she teased him. 'I like that too..

  `You don't know he's a killer. They just want to question him. Bet you wouldn't recognize him if you ever saw him a second time.'

  `Oh, yes I would. Even if he'd grown a beard and wore a false moustache.'

  `Stupid cow. Why would he grow his beard and stick on a false moustache?'

  `I don't know. Men do funny things. You're doing a funny thing now.'

  `Serves you right. You shouldn't have pulled me in here.'

  `Vopos. People's Police,' Falken said as Newman stopped the car.

  Jackets buttoned to the neck, breeches tucked inside leather jackboots, Sam Browne belts which dangled truncheons, holsters sheathing automatic pistols, Newman noted. He felt chilled to the bone — and not with the night air. A fat policeman swaggered towards them, saw Falken holding the goose and stared.

  Falken lowered the window with his left hand. The policeman came close to the window and stared inside. Falken released his grip on the goose's neck.

  `Papers!' snapped the policeman.

  He reached out a pudgy hand. The goose's neck shot out of the window, its mouth open and pecked viciously. The policeman snatched his hand away, took two steps back. Falken coiled his arm round the neck, withdrew the goose inside the car. He smiled.

  `Take them out of my left breast pocket,' he invited. 'You can see I can't risk trying to get them.'

  `What the hell is it? Why are you carrying that about this time in the morning?'

  `Conservation Service. This is a rare grey lag. Escaped from one of my sanctuaries. You can see the ring on its leg. The Minister was very disturbed when he heard we'd lost it. I thought I knew where I might find it. I got lucky. Go on — my left breast pocket...'