The Janus Man

by Forbes, Colin

  `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 traffic 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.

  `Nothing I can think of.'

  Typical, Tweed thought. Dry as dust. No wonder he'd earned the nickname of The Professor. While they all waited he removed his glasses, deliberately took his time cleaning them on his handkerchief. At a side table Monica sat taking notes for the minutes she'd type later. Now she also watched Tweed with a puzzled expression. Not like him to prolong a conference. He regarded most meetings as a waste of time, to he got over with as soon as possible. Pressure, Tweed was thinking. That was what the psychiatrist, Dr Generoso, had said would drive a man leading a double life to panic eventually. He was putting on the pressure now. The silence became oppressive. Someone shuffled their feet. He glanced round the table again.

  Grey sat with a smile of anticipation on his pink face. He was expecting another pronouncement. Masterson smoothed his gleaming hair again while Tweed went on polishing his glasses. Dalby sat with his arms folded, quite motionless as he stared at his chief. Iron self-control. Lindemann was scribbling on his pad, this time with the green pencil. Did he change the colours for each sector chief? Nutty way of going on. Tweed replaced his glasses, spoke suddenly, watching them closely.

  `Dr Berlin.' Another loaded pause. 'Any information any of you can get on him. Supposed to be the Light of the World, the guardian of refugees, the protector of the helpless everywhere.' His tone was heavy with irony. 'I just wonder.' He held up a hand to silence Grey who had opened his mouth, anxious to make a contribution. 'No comments, please. Just dig. Deep as you can go into his background.'

  Tweed clasped his hands on the table, studying each man in turn. Janus was here, at this very meeting, concealing himself behind a mask. The man who looked both East and West. And possibly a mass murderer. Unless I've got it all wrong.

  No, I'm damned if I have. One of these faces sent Fergusson to his death. That's for certain. And they were all in Frankfurt, attending the meeting I held just after promoting them. The night the Dutch girl was slaughtered. And they were all in Europe — whereabouts unknown — when Helena Andersen, the blonde Swedish girl had been cut to pieces on Priwall Island. As was the case when Iris Hansen, the girl, again a blonde, from Copenhagen had met the same grisly fate.

  But most telling by far was the two-year-old unsolved killing of Carole Langley in East Anglia on the night of July 14. The four men he was looking at had attended Hugh Grey's birthday party at Hawkswood Farm. Too much coincidence. It gave him an eerie feeling to be sitting with these four men. They all looked so normal. Dr Generoso again. He'd said such a person might well appear completely normal for long periods. Tweed stood up.

  `Meeting ended.'

  `Tweed is coming back... flying to Hamburg... within forty-eight hours...'

  The caller, using German, was speaking from a phone booth in the Post Office near Leicester Square. Martin Vollmer, in his apartment in Altona, took the message, thanked the caller, but already the connection was broken.

  Vollmer cradled the receiver, waited a few seconds, lifted it again and dialled a number. He had to wait for the phone to ring five times before it was answered by the girl he was calling.

  `Tweed is coming back...'

  For the second time the wires were humming across West Germany. Always the same message, couched in exactly the same words. Until it reached the office of a lawyer in West Berlin. He took the call, put down the phone, told his secretary he had to go out, and walked the short distance to Checkpoint Charlie where he crossed into East Berlin.

  `What's happened? Why are you looking so smug?' demanded Lysenko as Wolf put down the phone. He had just entered the room.

  `As I predicted, Tweed is coming back. Flying in to Hamburg. I predict something else. He will make straight for Lübeck. I have arranged for Munzel to be informed. You don't look so smug yourself...'

  `The timing!' Lysenko barked. 'It's going to be close. We have a major operation under way.'

  `What major operation? Or does it, by chance, not concern me?'

  `It does not. You have enough on your plate. The timing? How many times do I have to ask you a question? I don't like this at all. Tweed is a menace.'

  `I probably know more about Tweed than you do,' Wolf commented. 'As to timing, he's expected in Hamburg about two days from now according to the report from Balkan.'

  `Then Tweed has to be eliminated quickly …'

  `I have already sent a message to Munzel — who is waiting for his arrival in Lübeck.'

  `We can't be sure he'll go back to Lübeck,' Lysenko snapped.

  `Which is why I've also alerted our man at Hamburg Airport — Tweed will be followed from the moment he comes through Customs.'

  `Munzel made a hash of the job before. This time he must do the job. And fast.'

  `He will deal with the problem as soon as he can. More than that I cannot guarantee. How much time would you say he has?'

  `A week. Two at the outside.'

  `I think you can sleep well tonight.'

  Inside his hotel room at the International, facing Lübeck's main station, Erwin Munzel sprawled in bed as Lydia Fischer, the German girl he had picked up on the train from Puttgarden, took a shower. He was finding her very satisfactory — and not only as a cover. He reached for the phone as it began ringing.

  `Vollmer speaking...'

  The voice paused. Munzel had to think of the code word after his recent enjoyable experience with Lydia.

  `Sylt is the place I've booked for the holiday,' he said. `Listen. Tweed is coming back. Flying in to Hamburg within the next two days. Call me at noon as usual. You have three days to complete the deal after the customer arrives.' `I don't work to time schedules...'

  `You do on this one. Or lose your job.'

  Vollmer had gon
e off the line before Munzel could protest. He lay staring at the ceiling for several minutes. When Lydia came out of the shower he went into the bathroom and took a quick shower himself. He dressed quickly, talking as he did so.

  `You wanted to do some shopping on your own. How about doing it now? I have some business calls to make.'

  He waited until she had left the room, then packed half his clothes in the suitcase he had recently purchased. Leaving the International, he walked in blazing sunlight past the Movenpick and continued on over the bridge on to the island.

  He paused outside the entrance to the Hotel Jensen, peered in, saw there was only a girl on reception — not the manager — and walked in. He booked himself a room in the first name that came into his head. Hugo Schmidt from Osnabrück. Ascending in the lift, he unlocked the door of a room at the back.

  It took him only a few minutes to put his clothes inside the wardrobe and a couple of drawers. He left toothbrush, paste and shaving kit in the bathroom. Then he went back down in the lift and walked out of the hotel, the key of the room still inside his pocket.

  He was second-guessing Tweed, gambling that if he did turn up in Lübeck he'd go back to the Jensen. The English were conservative, habit-ridden. Now all he had to do was to wait for Vollmer to warn him Tweed was on the way.

  Forty

  They were in the middle of Leipzig and Gerda sat alongside Newman. He needed her to guide him. He drove slowly along the Gerberstrasse at eight o'clock in the evening. Peering through the windscreen, he twisted his head to look up. An immense modern slab-like building soared into the sky.

  `What's that place?' he asked. 'Must be thirty storeys high.'

  `The Hotel Merkur. The best place to stay for miles around. It has three restaurants.'

  He drove on, following her directions. Falken was sprawled along one of the couch seats in the living area. They came to an intersection just as the lights turned against them. Newman braked. There was the slam of a door behind them.

  `What was that?' Newman enquired.

  'Falken has just left. Look, there he is...'

  The tall German was hobbling along the pavement past the camper with the aid of his stick. He continued for a few metres and stopped. Two men in civilian clothes had blocked his path, were talking to him.

  `Oh, my God,' Newman said. 'Plain clothes police.' `I think so, yes,' Gerda replied, watching.

  Falken had produced his folder, making a performance of balancing himself on his stick. Now he was waving his arms, flapping his hands like a bird. The two men started grinning. After examining the folder it was handed back to him. Falken went on conversing with them.

  `He's diverting their attention from us,' Gerda said. Newman sensed the strain in her voice. `I think he was talking about the grey lag when he flapped his arms. He's waiting for us to drive on.'

  Falken had glanced briefly over his shoulder as he gesticulated. Newman fumed. Why didn't the bloody light change? It seemed obstinately stuck on red. The longer Falken had to talk the greater the danger one of the two policemen would ask the wrong question.

  `When the lights change don't speed up,' Gerda warned, sensing his frustration. 'Falken will cope...'

  The lights changed. As instructed, Newman turned left slowly. In his wing mirror he saw Falken hobbling away, the two plain clothes men strolling in the opposite direction. Oddly, Newman felt lost. Falken, the friend he had shared the past few days with, had gone out of his life as swiftly as he had entered it. Again Gerda sensed his reaction.

  `No goodbyes. Just till the next time. Concentrate on your driving. We're in Leipzig. And it's crawling with the wolf-pack.' `Wolf-pack?'

  `Markus Wolf's men. I've seen them all over the place. You keep straight ahead here...'

  Newman swallowed. He had a lump in his throat. For Falken. Ridiculous sentimentality. Keep your eye on the road. Gerda placed a hand gently on his wrist. She had very small hands.

  `Emil, listen carefully. We shall soon leave the camper and kill some time in a café. You are going out tonight. A very tough young man called Stahl will drive you overnight to Rostock, the Baltic port. You will travel inside a big armoured truck carrying arms to Cuba. We think they are bound for Nicaragua. It will not be comfortable — you will be sealed inside the truck for many hours.'

  `Who is this Stahl?'

  `You should know — in case the truck is stopped, but that is most unlikely. He is a Party member..

  `You have to be joking, I hope.'

  `He is a Party member,' she repeated. 'Which is why he has been entrusted with the task of driving,this vital consignment. We knew him when he was a youth. Very intelligent. He hated the system, wanted to escape to the West. Falken persuaded him to go the route — do all the right things in the hope he would be selected as a Party member. It worked. Aboard that truck he will take you into the dock area. From there you travel by sea to the West.'

  `Aboard what kind of ship? Bound for where?'

  `I have no idea. One important thing not to forget — when you talk with him. He knows only Falken and myself. He must not know about Radom. We use the cell system — taking a leaf out of the Soviets' book. Turn left here, follow the one-way system.'

  It seemed to Newman they were driving in a large circle as they moved into the suburbs. They passed shopping parades. Many had signs, Volks-this, Volks-that. The people's-this, the people's-that. All State-controlled. One shop window was full of colour TV sets.

  The pedestrians were well-dressed, looked well-nourished. A great contrast to his stay in East Berlin as foreign correspondent several years before. One thing had not changed compared with the West. The men and women had a stolid appearance. No one seemed to be enjoying themselves. They trudged along with their plastic shopping bags, drab as their surroundings. A grey, dull and dreary atmosphere — even by the light of the setting sun.

  `Drive in to this camp site,' Gerda instructed. 'Park it under those trees over there — away from the other campers. Then wait while I pay the fee.'

  He turned in off the highway along an asphalt track, swung off the track over rough grass. He had hardly stopped when Gerda opened the door, dropped to the ground and disappeared.

  The suburbs had ended abruptly. The camp-site was on the edge of open country. Fields of grass stretched away into the distance. Very few people were about. He checked his watch. 8.30 p.m. Soon it would be dark. Where would they link up with Stahl?

  Newman had to wait fifteen minutes before Gerda returned and she was carrying a large string bag in either hand full of cans of food, a loaf of bread and cartons of fruit juice. He looked round quickly. Still no one about. He opened the door, took the bags off her and she climbed into the cab.

  `Let's be quick,' she said. Tut away all this stuff inside the cupboards above the washing-up sink. Ell lay the table for two.' `We're going to eat here?'

  `We're leaving here as fast as we can. But if the police do find this camper they'll think we're coming back. With the table laid for a meal and food in the cupboards..

  He remembered Falken's instruction. Obey Gerda... While she laid the table he put away the contents of the bags. She went on explaining.

  `And someone on the camp site may have seen us. Just before we go I'll pull back one of the curtains. Anyone peering inside will see this table laid. Everything has to look quite normal.'

  `We do need to eat soon,' Newman told her. 'If we can.'

  `And we're going to. But we must get away from here. Emil, you do have your shaving things?'

  He patted the pocket of his raincoat where he carried the small hold-all containing shaving equipment, soap and a comb. She opened the cupboards he had stacked, took out a small bottle of mineral water and a collapsible plastic cup.

  `Put these in your other pocket. The water is for drinking and shaving. You'll be sealed inside the truck for hours. It is important you have shaved by tomorrow morning. The police may think you are a drug addict unless you look normal. Now, we leave.'

 
Newman noticed how tidy the camp site was. No paper bags thrown down on the short-cropped grass, no mess of used cans and bottles. Near the exit on to the road they passed a family, a couple with two small children, returning. Gerda said 'Good night', and then they walked along the pavement.

  It gave Newman an odd feeling of nakedness to leave the camper. They had travelled inside their cocoon for only a few hours but it had sheltered them from a hostile world. Now, as they walked side by side towards a built-up area he felt terribly exposed.

  `Where were all the people on the camp site?' he asked.

  `Out doing what we're going to do. Getting something to eat. They're on holiday. Often the woman cooks lunch, but to give her a break the husband takes her out for the evening meal.'

  `We have the time? I'm thinking of meeting Stahl...'

  `I've made the time — I want to get some hot food inside you before you board the truck. And we meet him after dark — out in the country. You'll see. We're going in here.'

  They had reached a modem shopping parade of two-storey buildings. The shops were closed but a restaurant standing on its own was open. Gerda, clutching her windcheater, carefully wrapped round the Uzi, led the way inside.

  It was an old place, looked as though it had been there since before the Second World War. The walls were lined with dark oak panelling, the ceiling supported with heavy oak beams. Gerda ensconced them in a booth alongside one wall so they sat facing each other with the heavy table between them.

  A waiter wearing a green apron took their order. He hardly glanced at Newman as Gerda ordered for both of them. Newman had beer to drink, a heavy dark beer in a large tankard. Gerda sipped a glass of white wine. Newman felt a sense of strain — Falken had slipped out of his life in a matter of seconds and soon it would be, 'Goodbye, Gerda...' He wasn't looking forward to that.

  `This place seems pretty old,' he remarked.

  Gerda watched him as she replied, ran a hand through her chestnut-coloured hair. 'I heard Leipzig and the suburbs were badly bombed during the war. This place survived. One of those flukes.'