Tweed studied the two men. Both spoke fluent German, so that made sense. Harry Butler was the taller, more heavily-built of the pair; also the older and more experienced. He had a wary look, a relaxed manner and moved as though treading through a minefield.
Pete Nield was dark-haired, had dark, quick-moving eyes and was a man for a tight corner. Slimmer, he took trouble over his dress and was wearing a smart navy blue business suit with a carnation in his buttonhole.
The two men were a great contrast in personality but together they worked well. There was a famous occasion when they had acted as streetwalkers, tailing a Markus Wolf agent for a whole week before he made the contact they were seeking. During all those long seven days the experienced German agent had never once suspected their presence.
`Any suggestions as to how we go about it?' Tweed asked.
`First,' Butler began in his deliberate tone, 'we'll both be happy to work on this one. Ian Fergusson was killed in Hamburg. Maybe we'll get lucky, meet up with the character who did the job.'
`Weapons,' said Nield. 'We can't take them with us. But can we get some at the other end?'
It was a typical Nield question. Tweed looked dubious, caught Butler's eye, who nodded his agreement with the suggestion.
`I suppose we could obtain you something from Kuhlmann,' Tweed replied.
`Kuhlmann?' Nield said. 'He's a toughie. I met him once. He never wastes a word — or a moment. Is he involved?'
`Yes and no. We.can talk about that later.'
`The method,' Butler questioned, again typically. 'We travel with you on the aircraft? Good. The most effective technique is we travel separately. Pete takes a seat across the gangway from you. I'll be further back. What about arrival in Hamburg?'
`I'm staying for one night at the Four Seasons.' Tweed pulled a wry face. 'Cost us a bomb, but the PM has put no limit on the budget this time. Both of you stay there, too..
`But arrive separately,' Butler said firmly. 'Pete takes the first cab. You take the next one. I follow behind. That way we'll know if we're being followed — if you are being tailed. Could there be a leak? About your flying to Germany?'
Tweed hesitated, caught Monica's eye. `There is a leak, I know that. And what I've just said is totally confidential.'
`Then what I've just outlined is a good plan,' Butler stated. `No chances. Not this time.'
Forty-Two
The truck was moving at high speed through the night as Stahl headed non-stop for Rostock. Newman placed the greaseproof-wrapped package of sandwiches on his seat, then swung the torch beam on to the single wooden box jammed in against the wall behind the enamel bucket.
The padlock through the two ring-bolts was loose. He took it off and raised the heavy lid. By the light of the torch, steadying himself with one hand pressed against the rear of the cab, he stared down at the contents. Row upon row of Skorpion machine pistols neatly stacked. His light reflected off grease on the working parts. And Stahl had said other boxes contained ammo — the magazines for the weapons. He was travelling with a medium-sized armoury, enough to fuel a small war.
He closed the lid, carefully replaced the loose padlock, picked up his sandwiches and sat on the seat, opening the packet. Doorsteps of rye bread with sausage between them. He began to eat ravenously.
He felt a pang of nostalgia when he took from his raincoat pocket the bottle of mineral water Gerda had given him. He unscrewed the top and drank greedily. Unremitting tension made you thirsty. His mind was a muddle of thoughts as the truck thundered on.
Gerda being bundled inside that patrol car, caught at the last minute. Of all the lousy luck. Five hundred kilos of heroin bound for Britain. The Soviets — Gorbachev — would use any filthy method to demoralize their strongest opponent in Europe. What was the name of that Polish freighter? The Wroclaw, that was it.
Newman's nerves were twanging. He had to get out of the DDR. Get back and tell Tweed about Dr Berlin, about the heroin. Two separate and vital pieces of information. He just had to slip out of Rostock. He ate all the sandwiches, dropped the greaseproof paper into the bucket.
The truck was swaying now. Stahl was keeping his foot down.
The motion, the emotional fatigue, sent him into a deep doze. At some place during the night he was woken by the sound of voices. The truck had stopped. He tensed, suddenly alert. Then he heard Stahl making a joke. Of course, he was paying one of the tolls. The truck started moving again.
Newman didn't expect to get any more sleep. He was cramped and aching from sitting in the chair. I'd better walk up and down the corridor, get limbered up, he told himself. Before he could stand up he drifted off again. He was vaguely aware of two more stops, more voices from the direction of the cab, but he ignored them.
He woke suddenly, stiff as a board, checked his watch by the illuminated dial. 4 a.m. Another hour or so. This time he made himself stand up. Switching on the torch, he walked down the corridor to the rear, turned round, paced back, turned again, using one hand to keep his balance by pressing it against the walls of boxes.
He was limbering up now. He scratched his chin, felt the stubble. Somewhere before arriving at Rostock he had to shave. That was something he couldn't achieve while the truck was in motion. He began to feel claustrophobic, hemmed in. Reaching the front, he used his clenched knuckles to tap the wall above the bucket. It felt like solid steel. The window panel slid back suddenly. Stahl called over his shoulder.
`You awake in there, Emil?'
`Fresh as paint. I need a shave...'
`Last stop before Rostock coming up. Five, ten minutes from now. Don't go to sleep.'
The panel closed, shutting off the outside world. Again Newman had caught a glimpse. Still pitch black. Headlights coming towards them. Open country. A big lake over to the right, black water still as ice, lights reflecting in it from lamps alongside a landing-stage. Boats moored in a marina-like area. Reminded him of Lübeck. Diana Chadwick. The upper-crust Ann Grayle and her sloop. Dr Berlin's two power cruisers. What were they called. Südwind and Nordsee. That was it. He remained standing so he couldn't fall asleep, waiting. For the last stop before Rostock.
*
The call from Moscow came through to Lysenko just after four in the morning. He took it in the apartment they had allocated him, less than a kilometre from Markus Wolf's Leipzig headquarters.
Lysenko was fuming. He'd had to arrange for a scrambler phone to be installed. Now Wolf had arranged to sleep on the trestle bed in his office there was no privacy there. He recognized the deep, decisive voice immediately. Gorbachev himself.
`The despatch of the cargo had to be delayed. I've had reports that it is expected at its destination.'
'It would have to be delayed for two weeks in any case,' Lysenko pointed out.
'I know. But I suggest the transhipment goes ahead. It will be safer that way.'
`Under their noses,' Lysenko agreed. 'I have already arranged for just that. And Balkan is now back in Europe.'
`So the timing is perfect.' Gorbachev's tone reflected his satisfaction. He added a rider. 'But do not assume everything is all right until delivery has been made.'
There was a click. Gorbachev had broken the connection. Lysenko went back into the bathroom to continue his shave. He also felt satisfied. His greatest worry had solved itself. Balkan was back...
`Couldn't you have had them followed?' Monica asked Tweed as he prepared to leave for his flat in Chelsea. 'The four sector chiefs, I mean — when they flew back to Europe yesterday.'
'I thought of it, then decided against it. Masterson, Grey, Lindemann and Dalby — every one of them trained men. They'd have spotted streetwalkers within hours. Whoever is Janus, is then alerted. I couldn't risk it. Give him enough rope and he will hang himself I hope.'
`And you still have no lead?' she persisted. 'As to Janus' identity — not even after thinking over your visits with Diana to their homes?'
`I have too many.' Tweed smiled ruefully. 'I can't get out of my head
the idea that the key is what method Janus uses as his release from the enormous tension of leading a double life. Dr Generoso laid some emphasis on that.'
`So?'
`Alcohol is the usual one. Philby used it. Grey drinks — in moderation. Harry Masterson can knock back any quantity and still know exactly what someone is saying. Lindemann is teetotal — but I found that Scotch hidden away in a cupboard. That leaves Dalby, a bit of a wine buff. Come to think of it, I didn't see any sign of even a single bottle at his place. He probably keeps it under lock and key...'
`I mentioned Diana a moment ago. I've got her ticket for your flight tomorrow... today, I mean,' she said, checking her watch, `... but you didn't mention to Butler and Nield that she'd be coming with you.'
`It will be a nice surprise for them.' Tweed looked at his own watch. 'God, it's four in the morning. I am sorry — I should have sent you home hours ago.'
`Why? You know I'm an insomniac — especially when we're up to our necks in a mission. But you're not going to have much sleep.'
`A nap is all I need. And I can't wait to get back into the field. My real anxiety is Newman. What's the latest from Peter Toll at Pullach?'
`A big nothing. And I think Peter is getting worried.' `He'll have something to worry about when I meet him.'
`Next stop the frontier zone,' said Stahl, 'then on to Rostock. There we have a problem — finding a ship to take you out.
The statement stunned Newman. The truck was parked alongside a small lake, quite deserted. No marinas, no landing- stages. It was still dark. Ahead the highway stretched for miles. As he'd jumped down from the rear of the truck Newman noted the same view behind them — a long stretch of highway. Again Stahl had chosen a place to park where they'd receive plenty of warning of the approach of another vehicle.
Seated behind the wheel Stahl was smoking a cigarette, waiting for his passenger's reaction. Newman couldn't help thinking that Falken would have had the next move planned out. He had to decide this one for himself, but Stahl was much younger than Falken.
`You have a suggestion?' he asked.
`The obvious way out is for you to slip aboard the Wroclaw.'
`Which you said was bound for Cuba with your consignment of Skorpions?'
`The Polish master is a Captain Anders. He hates the Germans. He was born in Breslau, as it used to be called when it was a part of The Reich in Hitler's time. Now it is part of Poland — and its new name is the same as Anders' ship, Wroclaw.'
`Go on, there has to be more.'
`I am a friend of Anders. He knows I am hostile to the regime, but nothing of my real work. I know he has carried dissident Poles to Sweden in the past. It all depends what he thinks of you — whether he would agree to smuggle you aboard.'
`What kind of a man is he? Describe him in a few words.'
`Very tough. Makes up his own mind. Once he's done that you can't shift him.'
`I don't want to end up in Havana,' Newman objected. 'What is the alternative?'
`I leave you in Rostock — inside the port area. You find your own ship. You are Border Police. Those papers will take you anywhere inside the forbidden zone.'
`And what, may I ask, was the original plan? The one Falken approved?'
Stahl was taking quick, nervous puffs at his cigarette. He's windy, Newman thought. I shouldn't have expected another Falken-Gerda team. And he's known about this problem ever. since I came aboard his truck. All the way from Leipzig he's been trying to think of a solution — and come up with zero.
`There was a ship due from Denmark,' Stahl admitted. 'Just before I left the depot I phoned my contact in Rostock. He told me the Danish ship has been delayed in Gedser. Something to do with engine repairs. Normally it's a regular ferry run between Gedser and Warnemünde — that's the ferry terminal on the Baltic coast. Rostock is a short distance up the river Warnow. It's up to you. I can't decide for you, Clasen.'
Thanks a lot, Newman thought. Just abandon me in the middle of the protected frontier zone. But get rid of me, soon as you can. I'll have to take over control, he decided.
`This Captain Anders. How do I communicate with him? I don't speak Polish...'
`You don't have to. He speaks German. Your problem with him is you are a German …'
Which was the first time Newman realized he had passed for a German even with Stahl. He was careful not to disillusion him. A decision had to be taken.
`Can you arrange for me to have a few private words with this Anders? I mean for certain.'
`That I can do.' Stahl took out his pack, lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old one. 'For certain. And now you had better get back to your seat.'
I'm not going back inside the truck. I'm staying here — beside you. All the way from now on.'
`You can't do that. I'm supposed to be alone.'
`Who knows that — in Rostock?'
`Well... no one. But if they phone Leipzig.'
`They won't. You said my papers authorized me to move about anywhere inside the frontier zone. You have papers for the consignment you're carrying?'
`Yes. I show them at the port entry gates.'
`Give them to me. Come on, Stahl — no bloody arguments. I also want you to go back inside the truck and fetch me one of those Skorpions. Plus one magazine. You can get that?'
`Yes. They're packed under the guns in that box opposite your seat. But I don't like it. You're not going to use the gun?'
`No, you idiot! It's for show. Get moving. You said that we had to get on to Rostock. Do as I tell you.'
His sudden air of brusque authority intimidated Stahl, who left the cab, returning in a few minutes with the weapon and the magazine. Newman, familiar with the weapon, inserted the magazine, then looked at Stahl.
`Leave me to do the talking. Your job is to take this truck to the Wroclaw.' He waited until Stahl had started the engine, was pulling out on to the highway, before he made his final comment.
`And don't smoke a cigarette when we get there.'
Half an hour later as the first cold shafts of dawn light spread across the eastern sky, Stahl slowed down. Ahead a row of red lights lined the side road they had turned on to. A high wire fence stretched away on either side. A closed gate confronted them as two armed guards strolled out of the but on their left. They had reached the frontier zone.
Forty-Three
Erwin Munzel had an alarm clock inside his head. He'd 'set' it for 4 a.m. He woke, immediately alert, climbed carefully out of bed without disturbing Lydia Fischer, his German girl friend.
He washed and dressed in the bathroom with the door closed. Using one of the hotel pads, he wrote Lydia a note. Couldn't sleep. Have gone for a walk. Wait for me for breakfast. Love.
He left it tucked under her bedside lamp, collected the room key off the dressing table and went down to the lobby, using the stairs.
`Four hours' sleep does me,' he told the International's night porter as he unlocked the front entrance door. 'I'll be back for breakfast.'
Not that the stupid old cretin gives a damn, Munzel thought as he turned right and walked towards the centre of Lübeck. It was cold at that hour. He was glad he'd put on his thick corduroy trousers and a heavyweight sports jacket. On the opposite side of the street there was no activity inside the Hauptbahnhof. It was still dark and in the distance street lamps threw a weird light on the Holstentor; its ancient twin towers with their witches' hat summits looking menacing in the shadows.
He crossed the deserted bridge over the Trave and a breeze blew his long blond hair. As he'd expected, the door to the Hotel Jensen, where he'd booked another room, was closed. He pressed the bell and a girl opened it cautiously on the chain. Recognizing his blond beard, she let him in.
`Time for bed, wouldn't you agree?'
Munzel gave her his most engaging grin, pressed the elevator button and went up to his room. He had the room key he'd taken with him in his hand and once inside he locked it again and began moving fast.
First he kicked
off his shoes, rumpled the bedclothes and pillow, then got into the bed, pulled up the duvet and wriggled around, rolling from side to side. Throwing back the duvet, he got out again. Munzel was nothing if not thorough. He knew chambermaids could tell whether a bed had been slept in or not.
He went into the bathroom where he'd left his spare set of equipment on the glass shelf over the wash-basin. He cleaned his teeth, put the brush back inside the glass after spilling paste on the shelf. He turned on the tap again, lathered his shaving brush, ran it over the palm of his hand, then cleaned it off, leaving it damp and in a different position on the shelf.
Taking one of the bath towels, he held it for a few seconds under the bath tap, squeezed it out, and hung it up. He used the tablet of soap, wetting it under the tap, then rubbed it vigorously round the bottom of the bath. He washed out the bath by leaving the tap running briefly, went back into the bedroom and sat in a chair with a table lamp on while he read a paperback.
He went downstairs to breakfast in the back room as soon as he knew it was open. The cold night air had given him a good appetite. He ate three rolls, drank three cups of coffee and was leaving as a couple came into the room.
With the room key in his pocket he walked out, noting that a man was now on reception. He arrived back at the International to find the doors open and by now it was broad daylight. A clear sky promised yet another hot day.
Lydia was in the bathroom when he re-entered the bedroom. She called out that she wouldn't be long. He told her not to hurry and sagged into a chair. He was successfully keeping up acceptance of his residence at both hotels. Tweed was coming back, so Vollmer had said. He'd phone the Altona number at noon from the station to get the latest news. Munzel was convinced that when Tweed did return he'd go back to the Jensen. And Erwin Munzel would be waiting for him.
Day had not yet broken when Tweed returned to his office at Park Crescent, carrying his suitcase. Reaching the first floor, he stopped. There was a light under his door. George, on duty downstairs, had not said anyone else was in the building.
The Janus Man Page 37
