The Janus Man

by Forbes, Colin

  'Why?'

  `So I can get a quick shave. I have a feeling Captain Anders is a man impressed by personal appearances. And you'd better shave, too. You can borrow my kit afterwards...'

  `I've got my own stuff.'

  `Use it then.'

  Newman unwrapped the hold-all containing his shaving materials, propped a small mirror against the windscreen, turned on the overhead light and made the best job he could of it. He'd forced his companion to follow suit hoping it would lift his morale. He'd sensed Stahl had been badly shaken by the episode at the guard gate.

  Freshly-shaven, they drove off out of the wooded area. Soon Newman could make out against the pale glow of the lightening sky the silhouettes of great mobile cranes, the type of cranes you see alongside a dock area.

  And there was more traffic about. Wheeled and on foot. Workers trudging along for early shifts, trucks coming out from the port area laden with cargo. Huge standards of timber. Brought in from Sweden. Tankers — undoubtedly laden with oil from the Soviet Union.

  A strange glow hung over the docks. The Martian-like cranes stood out against the glow of fluorescent lights mingled with the growing dawn. Then it began to rain, a heavy downpour. Stahl switched on the wipers and Newman's view bleared as rivulets streamed down the windscreen. Still clasping the Skorpion, he slipped into a doze, unable to keep his eyelids open.

  He was woken by Stahl shaking his arm. He blinked, realized he felt much fresher, more alert. It was still raining heavily, pounding on the cab's roof with a steady staccato. Ahead were the dock gates.

  `I'll leave the talking to you,' Stahl said.

  No talking was called for. The gates opened inward. A man in oilskins beckoned the truck to proceed. 'Leipzig must have phoned through our registration number,' said Stahl and drove on. The truck bumped over rails set in concrete. It was daylight, if that description could be applied to the grey murk which shrouded the docks.

  `The rain could help you,' Stahl commented. 'Everyone will be keeping their heads down.'

  He'd recovered his nerve. They passed a giant mobile crane standing on rails. Newman lowered his window a little, peered up. At the top of the crane a light was on inside the cabin. The smell peculiar to ports all over the world drifted in through the window — a compound of resin, oil, tar and the salt air coming off the Baltic.

  `Leave the Skorpion with me,' Stahl continued. He reached under his seat with one hand, pulling out a bundle which he handed Newman. 'Oilskins, you'll need them. I have to take the truck immediately to the Wroclaw for loading of the guns.

  I'll send Captain Anders to see you. Then you're on your own.

  There's a small but where you can shelter.'

  `How quickly will he come? The longer I hang around the greater the risk..

  `No idea. Up to him. You can't hurry Anders.'

  `Thank you for getting me so far,' Newman said as he struggled into the oilskin. It had a hood which he pulled over his head.

  The truck rumbled past great storage sheds, their roofs gleaming in the rain. Seamen dressed in oilskins and rubber boots hurried across the truck's headlight beams which Stahl still had on. The vehicle was crawling. A huddle of ships, moored prow to stern, their funnels poking up into the murk, told Newman he was close to the wharves. Stahl confirmed the thought.

  `There's the but where I'm leaving you. Just wait. You left nothing back in the truck?'

  `Not a thing. I was careful. A screwed-up piece of greaseproof paper in the urine bucket. That's it.'

  `You get off here. Good luck. You'll need it.

  With this encouraging farewell Newman stepped down off the stationary truck, slammed the door shut as the rain hit him, and the truck was moving out of sight round a corner. He'd no doubt Stahl was glad to see the last of him. He pushed open the door of the single-storey shanty-like structure, listened and stepped inside, leaving the door half-open.

  Half an hour later, still standing — there was nowhere to sit — he was joined by a German seaman who rushed in out of the downpour. He produced a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Newman, who shook his head, and lit it for himself.

  `Waiting to catch a ship, mate?' the German asked. `I hope so.'

  He wanted to get rid of the man. Anders might arrive at any moment. The seaman went on puffing at his cigarette, stamping his feet. His boots squelched water.

  `Not as bad as it looks,' the German commented. 'Heard the met forecast. Out there beyond Warnemünde the East Sea's as smooth as a millpond. No wind. Overcast all day. I'd better be off. My bosun's a bastard..

  Anders arrived half an hour later. A short stocky man with broad shoulders, he wore a navy blue duffel jacket and a peaked cap. He took off the cap and shook water from it out of the door. In his late fifties, Newman estimated. A weatherbeaten square face, a jaw like the prow of an icebreaker, piercing blue eyes. He stood there like a rock, hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket.

  `I'm Anders. Who are you?'

  `Emil Clasen. I need passage aboard the Wroclaw. I want to get out to the West. Anywhere convenient to you will do.'

  `I'm not taking you.'

  It was like a blow in the face to Newman. He'd come so far. To be pipped at the post now, abandoned inside the DDR. Newman stared back at the Pole. He had to say the right thing first time. There'd be no second chance. What the hell was the right thing?

  Then he remembered. Stahl had said Anders didn't like the Germans. Stahl had said that he — Newman — passed for a German. He took a deep breath. He had to gamble everything on one throw, pray that his assessment of the Pole was correct.

  `I'm not a German, you know. I'm English.'

  `I look stupid?'

  `I said I was English and I am. I desperately need passage out of here to the West.'

  He'd said these words in his own language. Anders studied his clothes, looked back at his face. His expression showed extreme doubt.

  `They have language laboratories in Moscow to teach you to speak perfect English,' he replied in German. `So, you say you're English? I haven't much time to waste on you. Where were you born?'

  `Hampstead, London.'

  `I know that place. A solid wall of houses. Kilometres away from open country...'

  `No it isn't. There's Hampstead Heath where you can walk along endless paths between grass and trees.'

  `You know where King's Lynn is?'

  `Norfolk, East Anglia.'

  `It's on the coast. I've docked there. What river is it on?' `The Ouse. And it isn't on the coast. It's several miles inland — up the Ouse. Very flat country.'

  `What's your job?' Anders demanded.

  `Newspaper reporter. Foreign correspondent. I came over the border a few days ago after a story. Illegally.'

  `You're a bloody crazy idiot, that's for sure.'

  That was when Newman realized he'd been accepted. He kept the relief out of his expression. Anders shrugged. Looking outside, he peered into the rain, then spoke in his brusque manner.

  `I got everything ready — in case I decided to take you. We go aboard slowly. No one will question you — not when you're with me. I have a reputation. For tearing people's balls off if they try to interfere with me. I've prepared a cable kicker on deck. You travel inside that. You stay there till I come for you. I'll put something heavy on the top after you get inside. That will discourage anyone from looking inside. We're not sailing for some time. You'll just have to put up with it. Come on. No point in hanging about. And I'm the only man aboard who will know you're on the Wroclaw. Just keep quiet inside that locker.'

  For Anders, Newman guessed, this was a major speech as he walked with the Pole past another huge storage shed. Inside open doors he saw agricultural machinery, painted a bright orange and arranged in neat rows. The rain had slackened —was now a heavy drizzle. Overhead the clouds were stationary, the colour of molten lead.

  Anders moved with a heavy deliberate tread, staring straight ahead, saying nothing. Beyond the shed Newman saw a freighter moore
d to the dock, its single smoke-stack carrying the Polish emblem. Aft it had a high bridge and the ship was equipped with a small forest of radar and other sophisticated devices.

  It struck him it had the appearance of a spy ship. Forward an immense hold was open as loading proceeded. Suspended from a crane inside nets he recognized the long wooden boxes he had travelled with all the way from Leipzig. Stahl's truck, backed to near the edge of the wharf, was being unloaded by men stacking the boxes out in the open. Another team heaved them inside another of the huge carrying nets. The Skorpions for Cuba were going on board.

  `Don't slip on the gangplank,' Anders warned.

  It was the first remark he'd made since leaving the hut. At the foot of the gangway — it had a hand-rail on either side — stood a burly seaman. He saluted Anders, who merely nodded. The captain then ran up the incline like a two-year-old. Newman followed more cautiously.

  He gripped the rail with his right hand and its surface was greasy, as it was underfoot. Anders waited for him, then led the way to the starboard side, out of sight of the loading. He stopped amidships, looked round, saw no one was about, lifted the lid of a huge wooden box screwed down to the deck. The

  cable locker.

  `Get in. Move!' he growled.

  Newman swung himself over the side and dropped into the box. He landed on something soft which gave under his weight. Anders reached forward a large hand, pressed him down by the top of his shoulder. The lid was swung closed on its hinges and Newman was crouched in darkness.

  Hauling out of the pocket of his oilskins the torch he had been given by Stahl, he switched it on and examined his new quarters. The soft thing he'd landed on was a rubber dinghy equipped with a small outboard motor.

  Thud! Newman nearly jumped out of his skin. Then he realized something heavy had been dropped on the lid, some object Anders had dumped to discourage anyone from exploring inside the locker. He went on with his examination. There was a lot to discover.

  A long length of thick rope was coiled inside the dinghy, rope knotted at intervals. He found one end was attached with a reef knot to a metal ring at the rear of the dinghy near the outboard. It puzzled him, but he went on with his exploration.

  Unwrapping two packets wrapped in a Polish newspaper he found one contained a bottle of mineral water and a bottle of vodka. Inside the other was a loaf of rye bread, a hunk of cheese and a knife for slicing the bread. Bread and some cheese — at least he was keeping to a regular diet.

  Tucked into a pocket in the side of the dinghy he found a torch, a marlin spike and, inside tissue paper, a compass. 'I got everything ready,' Anders had said. A methodical man, Captain Anders. A practical man. But already he had reminded Newman of a British captain in the Merchant Marine he'd once known. The men who commanded ships all over the world were of a similar breed, irrespective of the political system they happened to live under. They were either very good or very bad. In Newman's opinion Anders came top of the poll in the former category.

  Newman took only a small nip of the vodka. He followed it with a larger gulp of the mineral water. Immediately he'd swallowed the water he cursed his folly. There was a little matter of the inevitable call of nature. Then he remembered Anders and continued his search. He found the enamel jug with the tight-fitting top tucked under the outboard. Now all he had to do was to sit it out. Literally.

  Forty-Five

  He woke up aching, cramped and with a crick in his neck. Newman was lying in a foetal position, curled up inside the dinghy. His first thought was that the Wroclaw was moving, its engines ticking over with a steady hum. The sea had to be very calm — the vessel seemed to glide over the surface.

  His second thought was the time. He checked his watch by the illuminated hands. 7 p.m. It couldn't be. He switched on the torch resting against his hand. It was 7 p.m. He recalled that the last thing he'd done before he must have dropped off into deep sleep was to wind up the watch. Then it had registered 7 a.m. He had slept for twelve hours.

  That worried him — until he realized he was ravenously hungry. He made himself sandwiches with the rye bread and the cheese. As he ate, pausing occasionally to drink some mineral water, he tried to think what to do next, to work out the likely position of the Wroclaw. He realized very quickly it was impossible — he'd no idea when it had sailed from Rostock.

  His next problem was to decide whether to eat all the food or whether to keep some in reserve. Instinct told him to curb his appetite. Then he remembered what Falken had said. Eat, sleep, pee — when you can. Something like that. He devoured all the bread and cheese, but drank only half the water. He didn't touch the vodka. It might dull his senses, make him light-headed.

  Finishing his meal, he found the enamel jug, crouched to relieve himself, then put back the lid firmly. It had a rubber ring which made it practically watertight. Just as well — in case of spillage. He began to feel quite normal, but he ached in every limb.

  Despite his confined space, he managed to do some exercises, stretching his arms, his legs, flexing and unflexing his fingers. Then, kneeling, he reached up and gently pushed at the lid of the cable locker. It wouldn't move, solid as concrete. This gave him a claustrophobic feeling and he recalled experiencing the same sensation in milder form when he was travelling inside Stahl's truck. God, he was going to be glad to get out in the open, to be able to move around again.

  The vessel continued steadily on course, moving incredibly smoothly. The seaman who had shared the but with him inside Rostock docks had been right in his forecast. Smooth as a millpond. The Baltic, from what he had heard, was rarely like this. That was, if he was still in the Baltic. Could the vessel have turned north, passed Copenhagen, and moved up into the Kattegat between Denmark and Sweden?

  There was no way he could calculate his present location. He had no data to work on. The time of departure from Rostock. The speed of the vessel. He began to feel disorientated. No idea where he was. Trapped inside this box. He took a deep breath as he had a moment of panic. That was when he heard someone moving the heavy object off the lid.

  He did two things instinctively. Switched off the torch. Grasped the marlin spike, which he now realized Anders had left him as a weapon. He crouched, ready to spring, staring up. The lid was lifted.

  The evening sky was a brilliant azure. Silhouetted against it was the wide-shouldered Anders. He dropped a folded sheet into the locker. He spoke quickly, his voice low.

  `The ship will be stopping shortly — to make a transhipment. I don't know what it is — something to do with the bloody Russkies. Keep very quiet. I've arranged with my Chief Engineer to fake engine trouble when they've finished their business. That's when you leave. I'll be back..

  `Where the hell are we?'

  `In the Bight of Lübeck. In DDR coastal waters. Be ready to move fast when I come back. I must go..

  The lid was swung closed on its hinges. Very quietly. Newman waited for the thud! of the heavy object being replaced. Nothing. Anders had either forgotten (unlikely) or someone had appeared and the Pole had not wished to draw attention to the cable locker.

  Newman experienced a curious mix of sensations. The claustrophobic feeling disappeared — now he knew he was no longer entombed inside the locker. But he felt trapped, in great danger. That reference to the Russkies. Anyone could lift the lid, discover him.

  From the brief words Anders had spoken Newman gathered they were in charge of this -secret transhipment operation, whatever that might be. He had little doubt that, if caught, he'd be treated as a spy and shot — to keep his mouth closed.

  To take his mind off his new fear he switched on the torch and examined the sheet of paper Anders had dropped inside the locker. His palms were moist. He wiped them on his trousers and studied the sheet.

  It was a section of a chart. He'd been astounded, perplexed, when Anders told him they were in the Bight of Lubeck. Geography had always been one of his good subjects. He'd felt sure that the direct route from Rostock to the Kattegat and acro
ss the Atlantic to Cuba was a course which would have taken them north of Fehmarn Island. The map confirmed his deduction.

  Emerging from Rostock into the Baltic, the Wroclaw had sailed west and then south-west — instead of north-west — into the Bight, the great bay, of Lübeck. Why? Could the consignment of Skorpions be due to be landed secretly in West Germany — near Lübeck? It didn't make sense.

  It was 9 p.m. by his watch when the Wroclaw, moving slowly, reduced speed even more, then — at precisely 9.30 — stopped. It was suddenly very quiet without the vibration of the engines. He heard feet clumping along the deck past the locker. Voices in the distance. He looked up and round three sides of the lid was a thin bar of light. That had kept the air inside the locker fresh. He eased himself up into a crouching position.

  He raised the lid slowly, barely three or four centimetres. Five seamen, standing at the ship's rail with their backs to him, stared out across the sea. Now the Wroclaw was stationary it was rolling slightly. A sky like porridge, dense with grey clouds, had replaced the azure blue.

  As the vessel rolled, Newman had glimpses of the Baltic. A large white power cruiser which seemed familiar was heading full speed for the Wroclaw, leaving behind a white wake. It was about half a mile away. Newman used his knuckles to hold up the heavy lid.

  The ship continued its gentle roll, giving Newman further glimpses of the approaching cruiser. It reduced speed as it came close. Behind the glass of the wheelhouse Newman could just make out the head and shoulders of the man steering the cruiser. He wore a balaclava helmet, reminding Newman of his days training with the SAS. He lowered the lid carefully, sat down on the edge of the dinghy, which provided a cushion for his aching backside, and rubbed his sore knuckles.

  The activity on deck soon increased. Feet clumping quickly. Orders shouted. Muffled by the locker walls, Newman couldn't be sure, but he thought they were talking in Russian. He waited half an hour before he risked lifting the lid again. He was very puzzled — that power cruiser, big as it was, could never take on board the Skorpion load Stahl had brought from Leipzig.