The Janus Man (22 page)

He concentrated on the road ahead, staring through his goggles for the turn-off point, the track leading to the river. His third worry was reporting his possible sighting of Newman to Leipzig. He had to find a public call box so he could phone Vollmer.

He slowed down, glanced again in his wing mirror, saw the road behind was deserted and swung down the cinder track between the fields on either side. The track was overgrown with weeds, had been superseded by a metalled road further along the highway.

He switched off the engine, pushing the machine the last few metres to the water's edge. Here reeds grew high and there was no sign of human life. He still paused to listen. No sound except for the occasional cry of a sea-bird, the distant moan of a ship's siren arriving — or leaving — Skandinaviankai. Pushing the machine to the edge of the baked mud bank, he grasped the handles firmly and shoved with all his strength. The motor-cycle sailed forward, hit the water with a splash and sank out of sight. He waited until bubbles rising from the submerged machine had ceased to ripple the water's surface and set off to walk along the river's edge, carrying the case he had unstrapped from the rear of the motor-cycle when he had switched off the engine.

Franck had survived in the West by following his training and never taking a chance. In an emergency, always assume the worst. It had been a favourite maxim of his Russian instructor. Franck was now in the process of changing his image before he re-entered a built-up area.

He reached the Small power cruiser moored to the isolated landing stage, boarded the vessel. Once inside the tiny cabin, he opened his case, transferred the contents to a backpack he hauled out of a locker. The case was easily disposed of. He dropped a heavy length of chain inside it, snapped the catches shut and threw it overboard. Then he started the engine.

Half an hour later he moored the vessel to another quiet landing stage, hoisted the backpack on to his broad shoulders and started to hoof it along the nearby highway. Within ten minutes he was hiking into the outskirts of Travemünde near the ferry crossing to Priwall Island. He was looking for a public phone booth. He stopped suddenly, mingling with the evening crowd of holidaymakers.

Two uniformed policemen on foot had stopped a man with blond hair and were obviously asking for his papers. That shook him. The man was at least fifteen years older than Franck — but he had blond hair.

A patrol car cruised slowly along the front, the two policemen inside scanning the faces of the crowd. Franck forced himself to walk slowly away towards the waterfront. A phone booth stood empty on the far side of the road. He'd call Vollmer from there.

He was standing on the edge of the kerb, waiting for a gap in the traffic so he could cross, when he saw the uniformed policeman who had taken up a position a few metres from the booth. A dark-haired youth in jeans and a T-shirt entered the booth. The policeman's head turned, studied the youth, then looked away.

Franck swore to himself. Travemünde was crawling with police. And for some reason it looked as though they knew he might try to use a public phone. That worried him a lot. Had the police, even the BND, found out Wolf's system of communication via the contact in West Berlin?

Franck himself had no idea how the system worked beyond an agent eventually calling West Berlin. Markus Wolf had survived all this time by being ultra careful. Franck turned away and almost bumped into a tall handsome middle-aged brunette. He muttered an apology and walked on.

Behind him Ann Grayle frowned and stared at his back. Despite the humid warmth of the evening she was immaculately dressed in a white classic pleated skirt, a pale blue blouse with a high neck and a cameo at her throat.

As an ex-diplomat's wife she had an eye like the lens of a camera. She only had to see a face once and it was recorded for ever in that encyclopaedia she called her memory. Where had she seen that unpleasant-looking blond-haired giant? Then she remembered. Several weeks earlier he had boarded the
Südwind
when the Chadwick woman was entertaining Robert Newman, the good-looking foreign correspondent. She resumed her evening stroll.

As he plodded along the front Franck found he was sweating — and not from the heat. He had the feeling he had walked into a trap. That woman had seemed familiar. And he was known here. He had to get out of Travemünde fast — but first precautions must be taken.

He purchased the straw hat at a shop on the opposite side of the road; the pipe, tobacco and matches from another shop nearby. He stayed under cover of the second shop while he filled the pipe with tobacco and lit it. Franck never smoked a pipe — he was a 'wet' smoker.

Wearing the straw hat, the pipe clenched between his teeth, he emerged from the shop and made his way by the back streets to Travemünde Hafen station. Sitting on the platform, waiting for the next train to Lübeck, he felt hunted.

He struck a few more matches to light the dead pipe. He had noticed pipe-smokers spent most of their time relighting pipes — he wondered why they bothered. Aboard the train, he decided he'd try to phone from Lübeck Hauptbahnhof. At least he had covered his tracks.

At Lübeck Hauptbahnhof he approached the phone booth warily and was glad he'd done so. Another bloody uniformed policeman stood close by. That decided him. He bought a ticket for the next train due in which went to Copenhagen. He'd get off at Puttgarden before it moved aboard the ferry prior to crossing the Baltic.

At Puttgarden he'd buy a return ticket to Hamburg. Always double back on your tracks. Another maxim hammered into him by his Russian instructor. God knew when he'd reach Hamburg where he'd find a safe phone to report to Vollmer in Altona. It could easily be midnight. But he felt a little better after getting some food and coffee at the restaurant at Lübeck Hauptbahnhof. As the train sped across the open flatlands towards Fehmarn Island he dropped off to sleep.

Inside the fifth floor office in the anonymous building in the centre of Leipzig another man from the East was thinking about food. Lysenko announced he was going out to get dinner.

`I'll stay at my desk,' Wolf replied. He had no desire for more of the Russian's company than was necessary. 'I can have something sent in. There could be a report from Munzel.'

`A lot of good Munzel is,' Lysenko growled. 'And now we know from our contact at Hamburg Airport that both Tweed and Newman have flown back to London. So Munzel has missed his opportunity to kill Tweed. All highly satisfactory. You're doing well,' he added with heavy sarcasm.

Wolf, a heavily-built man, his expression his normal graven image, jerked upright behind his desk. He stood quite still as Lysenko paused by the door.

`General, I would remind you I am not without friends in high places in Moscow. I have been at this game a long time. I have studied Tweed. He will be back. He never gives up. When he returns that will be his final encounter with me. Now, take as long as you like over your meal. I am in no hurry to see you again.'

He sat down, opened a file and began studying it as though he were alone. Lysenko fumed. No one talked to him like that. He opened his mouth to deliver a shattering reply, then closed it without speaking. What Wolf said was only too bloody true — he carried enormous clout in Moscow. Lysenko closed the door very quietly as he left, so quietly it made no sound. Wolf compressed his lips. He found Lysenko's reaction disturbing.

`Josef Falken is the name of the head of Group Five,' Peter Toll said as he drove the BMW south through the gathering dusk with Newman alongside him. 'He is the man who will meet you once you've crossed the border tonight.'

`Tonight? It's 10.30. That's pushing it a bit, isn't it?'

`I pulled forward the crossing date. Your seeing Erwin Munzel — if it was him — in the Movenpick lobby, calls for quick action.'

`In the hope that he won't get through to Leipzig before I make the crossing?'

`Not entirely.' Toll's tone was a trifle too assured. 'Josef shouldn't hang around near the border too long. I've succeeded so far by moving faster than Wolf..

`So far? I find that reservation most encouraging. What does this Josef Falken look like?'

`Six feet tall, thin-faced with a great hooked nose, powerful jaw, blue eyes that look right through you. Forty-two years old. Official job, chief of bird preservation. That enables him to go almost where he likes, visiting bird sanctuaries. But not inside the border zones along the frontier and the Baltic. Married once. Didn't last. Away from home too much. Party member. That's all you need to know. Do you want to go over the mechanics of the crossing again?'

`Christ, no. Three times is enough...'

`So let's run through your identity once more. We're close to Goslar now...'

`The way you drive I'm not surprised.'

`Your identity,' Toll repeated.

`Albert Thorn. Senior plain-clothes officer in the River Police. Special security section. Main operational area the Elbe river. Born 1945 in Karlmarxstadt, still known then by its old name Chemnitz. At the moment on special assignment tracking drug ring suspected of dealing in heroin. I've got the rest. Do I have to go on?'

`No. Being a reporter, you have a photographic memory. I was impressed with the way you remembered all relevant details first time. You have the papers for the job. And, like Falken, you've a job which calls for widespread movement. But again, not inside the border areas.' Toll switched on the interior car light for a few moments and glanced at Newman. 'You look amazingly different.'

`Where did you learn to tint hair?'

Newman had been surprised at the skill Toll had shown inside a remote farmhouse south of Lübeck. He had shampooed his hair a darker shade, had used a small brush to deal with Newman's thick eyebrows. This had made the greatest change. His eyebrows now appeared even thicker, which gave him a grim, scowling look. He had asked why Toll had not used dye.

`Takes too long, can easily look artificial. Tinting is more effective, more realistic. Just don't wash your hair,' Toll had warned. 'And if it rains keep your hat on. How are the eyes?'

Inside the farmhouse Toll had produced a wooden case lined with green baize and divided into many compartments holding a variety of coloured contact lenses. Eventually, Newman had found a pair which fitted reasonably comfortably. His eyes, normally blue, were now brown. This also increased the impression of aggressiveness in his appearance.

`OK. But I wouldn't like to wear them too long.'

`Three days in and then you're out. And that was part of the extra training I insisted on at Pullach, along with other things. To learn to tint hair myself. That way only I know about you — I don't like extra technicians sharing the knowledge.'

This was one aspect of Toll which Newman found reassuring. His lone wolf character, his insistence on controlling an operation entirely by himself. It cut down the risk of leaks.

`Coming in to Goslar now,' Toll remarked as he slowed down.

An ancient town, dramatic in the night. By the street lights the silhouettes of old half-timbered buildings, many sporting turrets at the corners, loomed. Like something out of a Hans Andersen fairytale. Romantic and sinister at the same time. The streets were deserted and in the distance Newman could faintly make out evergreen forest — great stands of firs rising up shoulder to shoulder. They were moving into the Harz mountains.

`Getting closer,' said Toll, who seemed to find it necessary to keep up a flow of conversation. 'Come midnight you cross over. How are the clothes?'

Back at the farmhouse Newman had changed into a complete set of fresh clothes, down to his underwear. There had been a selection of sizes, all from East Germany. Over his suit he wore a lightweight raincoat. Inside his wallet — also from the German Democratic Republic — was a large sum of DDR currency.

`Comfortable,' Newman said as they left Goslar behind and the car began climbing. 'Latest weather report?'

`A considerable drop in temperature in the Harz. Could be a mist. That will help — provided it arrives after you've made contact with Falken..

`And if it comes earlier?'

`That's unlikely.'

Which means, Newman interpreted, he hopes to God it doesn't. They had left behind all signs of human habitation as they went on climbing between dark walls of solid fir forest. He could smell the aroma of pine coming in through the window and then the headlights played over a large copse of pine trees. Toll switched off the headlights, slowed even more, relying on only sidelights.

`Very close now,' he said. 'Don't forget the photos of yourself concealed in the soles of your shoes.'

`I asked you before — why do I need them?'

`And I told you,' Toll snapped. 'I don't know. Falken asked for them. Bloody well ask him when you meet.'

The temperature was dropping. Traces of condensation appeared on the windscreen and Toll switched on the wipers. The only sounds now were the purr of the engine, the whip-whap of the wipers. They hadn't passed another vehicle in over half an hour but the curving road had an excellent surface.

`How did you obtain my photos?' Newman asked. 'Like passport pictures. Blurred to hell...'

`Taken secretly by yours truly when you sat at one of the tables in front of the Jensen. I looked a little different myself when I snapped you. The blurring is deliberate. They were taken before we altered your appearance. I foresaw problems if the likeness was too good. I developed and printed myself. Another bit of training I requested at Pullach. Half those idiots back there are bloody amateurs. All senior personnel should be able to do what I can.'

It wasn't said in an arrogant way, Newman noted. A simple remark expressing a conviction. Again Toll's stock rose. His one weakness seemed to be impetuosity. This mad rush to the border. At such short notice. But maybe it had advantages. The least possible time for a mistake, a leak, a warning to the East.

`We walk the rest of the way,' Toll said. 'You won't mind? You won't have to.'

Newman sensed the suppressed tension in Toll as he stopped the car, turned off the sidelights and got out. He locked the doors and they moved uphill on foot. A heavy, menacing silence fell, the forest closed on them. Their rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the road. They moved like ghosts through the night. Newman checked his watch. The illuminated hands registered five minutes to midnight.

Inside the empty compartment of the train slowing to enter the Hauptbahnhof at Hamburg Kurt Franck checked his own watch. Almost midnight. He felt down the inside of his left sock. The broad-bladed hunting knife was safely tucked inside the sheath strapped to his leg. It was the only weapon he always carried.

The train stopped and he jumped on to the platform. Walking rapidly he climbed the staircase, checking over his shoulder. He half-ran over the bridge and hauled open the door of the phone booth. He wasted half a minute detaching the backpack so the door would close properly. Then he started dialling Martin Vollmer's number. His report would be rushed through to Markus Wolf. Including his fresh sighting of Robert Newman at the Movenpick.

Twenty-Two

Tweed sat facing Diana in a booth inside his favourite restaurant near Walton Street, South Ken. The service was discreet and efficient, the atmosphere intimate, the food among the best in London.

Tweed had once heard the proprietor remark in his upper crust voice, 'I set out to found a place where discriminating customers would appreciate good food at modest prices.. A bit poncey, but he'd achieved his object.

`Who are these people we are going to visit?' Diana asked. `And this pheasant is delicious.'

`They do it rather well here. Who are we going to visit? Four different men, one of whom may be involved in a serious kidnapping case. I've explained the type of insurance General and Cumbria specialize in.'

'But why do you want me with you?'

`Because I have faith in feminine intuition. I know these people well. You'll look at them with a fresh eye. I want your impressions of them.'

`Sounds rather exciting...'

`We'll have to be careful,' Tweed warned.

I'll be frightfully careful. I suppose I do know a bit about men by now,' she said reflectively and sipped her Chablis. `Who am I supposed to be?'

A shrewd question, Tweed thought. 'I was just coming to that,' he said. 'You are an old friend of mine, over here on a visit from New York. Can you fake that? None of the four concerned have been to the States. They spend most of their business hours in Europe.'

`I have been to New York once, as I told you at Travemünde, but it was a long time ago. Can I fake it? I know I can. I'll just babble on, speaking a lot and really saying nothing. Haven't you noticed? Most people do that. It's rather like a game — I think I'm going to enjoy this. Who do we meet first?'

`Tomorrow we travel down into the country to meet Harry Masterson.' He looked up from his pheasant as he spoke the name to see her reaction. She stared back at him over the rim of her glass, her pale blue eyes steady behind her long lashes. 'He lives in Sussex in a typical old thatched cottage.'

`He's married?' she enquired.

`Divorced. He likes women and is very lively. Says the most outrageous things to see how you react..

`Sounds fun. I'll play up to him a bit. Maybe he'll talk to me about himself. That type often does. Their favourite subject.'

`You're a cynic,' he teased.

`Just a realist. I'll tell you afterwards what I think of him. Doesn't sound like a villain.'

`This villain is dangerous because he's so clever at concealing his real character.'

`I'll get under his skin,' she said confidently. 'It will be lovely travelling round with you, Tweed. That crowd back at the marina can be such a crashing bore.' She raised her glass again. `Here's to my spotting the odd man out …'

Tweed escorted Diana back to Newman's flat, refused her invitation to join her in a nightcap, used the waiting cab to take him on to Park Crescent. Monica was waiting for him when he entered his office.

`I kept on phoning Peter Toll at Pullach as you suggested,' she informed him. 'Three times at spaced-out intervals to keep up the pressure. He's still away.'

`I don't like it.' Tweed walked across to the wall-map he had put up earlier in the day, a map showing the whole of Northern Europe, including West and East Germany, the Baltic and Scandinavia.

`Harry Butler is still at Heathrow with that German, Walther Pröhl, the BND man who looks like Bob Newman,' she reminded him. 'Harry has reported in. First he starved Pröhl, who was famished. Gave him only strong black coffee to drink, which made PrOhl edgy. No new data from him. Then Harry had a meal sent in and Pröhl devoured everything, mopping up the gravy with his bread. That should have softened him up. Still nothing fresh. Harry says it looks as though he doesn't know anything more. What do you think Toll is up to?'

`Well, he's up to something.' Tweed turned away from studying the border between West Germany and The Zone. 'He sends a man who looks like Newman to Heathrow — which means what he is involved in concerns Newman. Pröhl has a return ticket to Hamburg and waits at the airport for the next flight back. Toll, therefore, was trying to convince someone Newman had left the Federal Republic. That someone, I'm pretty sure, is Markus Wolf, who probably has a man inside Hamburg Airport — someone who can check the passenger manifests.'

`I also called Samuel Portman, Paula Grey's private detective. You have an appointment with him tomorrow. His office at ten in the morning. He thinks you're a potential client. Is there something funny about Paula checking on her husband?'

`That,' Tweed told her, 'is what I'm going to find out. Lord, it must be late...'

`Nearly midnight,' Monica replied, glancing at her watch.

There was no wind, no sound, no light. The silence, the black fir forest, the dark sky were oppressive. Only seconds earlier the frontier zone ahead of Newman and Toll had been a blaze of lights from the distant watchtowers, beams of light moving slowly, like sinister eyes probing the forbidden area, searchlights from each individual tower. Toll had handed Newman night-glasses which he had raised to his eyes, focusing them on the watchtower immediately in front of them, seen through an avenue of grass and shrubs cut through the forest.

The watchtower was a concrete vertical column supporting a round cabin at the summit, a cabin with large windows and a shallow roof. The lenses brought the top of the tower so close Newman felt he could reach out and put a hand inside the open window.

Three men inside. One standing by a swivel-mounted machine-gun. A second operating his searchlight. The third fiddling with something which looked like a console equipped with switches. A beam swept slowly along the thirty-foot high wire fence which rose up about ten yards back from where they stood. At this point a gate was let into the fence.

`You go through the gate,' Toll whispered.

`I know.'

Newman, his hands clammy round the binoculars, studied the lie of the land beyond the gate. Tufts of grass. Stunted shrubs of gorse. Not cleared in the same ruthless way he had seen at other parts of the seven hundred-mile Iron Curtain stretching from the Baltic to Hungary, far to the south.