The Janus Man (29 page)

`Who is she?' he asked Tweed once inside the kitchen. There was coffee bubbling in a percolator, a dish of pastries neatly arranged on a plate.

`Diana Chadwick. I told you. Good background. Speaks German fluently. I'm not sure yet..

The kitchen was little more than a galley. Tweed was reminded of the galley aboard the
Südwind
. He was standing close to Lindemann and a fresh aroma wafted into his nostrils, the aroma of peppermints. His host was sucking one.

`Was it wise to bring the Chadwick girl?' Lindemann asked.

`Why do you say that?'

`She doesn't know about Park Crescent?'

`No. Of course not. What is all this about, Erich?'

`I have seen her before. In Oslo.'

`When and where?' Tweed kept his voice down.

`I can't remember. I am simply sure it was her. That it was Oslo. Good strong coffee for you? What about Miss Chadwick?' `The same.'

Lindemann had turned away to fetch a pile of crockery from the other side of the kitchen. Tweed lifted up a cloth carelessly thrown on the worktop. It seemed out of place with the rest of the well-organized kitchen. Under the cloth was an opened green tube of peppermints. He dropped the cloth back over them. Why conceal the tube?

`We are ready.'

Lindemann had arranged the tray. Cups, saucers, highly- polished silver spoons, plates, the pastries. Tweed took a last glance at the row of knives suspended over the sink, hanging from a magnetic strip of metal. No chef's knife.

`Danish pastries,' Lindemann said, offering the plate to Diana. 'Very bad for the figure.'

Behind his back Tweed stared. Lindemann had never before joked with an attractive girl in his experience. His tall form stooped over Diana, almost deferentially. She looked up and gave him her warmest smile as she thanked him. Tweed was about to sit beside her again when Lindemann took his place.

`The host's privilege,' he said to Tweed. 'You'll find that arm chair adequate, I'm sure.'

`These pastries are delicious,' Diana enthused. She turned to face her host, her blue eyes half-closed. 'You get them from a local delicatessen?'

`Actually, I make them myself.' Lindemann looked pleased. `They are much better if you buy them from a shop in Copenhagen. Have you been there, Miss Chadwick?'

`Diana. Please. No, not so far. I would love to go there one day. You really are an excellent cook..

`Living alone, one learns to look after oneself...'

Tweed remained silent while they chatted. They finished off the pastries and Diana asked could she see his kitchen. Lindemann jumped up.

`Of course.' He turned to Tweed. 'Make yourself comfortable in my study. You know where it is.'

The moment they had disappeared inside the kitchen Tweed went over to the bookcase, checking the volumes. Histories of the Scandinavian countries. The great sagas of legend. Biographies. Napoleon. Bismarck. Bernadotte, Napoleon's general who became King of Sweden. Laurence Olivier. Amateur theatricals.

He left the bookcase, crossed the room and opened the door to the bathroom, locking it behind him. An old-fashioned roll-top bath. Above the wash-basin a wooden cupboard. He opened it. Two shelves. Shaving kit on the top one. Bottles on the lower shelf. He picked up one which was half-empty and examined the label.
Hair Tint. Sable Colourant
. He placed it back on the shelf exactly as he had found it, flushed the lavatory, unlocked the door and emerged as Diana walked out of the kitchen, handbag under her arm, followed by Lindemann.

`I really think we ought to go,' Tweed said. 'Just thought we'd call in on you, make sure you were enjoying your leave.'

`I'll be glad to get back to work. There are a dozen policies I ought to attend to personally.'

`Excuse me just a second,' Tweed remarked suddenly. 'I think I left my Dunhill pen in your study.'

He opened the door and pushed it half-closed. The tiny room was empty. On Lindemann's desk a pad he had been making notes on was upside down, a glass paperweight perched on top.

Tweed lifted the weight, turned over the pad. Covered in figures in Lindemann's small handwriting, figures which looked like salary computations for his staff in Copenhagen. He replaced the pad, put back the paperweight and walked back into the sitting-room. There was no one else in the place. He had half-expected to find a hidden visitor.

Lindemann took Diana's arm, led her to the front door. She thanked him for his hospitality and they left. Tweed heard the door close behind them as he climbed into the car.

`And what did you think of him?' he asked as Diana arranged her skirt.

'A barrel of laughs.'

`Which means you didn't like him? He's a reputation for no interest in women...'

`That you'd better revise.'

`Really? Why?'

He had started the car but he paused in surprise. She took out her ivory holder, inserted a cigarette.

`He likes blondes. That I do know. A woman can always tell. In fact, I'd say he's interested in all types of attractive women. Don't let him fool you.'

`I thought maybe it was just you...'

`I never flatter myself. Tweedy, a woman always knows. He is interested in the opposite sex. Period. Did you find anything?'

`Maybe.'

`You don't even trust Diana, do you?' Monica asked as Tweed settled himself behind his desk.

`Why do you say that?'

`It's obvious. You have Pete Nield following her. Where is she now? Back in Newman's flat?'

`After leaving Lindemann's place I did drop her there. She said she was going window-shopping at Harrods. Nield managed to find a parking slot further down the street when we arrived at the lodge. And my main purpose in never leaving her alone is to guard her. She could be a key witness.'

`Witness to what?'

`That I'm not sure of yet...'

`All right, go secretive on me. Hugh Grey will be at his Norfolk farmhouse tomorrow. He's leaving his Cheyne Walk flat this evening to drive out there. And Guy Dalby will be home in Woking.'

`Then I'll drive Diana to Norfolk tomorrow. Get her impression of Grey.'

`Is that really the only reason you're travelling round with her to see the sector chiefs?'

`What other reason could there be?' Tweed enquired. 'We must stick to the point.' He stood up, began strolling round the office. 'There are two main threads running through this grim investigation. Who is the Janus man — the person responsible for Fergusson's murder? Because only four people knew he was on his way to Hamburg. The four sector chiefs. One of them has to be Janus.'

`And the second thread?'

`Who is Dr Berlin?'

`They all seem to be absent from Europe at the same time, Monica remarked. 'I managed to contact Kuhlmann at Lübeck Süd, as you requested. After four calls. He confirmed that Dr Berlin has still not returned to Priwall Island. What's the matter?'

`Something you just said..

Tweed stood stock still, gazing through the heavy net curtains towards the trees in Regent's Park. They were in full foliage and the sun shone on them out of a clear blue sky. Tweed was not seeing any of this. His gaze was abstracted, like a man who has received a shock. He swung round.

`Read to me that report I dictated after my visit to Dr Generoso, the psychiatrist...'

`I typed it out. You can read it for yourself.'

`Read it aloud, woman. Please. I want to
hear
it.'

She extracted a folder from a drawer, took out a sheaf of typescript, began reading. Slowly. She'd had to do this before for him. He grasped it better listening.

' "A man leading a double life... One life here, the other on the continent... Now under great pressure... you propose to increase that pressure... you're treading on thin ice... Schizo... Kim Philby drank like a fish... a good example. The alcohol saved him. Release from all the tension he laboured under... murdering women at random... Very difficult to detect. The murderer might well appear perfectly normal most of the time... likely to be obsessive in some direction... Maybe excessively neat. Fussy about small things... an overweening self-confidence verging on arrogance... delight in fooling people... very like an actor, playing two roles... insufferable conceit, a feeling of great superiority over other human beings... Step up the pressure, you could step up the killings." And that is about it,' Monica concluded.

`I've been barking up the wrong tree!' Tweed snapped his fingers in his excitement. 'And something I repeated to you recently which Diana said was another pointer.'

`Really? Pointer in which direction?'

`Dr Berlin. Of course!'

Twenty-Seven

Through his field-glasses Falken watched the armoured car coming down the track off the highway. He held the lenses to his eyes for only a few seconds and then lowered the binoculars.

`I can see its wheels kicking up cinder off that track,' he commented. 'It's slithering all over the place.'

`If necessary it will slither down to the end of the slope and then drive on to here,' Gerda warned.

She ran out of the kitchen, followed by Falken. Newman stayed to one side of the window, watching through a patch of clear glass in the condensation. He didn't think they could fight the Army. And the retreat from the back of the cottage was across fields of ripening rye. They'd be spotted instantly.

He watched the ugly vehicle wrestling with the cinder track. Again he had gone ice-cold, as he had when they encountered the Schneider patrol back in the forest. Then he stiffened, his eyes narrowed. He waited a moment longer. To be sure.

`Come back here!' he shouted.

Gerda slipped into the room, holding the Uzi. Behind her Falken appeared, a Walther automatic pistol in his right hand. Newman gestured for them to keep away from the window.

`What is it?' Falken asked in a crisp voice.

`It's going away. They were simply using the track to turn the armoured car so they could go back the way they came. They must have lost their way...'

`I do believe you're right,' Falken responded, peering out of the window from the other side. 'It is illegal to make a U-turn. They were worried a staff car might come along if they tried it.'

Newman watched the car proceeding eastwards along the elevated highway. Gerda stood beside him, he heard her let out her breath. Newman showed her his moist palms and wiped them dry on the back of his trousers.

`Feel my heart, Mr Thorn,' she said. 'Go on, feel it.'

He hesitated, then placed his hand over her left breast. He held it there and she smiled up at him, a Mona Lisa smile. Falken grinned and shoved the Walther inside, his jacket pocket.

`Beating like a tom-tom,' she said. 'You feel it?'

'I feel it...'

She left the room again and Newman looked at Falken who still had a grin on his face. He came close to Newman, whispering the words.

`She likes you. If something happens to me, you do what she says. You obey her. Then you will be safe.'

`Nothing is going to happen to you.'

`In this game fate deals different cards. We just had a good card. Maybe the next one...' He broke off as Gerda returned and said the meal was ready. Newman left them to lay the table in the sitting-room. As he walked through it he noticed Gerda had put back the windcheater on the floor, presumably concealing the Uzi. From the canvas hold-all she had carried from the Chaika, Gerda produced black bread, cheese and some apples. He went outside to the back of the cottage to get some fresh air.

After they had eaten their simple meal and drunk black coffee, Falken took out the Border Police folder and the trimmed photo of Newman from the table drawer he had slipped them inside earlier.

`As I said, always assume the worst. We assume that Schneider reported the incident. So, they look for an impostor who carries a River Police folder...' He took the pot of glue out of the drawer and squeezed a very small amount in the centre of the back of the trimmed photo. Using his fingertips, he smeared the glue smoothly, removing any excess from the edges. He lifted the photo carefully, reversed it and placed it exactly inside the blank ruled rectangle in the new folder.

`Now we wait until it is dry, then we make it official.' He took a rubber stamp from his pocket together with an inking pad.

`Once I stamp the photograph with the official seal you are in business. The Border Police,' he repeated. 'Again in plain clothes, again on special assignment...'

`Tracking drug dealers again?'

`That would be excellent. Oddly enough, there has been much talk on our grapevine — which extends not only all over the DDR, but also beyond its frontiers to the East. Talk of the movement of a huge consignment of heroin. That you don't mention.'

`When we are on the move again you expect us to be stopped?'

`Inevitably. There are checkpoints everywhere. Constant patrols. And, I am a magician. I believe I told you before. You are no longer Albert Thorn. You have become Emil Clasen. Do not forget. And Gerda knows.'

`What about my River Police folder?'

`That I destroy. Burn to ashes in that fire...'

`That fire worries me,' Newman remarked, 'if you don't mind my saying so. The smoke from the chimney shows someone is here. I thought of that when I was watching the armoured car.'

Falken leaned forward and squeezed Newman's arm. 'I could use you in Group Five. But we have two choices — freeze to death or risk the fire. After all, Norbert has a fire all the time he is here. It is cold and damp by the canal. And no one can remember when Norbert is supposed to be here or back at his flat.'

`You seem to have thought of everything.'

`I wonder what I have not thought of? That is what always is haunting me.'

Karl Schneider drove back slowly along the road, his eyes switching from left to right and back again. Dressed in farmer's clothes, he wore a shabby peaked cap and under his left armpit he felt the bulge of the 9-mm Walther tucked snugly inside its shoulder holster.

Schneider was driving a farm truck carrying a load of hay in the open back. He had been driving for two hours and the sun was high in a clear blue sky. The country fields spread out on either side and he felt he was back in the old days. Thcy had been good times. Often a girl to take behind a hedge. They knew a thing or two, those country girls. That was before he had met Alma.

His expression grimaced at the thought. She was the one who had prodded him into joining the Border Police. 'You ought to better yourself, serve the State...' Screw the State. She was ambitious was Alma. For herself. Nagging cow.

He forced her out of his mind. Concentrate on the job. The reference to promotion was uppermost in Schneider's mind. If he had more money he'd get himself a girl on the side. Some nice willing girl to take his mind off Alma. He'd show her — where ambition led. To an intimate place.

He had driven over the elevated highway once without taking any notice of the lock-keeper's cottage, his attention distracted by a man on a motor-bike who overtook him. Not by the man actually. By the girl who rode pillion behind, trying to hold down her skirt which kept flying up, exposing a pair of slim legs. Stupid tart, wearing a skirt on a pillion. If he'd been the motor-bike rider he'd have shown her how stupid she was.

He came to the point where he'd completed his run, then turned back. This time when he approached the elevated section he was on the side of the highway nearest the cottage. He saw a curl of smoke rising from the chimney. Pretty warm day for a fire. Then he remembered the canal alongside the tumbledown building. That place would always be damp.

His eyes roved over the cottage, took in the little shed near the back. That would be the outside lavatory. In the middle of the field of rye rose a large canvas-covered hump. He slowed down, studying it curiously. The front of a farm tractor protruded from the open end of the huge sheet of canvas. He frowned, slowed further. No farm tractor was as big as that — as long as that.

Slyly, he kept on driving until he was well past the cottage. He came to where a cinder track led down into a hollow. At the rear of the hollow was a pile of hay. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, saw the highway was deserted, turned down into the hollow and pulled up. Should he radio Leipzig? No. He'd check the cottage first: if he found the fugitives the credit would be his.

Schneider approached the rear of the covered tractor by a devious route, circling round the back where the ground sloped down, out of sight of the cottage. About a hundred metres from the hump he dropped to his knees and crawled slowly through the rye, now high enough to hide him completely.

Reaching the back of the hump, he stood up after listening for several minutes. He lifted the canvas and stared at the rear end of a Chaika. Something the man with glasses in Leipzig had said came back to him. Three bicycles found hidden beneath some undergrowth.

His mind worked slowly. They'd have needed other transport. They'd never have walked the long distance to the nearest village. They'd have needed a car. Maybe a Chaika?

The peasant cunning of Schneider, the foxy character Markus Wolf had immediately observed, told him he was on to something. He'd watch the cottage before he made a move. He had the high-powered field-glasses in his jacket pocket they'd given him in Room 78.

He found a small hillock surrounded with rye, lay down on it and focused his glasses on the tiny shed which was the lavatory. Whoever was inside had to come out to relieve themselves. That way he'd find out how many of them there were — who they were. It was only mid-afternoon. Plenty of time before dark.

An hour later a man walked out of the cottage and headed for the lavatory shed. Schneider focused his glasses. Thorn! Albert Thorn! That bastard River Police officer. And through the glasses he did look rather like the man whose picture he'd been shown on a poster in Leipzig.

Schneider rested the glasses on the ground, still lying full length amid the rye. Thorn had gone inside the shed, shut the door. Schneider hauled at the butt of the Walther and let go as his sweaty hand slipped. Cursing, he dragged a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped both hands.

Grasping the Walther again, he heaved it clear of the holster. Holding the weapon in his right hand, he flicked up the safety catch with his left thumb. The gun was ready to fire. He laid it beside the glasses which he raised again to his eyes.

Ten minutes later he watched a second, taller man emerge, walk to the shed. Looked like the swine who'd been with Thorn, the man who hadn't said a word. He was sure it was him. Schneider sweated some more, this time with excitement. He'd wait until dusk. Then he'd move in on them.

Newman and Gerda sat round the table in the living-room. It was Gerda's turn to watch the road and she was in the kitchen. She had made more coffee and the two men drank and talked.

`This witness you told me about,' Newman said. 'Can you tell me anything more about him?'

`It's a her. She was loyal to the regime until her son kicked over the traces. Some misdemeanour, insulting a Vopo when he was the worse for drink. They put him in a labour battalion. She's hated their guts ever since. She's sixty-something. I want you to hear her story from her own lips.'

`About Dr Berlin?'

`About Berlin, yes.'

`Afterwards I go back over the border past that watchtower?'

`You go back over the border, yes.' Falken checked the time. `Nearly dusk. Your turn to take over from Gerda. Stay on watch too long and your concentration goes. Like those people at airports who check the X-ray machines. Take your coffee with you.'

Newman walked into the kitchen, put down his cup of coffee on the iron range. Gerda was stifling a yawn as she stood by the window. It was almost dark inside the cramped kitchen.

`Your turn?' she asked and gave him a warm smile, handing the glasses over.

`Treacherous light this,' he said as he moved to the window. 'You imagine you see things.'

`So, stay alert. Don't let your imagination wander.'

She gave him a friendly punch on the forearm and disappeared into the living-room. He heard her say she was going out to the lavatory. There was a slam as the heavy front door closed. Then a sudden silence.

In the blue dusk he could see the headlights of cars moving along the highway. People going home from work. More traffic than there had been since they'd arrived. In the west the invisible sun had sunk behind a ridge of the distant Harz. Behind the ridge, sharp as a knife edge, the world seemed to be on fire.

He raised the glasses to his eyes, slowly scanned the fields between the highway and the cottage. The rye crop stood still in the windless evening. The blips of light continued moving along the highway, nearly all in an easterly direction, towards Halle. Fewer of them now. Rush hour was fading.

`Emil,' Falken called out from the next room, using Newman's new name, 'everything quiet?'

`Not a sign of life — except cars on the highway..

`Come in here for a minute then. Something you need to know.'

Newman found the German sitting at the table, studying the new Border Police folder. He had already burnt the River Police document. Albert Thorn had ceased to exist, gone up in flames. Newman sat down. Behind him he heard Gerda unlocking the door, returning from the lavatory.

`Keep your hands on the table! Move and I'll blow your heads off...'

Newman stared at the open doorway where Gerda stood, key in her left hand, her face pale, grim. Behind her stood a man in farming clothes, peaked cap pulled down over his low forehead. For a moment he had difficulty in recognizing Karl Schneider. The German had no difficulty at all.

`Ah! Mr Albert Thorn! Of the River Police? And Mr What's-'is-Name. Lay your bloody hands flat on the table! Both of you! Lean forward! You want a bullet in the guts?'

Gerda still stood frozen, as though with fright. Schneider used his left hand to give her a violent shove in the back. She nearly fell, but recovered her balance and turned to face him. His gun still covered Newman and Falken.

`Make the wrong move and they get it,' he told her. 'A third bullet for you, my pretty one...'

He stepped back, used his left elbow to slam the door closed, then stepped forward again. Schneider was pleased with himself. It showed in the triumphant sneering grin on his pasty face. He had crawled through the rye patiently until he reached the rear of the shed which served as a lavatory. Now he knew there were only three of them. The girl didn't count. Two of them. He'd waited until she had left the shed, walked the few paces to the front door, inserted the key and opened it. Then he had rushed forward behind her. They'd be proud of him in Leipzig. He would get his promotion. He could smell treason inside this cottage.

Schneider flexed his left hand as the circulation returned. It had been cold out there in the dusk. Inside the cottage it was warm. He felt the warmth reacting on his chilled face, on both hands. They'd forgotten to provide gloves. But they'd hardly have foreseen this situation, the vigil he had kept on the hillock.

`Go and sit down at the table, you stupid cow,' he ordered Gerda. 'You've had your piss,' he added coarsely.

She released the key. It clanged on the flagstone floor. His eyes dropped, looked up quickly. 'Thought you could distract me, you fornicating bitch? I suppose they've both had some?'

He leered, then his eyes glanced at the open folder in front of Falken on the table. Newman sighed inwardly. If Schneider needed any proof of their guilt — and there had been a chance they could have talked their way out of the trap — the folder had ruined it. Gerda, still standing, spoke in a mocking tone.

`You want us to think you did all this by yourself? Where is the rest of your patrol?'

`By myself? Yes! No one else. Just me. I found you! By driving along the roads. By keeping my eyes open. You think you can fool a farmer by covering a tractor which has to be as big as a Russian tank?'

`I don't believe it,' Gerda jeered. 'A squalid little lout of a man like you? A peasant...'

Schneider levelled the gun midway between Newman and Falken with his right hand. His left hand bunched into a fist. He hit her a savage blow in the face. At the last moment she moved her head slightly, then fell back under the impact. She sprawled on the floor, sobbing.

There was a snap. Falken had closed the folder. Schneider eyed the folder. 'Open that, you bastard,' he ordered. 'I want to see it — see the photograph...'

A rattle of gunfire reverberated. From Schneider's breastbone downwards a row of bright red medallions seemed to sprout, as though stitched to his thin coarse jacket. Schneider was hurled back against the door as if pushed by a giant hand. His eyes bulged with astonishment. Newman felt himself jump with shock. The red splotches began to coalesce into one long streak as he slid down the door, sat on the floor, legs sprawled across the floor.