The Janus Man (32 page)

Munzel was feeling pleased with himself. He had provided himself with good cover. Just by keeping his eyes open, by taking the opportunity when it presented itself. Now he felt safe. In Lübeck. In Travemünde. He thought about the police. Up yours!

Boarding the train at Puttgarden, he had wandered slowly along the corridor, looking for an empty compartment. He had passed one with only a girl inside when the idea came to him. From her way of dressing he could tell she was German. And a brunette. Not a blonde.

As he'd glanced in she'd looked up. She'd more than looked — she'd held his stare, then looked slowly away. One knapsack on the rack above her pretty head. He went back, opened the door.

`Do you mind if I sit in here?' he had asked at his most polite, giving her an engaging smile.

`Please do. I'm only going to Lübeck. Then you can have the compartment to yourself.'

'But I'm going to Lübeck too...'

Heaving his backpack on to a corridor seat, he'd sat opposite her. He put himself out to be amusing, to make her laugh. She liked the look of him, he could tell.

`I'm a trainee for hotel management at a place in Hamburg,' she told him. 'I've just come down from Copenhagen. It is so nice there — but the last week I thought I'd like some German food...'

She was small and slim with a good figure and a fine pair of legs. She wore jeans and a flowered blouse. A red windcheater lay on the seat beside her.

Ten minutes before they reached Lübeck he had persuaded her to team up with him. She had laid down conditions. A room of her own. Naturally, he had agreed. His mind churned. That presented a problem when he registered at a hotel. He wanted the best possible cover, re-entering Lübeck. Then he had his brainwave.

Alighting at the Hauptbahnhof, he asked Lydia Fischer if she would watch his backpack while he phoned his parents. There were no police in the entrance hall as he went inside a booth and dialled Martin Vollmer's number. Vollmer immediately asked where he had been. 'I took a vacation,' Munzel snapped. Code terminology for going into hiding. 'Any news of Tweed?' he'd continued. 'I'm back in Lübeck.' Vollmer had said no, and would Munzel call in daily at noon?

Munzel chose the nearest hotel, the International, across the street from the station. Inside the reception hall he left Lydia with his backpack in a chair and walked to the reception counter. The night clerk looked sleepy and bored.

He registered as Mr and Mrs Claus Kramer, explained he had just caught a dose of the flu which he didn't want to pass on to his wife, so he booked two rooms — a double for himself, a single for his wife. When he'd got beyond the infectious stage they'd both occupy the double. The clerk showed no interest in his explanation and reached for two keys.

They had eaten in the hotel dining-room. The place wasn't cheap but Munzel had wads of money, mostly 100-DM notes. No travellers' cheques. After the meal Lydia had said she was tired and she had gone straight to bed. Munzel had a drink in the bar and went to bed himself.

Now, lying in bed, he couldn't sleep. He felt exhilarated, an arrogant pleasure in his own cleverness. About three weeks earlier clean-shaven Kurt Franck — with a trim haircut — had stayed at the Movenpick by himself. Who would associate the bearded man with the golden locks and the hiker's outfit with Franck? Especially as he had become a couple. Mr and Mrs Kramer — and staying at the International, a mere couple of hundred metres from the Movenpick further up the street? A nice bluff, he congratulated himself. Now all he had to do was phone Vollmer each day. Vollmer had told him they were confident Tweed would be coming back.

He stretched his long thick legs under the duvet, then sat up, swung his feet on to the floor and unstrapped the sheath containing the broad-bladed knife from his leg. This was what had been keeping him awake. He slipped the sheath with the knife inside under his pillow, stretched out again and was asleep in a few minutes.

Inside the room they shared at the Movenpick, Sue Templeton stood naked under the shower, shampooing her blonde hair. She bathed daily and revelled in the hot jets of water spiking her skin. They were stimulating her.

`Ted!' she called out. 'Fetch me a towel. I forgot it...'

`You'll forget your pantyhose one of these mornings.' Handing her the towel, he felt her grasp him by the forearm and just had time to slide off his dressing gown before she hauled him inside with her. 'Stupid cow,' he told her. 'But I could get to like it...'

`And who didn't want to report that killer to the police?' she teased him. 'I like that too..

`You don't know he's a killer. They just want to question him. Bet you wouldn't recognize him if you ever saw him a second time.'

`Oh, yes I would. Even if he'd grown a beard and wore a false moustache.'

`Stupid cow. Why would he grow his beard and stick on a false moustache?'

`I don't know. Men do funny things. You're doing a funny thing now.'

`Serves you right. You shouldn't have pulled me in here.'

`Vopos. People's Police,' Falken said as Newman stopped the car.

Jackets buttoned to the neck, breeches tucked inside leather jackboots, Sam Browne belts which dangled truncheons, holsters sheathing automatic pistols, Newman noted. He felt chilled to the bone — and not with the night air. A fat policeman swaggered towards them, saw Falken holding the goose and stared.

Falken lowered the window with his left hand. The policeman came close to the window and stared inside. Falken released his grip on the goose's neck.

`Papers!' snapped the policeman.

He reached out a pudgy hand. The goose's neck shot out of the window, its mouth open and pecked viciously. The policeman snatched his hand away, took two steps back. Falken coiled his arm round the neck, withdrew the goose inside the car. He smiled.

`Take them out of my left breast pocket,' he invited. 'You can see I can't risk trying to get them.'

`What the hell is it? Why are you carrying that about this time in the morning?'

`Conservation Service. This is a rare grey lag. Escaped from one of my sanctuaries. You can see the ring on its leg. The Minister was very disturbed when he heard we'd lost it. I thought I knew where I might find it. I got lucky. Go on — my left breast pocket...'

The policeman wandered round the front of the car. Behind his back some of the half-a-dozen police were grinning One chuckled aloud. The fat Vopo turned round, glared at them, hoisted his Sam Browne belt higher and unbuttoned the holster flap. He came up on Newman's side.

`Papers,' he snapped again.

`Border Police. Special assignment unit. And we're in a hurry.' He held the folder in his right hand inside the car. The Vopo extended his left hand cautiously. The goose's neck whipped like a cobra past Newman and pecked the Vopo's hand. He yelped, stared at the hand and tucked it under his right armpit. His plump face was suffused with fury. His right hand dropped to his holster, grasped the butt of the automatic.

`I'll shoot that fucking bird...'

Falken's manner changed as he again coiled his arm round the goose's neck. His voice was commanding, hectoring. `Do that and say goodbye to your pension. The Minister can with equanimity replace you — replacing a grey lag is a different matter. I told you! This fowl — it's not a bird — is a very rare specimen. And I warned you. And you'd better get that hand attended to — it could turn septic.'

`Also,' Newman began, 'you're holding me up.' He checked his watch. 'Almost five minutes so far. Do you think I'd be out this time of night if my mission wasn't urgent? Any more delay and I'll take your name, report you. You've seen my folder, you brainless clot!'

The other policemen stood close by, arms folded, grinning. The fat Vopo hesitated. Newman switched on the ignition and waited, his expression bleak. He looked at his watch again, stared at the Vopo.

`These people have been helping me,' he ranted on. 'They know the district. So I help them. Which delayed me. Any more delay and I miss my rendezvous...'

The Vopo swore to himself, heard the laughter behind him, swung round in a fury. 'Let them through, you bastards. I want nothing more to do with this lot.'

The driver behind the wheel of the central car blocking the highway moved, leaving clear passage. Newman roared on through the gap, watching his rear view mirror. One of the policemen was walking towards the fat Vopo carrying something. A first aid kit, he guessed. His hands were slippery on the wheel and as he drove he wiped each hand on his trouser leg.

`Oh, thank God for that,' Gerda called out from the back. `I am trembling all over. Nice grey lag.'

`Camouflage. I told you,' Falken said. 'How far is it now to Radom's place?'

`About ten kilometres from here. Up a side turning to the right. I'll warn you as we approach it.'

`Step on it,' Falken advised Newman. 'Forget the limit. Risk it. Then if they have second thoughts and come after us we'll be off this highway. We'll get a little sleep at Radom's. Then in the morning it's Leipzig. And there we have to be careful.'

`What the blazes do you think we've had to be so far?' Newman responded and put his foot down.

The road-block they had left behind had been re-established, the three cars forming a barrier across the highway. The fat Vopo's injured hand had been sterilized and bandaged by one of his men.

`There, Gustav, now there is no danger of infection.'

`Thank you,' Gustav growled. 'Now take up your position.'

Gustav was fuming. His left hand looked as though he wore a small white boxing glove. And he was well aware that he was unpopular with his men, that they were secretly laughing at him.

He stood by the radio car, wondering whether he should report the incident. He was very reluctant to do so. That blasted goose had made him look such a fool. He could well imagine how they would react back at headquarters if the story of his mishap reached them. He'd be a laughing stock for weeks.

And he was fed up anyway. Like his men he had been got out of bed to carry out this screwy patrol. All of them were still half-asleep, tired and unenthusiastic as he was. The goose had given them something to joke about. Before they went off duty he'd warn them to keep their mouths shut — otherwise they'd find themselves doing a lot more night duty. He moved away from the radio car. No, he wouldn't send in any report.

`Gustav, another car is coming,' called out the Vopo who had attended to his hand.

From the same direction as the goose car. Gustav felt in his pocket with his right hand. His fingers closed round a wad of forged notes he'd taken off a shopkeeper. He watched the headlights come closer, slowing down. If this was nobody important, he'd plant the notes on him and 'find' them, then arrest the driver.
That
he would report — which would drive out of his men's heads the goose car incident. Releasing the notes, taking his hand out of his pocket, he adjusted his peaked cap. Gustav, member of the People's Police, protector of the proletariat, knew how to take care of himself.

   *

The Chaika was parked in the side road. Gerda had left Newman and Falken with the vehicle while she walked to the farm to warn Radom they were coming. She approached the heavy five-barred gate which was closed and the only entrance between a high hedge.

The first light of dawn was streaking the eastern sky, shafts of fiery and unseen sun. The honking started before she reached the gate despite the lightness of her tread. More and more honking murdered the quiet. She paused by the gate as the geese kept up their chorus. A stooped, wide-shouldered figure holding a shotgun appeared.

`Ulrich,' she called out, 'it's Gerda. That is you?'

`Who else would it be?' Radom replied in a deep voice. `Come in. The geese are penned up.'

Talken is waiting down the road. With a friend. A friend who has no name. We have a car, a Chaika.'

`Lousy Russian car. Bring them in. Drive the car into the yard close to the house. Hildegarde is up. You need food?'

'I think so. I will fetch them...'

The gate was open when Newman drove the car inside. In the dark a stooping figure closed the gate as soon as he had taken it into the yard. Gerda guided him to an old single-storey farmhouse with a roof angled like a ski-slide. Radom came up to the car, said something to Gerda so rapidly in German that Newman couldn't get the gist.

`Follow him. You have to drive round the back.'

Newman crawled after the stooped figure, hobbling along at a surprising pace. He passed an ancient and monster-sized farm tractor with a high seat. Radom led them round the back of the long farmhouse, along a track across a field and into a hollow surrounded with trees.

`You leave it here,' Gerda whispered.

It was the dark making her talk so softly. The honking of the geese ceased the moment he switched off the engine. In Falken's arms the grey lag was alert and watchful, switching its pink bill from side to side.

`He can sense the other geese,' Falken said as they alighted. `We sleep here until mid-morning,' he told Newman. 'We must be as fresh and alert as possible when we enter Leipzig.'

Inside the low-roofed farmhouse Newman blinked in the strong light. He was amazed to see that Radom had to be at least eighty years old, a powerfully-built man with a grizzled chin and sharp eyes. A slightly younger woman, dressed in a long apron with a mass of grey hair and hawk-like features stood cooking something which had a cheesy aroma on an old-fashioned stove. She was introduced as Hildegarde by Gerda while Radom disappeared back into the yard. A few moments later there was a grinding roar.

`What the devil is that?' Newman asked as Falken settled himself in a basket chair with the grey lag.

`Radom starting up the tractor. He will drive it over any of the wheel tracks the Chaika made. They will disappear. In case the Vopos come to search for us here. That horrible fat one may report our presence. He had a radio car.'

The room was very long, oblong in shape with a large wooden table in the centre, a table large enough to serve twenty people, a table with its surface scrubbed spotless. They were seated together by an open fireplace where birch logs burned and crackled. Hildegarde was cooking her cheese dish at the other end of the room, out of earshot.