The Janus Man (41 page)

`There are eight of them, you said,' he warned. 'They'll be armed. Our only hope is to hide...'

`If we get there in time,' she reminded him, staring again fixedly through the windscreen.

And if the damned camper will go under that bridge, Newman thought. And if the bridge is wide enough to conceal us so neither end of this bloody great thing doesn't stick out in full view.

The camper jounced, wobbled, rocked as Newman kept his foot down hard on the accelerator. The arched bridge seemed an incredibly long way off. It crawled towards them. Beyond the bridge the sky was black as battalions of storm clouds massed. The heat inside the cab was appalling. They were partitioned off from the main part of the camper by a flimsy door, presumably to give privacy when people slept while the camper was driven through the night.

Newman's hands were sticky on the wheel. The left front tyre hit an obstacle. The wheel slipped out of his grip. He fought to control it as the camper swerved towards the embankment. Just in time he swung it back on course. He wiped each hand separately on his trousers as Gerda glanced at him.

`One of those bloody rocks. Must have rolled down on to the track. I could do without a repeat performance.'

`You'll make it...'

`We have to.'

His eyes were glued to the stone balustrade at the top of the bridge, the point where some policeman in one of those two cars would glance over the parapet and see the camper. Unless they could get under that bridge first. He was gambling with dice he couldn't see. The cars had been moving fast.

He risked a shade more speed. The moment he'd applied the extra pressure the wheels met more solid sleepers. His backside was lifted clear off the seat. Gerda's shoulder bumped against his. She apologized, still staring forward. Would they never reach the goddamn thing?

A grey veil of rain was slanting down beyond the bridge. Thunderheads were building up. Maybe that was why it was so boiling hot inside the cab. They were close enough now for Newman to see the parapet was no higher than an average man's thighs. In the old days — when the trains still ran — schoolboys must have leant their elbows on that parapet, watching a train pass beneath them. No sign of the two cars crossing. Yet. They had to arrive at any second. There'd be no escape from the gulch. The Vopos would hold the high ground.

He rammed his foot down further. One final spurt. They couldn't lose now Yes they could. The arch looked too low to permit passage for the camper. It was going to be a matter of inches. Maybe he'd take the roof off. Through his open window he thought he could hear sirens. On a lonely country road? Yes, because it would wind. Sirens wailing to warn any traffic concealed round a bend. Definitely sirens.

`Push the door open!' he told Gerda.

She reached behind her, pushed the door back, held it open. `Hold tight, Falken! Emergency stop!'

He jammed on the brakes, nearly catapulted himself through the windscreen. They were under the bridge. Suddenly it was dark. Out of the blazing sunlight. He pushed Gerda's shoulder.

`Jump out! Check the front. Make sure it's under the arch. I'll check the back...'

As she slipped out he was running back the full length of the camper. Falken had both arms stretched out, holding on to the end of the couch, to the back. His expression was wary as Newman rushed past him. He turned the handle of the rear door, leapt down on to the step, on to the track, looking up.

The rear end of the camper was at least three feet inside the overhang of the crumbling stone arch. He ran to one side and between the camper and the curved wall. Gerda ran from the other direction towards him. God, it was sticking out at the front. She was panting as she reached him.

`It's well inside at the front. How's the back?'

`Well inside. Listen...'

The sirens had stopped. They could hear the cars coming, slowing down. To take the hump-backed bridge slowly? Newman looked up at the vaulted arch. The cars reached the bridge, stopped. Engines switched off. They had parked above them.

Thirty-Eight

`A Chaika, you said. Under the highway complex? Yes,' Wolf agreed, speaking on the phone, 'tell your men to wait, watch for their return. They should keep well out of sight.'

He put down the receiver, stood up and walked to the wall map, talking to Lysenko as he inserted a fresh pin, locating the road complex.

`I understand from Balkan in London that Tweed often adopts the same method — uses a wall map, marks incidents with pins. In some ways he and I are alike. Strange...'

`And do you mind telling me what has happened?' Lysenko enquired.

`Remember my man, Hecht, stopped three people in a car on a country road here? A Chaika. A patrol has just found a Chaika empty underneath the road complex here. They are still heading for Leipzig — observe the route the pins follow.'

`Search the surrounding countryside?' Lysenko suggested..

`No, that might frighten them off. The key was left in the ignition. I think they will be coming back — if it is the same trio.'

`Oh, I understand now.' Lysenko smirked. 'Two men and also an attractive girl, Hecht told you. I know that area — there are rye fields everywhere. We can imagine what they are doing, can't we?' He smiled lecherously. 'One girl with two men — she must be lively.'

Wolf did not smile. An austere man, he did not appreciate the dirty mind Lysenko was displaying, revelling in his vision of what was taking place. And so odd, he thought as he returned to his desk. The Russian had a brilliant mind for espionage. Yet where sex was concerned he was a common lecher.

`I am putting more men on the streets of Leipzig,' he decided. 'Everyone possible will have their identities thoroughly checked. If there is something wrong with those three suspects they will walk into a trap.'

`What are you basing your suspicions on?'

`The continued disappearance of Schneider of the Border Police. The fact that his farm truck was discovered in that hollow by the highway. I think he has been killed. And now I must check on the imminent movement of those armaments from Skoda in Czechoslovakia bound for Rostock and shipment to Cuba.'

Newman pressed himself against the stone wall of the bridge. Behind him Gerda did the same thing, holding the Uzi. Down in the quiet of the gulch they could hear voices above them. Some of the Vopos had left their vehicles to stretch their legs.

`Good place for a pee,' a voice suggested. 'I'll clamber down under the bridge in case someone comes along...'

`Think I'll join you.' A second voice.

Newman glanced at Gerda, then froze. He could hear scrambling feet on the rocky, weed-strewn slope by the side of the bridge. A small rock came loose, rolled down and settled in the middle of the track. More loose stones followed it. He heard a curse.

`Let's relieve ourselves here, Günter. You'll break your bloody leg. There are some big rocks under this mess.'

There was the faint sound of water gushing against the wall of the bridge. Silence for a few seconds. Followed by the receding scramble of feet carefully picking their way back up the bank. Newman glanced at Gerda, who shook her head with relief.

Now there were voices talking above them, the two men leaning on the parapet as far as he could tell. They went on for several minutes before the lighted cigarette stub dropped just beyond the archway. It landed amid a clump of tinder-dry grass. There had been no rain for weeks from the and state of the parched gulch. The clump began to smoulder, ignited.

`Günter, you stupid sod, you've started a fire. Better get down there and put it out. There have been enough warnings on TV...'

Newman knew he had seconds to decide. Was someone still looking down over the parapet? He pointed to the clump for Gerda's benefit. Moving carefully, watching where he put his feet, he peered out from under the arch, looking up, sideways. No one. He put his foot firmly on the burning grass, pressed down, held his foot there, removed it, slid back under the arch. He waited, sweat streaming down his forehead.

`Hey, Gunter! Don't bother. It's gone out. Just watch it in future...'

A clap of thunder like the boom of a siege gun muffled the rest of his sentence. It was suddenly very dark. Large spots of rain began falling. The cloudburst came without warning. Rain hammered down into the gulch, turned to hail. Doors slammed above them. Hailstones the size of large peas came down. They heard them pounding the roofs of the two cars parked on the bridge. Then solid sheets of rain. Newman retreated further away from the arch, alongside the camper. The sound of car engines starting up, driving off.

`Gerda, I want a word with Falken. Do you mind staying for a few minutes. It needs someone outside to hear another car coming.'

`Go talk with Falken.'

Newman climbed into the cab, walked into the living quarters. He sat opposite Falken, told him quickly what had happened. Through the rear windows he would see the rain falling, blotting out his view down the gulch after a few yards.

`Falken, a word about this Dr Berlin business. All right, he's a fake. The Piper woman convinced me. But what is he really up to? Why take all this trouble to establish him in the West? I have a friend in the British SIS. High up. And he needs to know all you can give me.'

`We think he's Balkan, the code-name for the controller of the vast Soviet spy network in the Federal Republic. When I say Soviet, I mean by proxy. Markus Wolf is his immediate controller, but the Russians pull the strings.'

`And how on earth do you know all this?'

The scepticism was obvious in Newman's tone. Falken hesitated, eased his leg into a more comfortable position along the couch. Beyond the rear windows the rain had become a solid wall of water pounding down.

`My friend simply won't believe you,' Newman pressed. 'Not without background details. Would you? In his place?'

`No. This is highly confidential. Somewhere in the DDR I know a senior officer in Intelligence. He wants to clear out to the West when his father dies. The father is eighty-nine. He'll need my help to cross the border. He's building up his credit balance with me by passing on information. He heard about Balkan. By accident. Is that enough for your friend? It has to be.'

`That will do nicely...'

`I was going to tell you about Balkan later — just before I left you with Gerda. But not my source.' Falken smiled. `You reporters are very persuasive chaps. You have to be, I suppose.'

`And when do I start the journey along the escape route? Soon, I hope. For your sake as well as mine. You can do without having me on your back. I reckon our luck is due to run out pretty soon now...'

He stopped speaking as Gerda pushed open the door separating the cab from the living area. She squelched in her shoes. Taking them off, she took out a fresh pair from a cupboard, used a cloth to partially dry her feet before putting them on.

`You'd better come and see what's happening, Emil. I think we have trouble.'

Falken heaved himself up on one elbow, opened the flap of one of the cupboards above the couch. Newman asked him what he was looking for.

`Walking stick. I'm coming with you...'

Newman found the stick, a heavy briar with a curved handle. Falken took it from him, planted his legs on the floor and stood up. He grinned as he tested his damaged ankle.

`That's better. Now Gerda has bandaged the ankle I have support. Let's see what's wrong.'

Newman followed Gerda beyond the flap door, holding it open for Falken, and stared through the windscreen. The gulch had turned into a river, inundating the track. Water sluiced down the banks, the level was rising as they watched it. Weeds torn away by the force of the deluge floated on the surface. The curtain of rain reduced visibility to only a few yards.

`Is this camper amphibious?' Newman asked grimly.

`I wonder whether we can make it,' Falken mused aloud. `The camper has a high chassis. Even so. The drains, the soakaways have got blocked over the years.'

`I say we start now,' Newman said. 'It can only get worse.'

`We were just going to eat,' Gerda protested. 'I'm hungry.'

`Always eat, sleep and pee when you can. The first two will have to wait. I suggest we deal with the third while we're still under the arch..

`There's an elsan lavatory at the back,' Gerda reminded him.

`We may want to leave no trace that we've occupied this vehicle,' Falken said as he opened a door. 'No, Emil, don't help me. I must learn to get as mobile as I can. Gerda, get out the other side of the camper.'

Newman stood alongside Falken as they relieved themselves. The German went on talking, his stick hooked over one arm. The noise of the rain was like flails beating the ground. Both men stood on a stone ledge projecting from the stonework, just above the water level.

`You drive, of course,' Falken said. `Gerda can feed you — so we accomplish two tasks at the same time. The danger is the water will flood the engine...'

`I know. I've had to cope with that before.' He glanced beyond the arch. 'The one advantage is we're hardly likely to be seen while this lasts.'

`Especially from the air.'

`The air?'

`A traffic helicopter. One of Wolf's machines. They'll all be grounded. This rain may save us.'

Newman drove out from under the arch cautiously. He'd had to switch the ignition on six times before the engine started. Not a good omen. The windscreen wipers gave him no vision. They'd lost the battle with the downpour before they started swishing.

He drove slowly beyond the bridge, just able to see the banks on either side, steering a course midway between them. It was pure hell. Then he felt the track descending down an incline.

Jesus! They were moving into deeper water. The rain hammered the roof above the cab. Rivulets of water poured down the windscreen. He bumped over something unyielding. Another of those bloody sleepers. Just so long as he didn't hit another rock. The speedometer registered 10 kph. The engine felt sluggish. He leaned forward, hardly able to believe his eyes. Ahead of the camper a wave was travelling over the surface away from him, a wave built up by the high bumper of the vehicle. God, no wonder the engine was protesting. Gerda sat in the passenger seat beside him, holding a sandwich made of rye bread and cheese. He was ferociously hungry. He shook his head. 'Not now, thanks. I need both hands for the wheel.'