The Janus Man

Twenty-One

In response to Newman's call from Room 104 at the Movenpick, Kuhlmann arrived in ten minutes. He had driven like hell from Lubeck-Sud where Newman had caught him on the verge of leaving.

Newman hung a Do Not Disturb notice from the outside handle of the door after admitting the Federal policeman. He didn't want Peter Toll turning up while he was talking with Kuhlmann. He had also hidden his dark glasses and the Tyrolean hat.

`Why move to this place from the Jensen?' Kuhlmann asked as he sat down.

`I thought I was being followed. It's also more complicated. Diana Chadwick is no longer in Lubeck. She's in a safe place.'

`Don't tell me where.' Kuhlmann held up a warning hand. 'I am glad to hear of your action. I wish to God I could move all young attractive blonde girls out of the area…'

`And Kurt Franck?'

`I brought a team of men. They are searching the hotel. Do you think he recognized you? He must have done, I imagine.'

`I'm not sure,' Newman replied candidly, without referring to his disguise. 'He was looking in a different direction.'

`Well, we will soon know.' Kuhlmann put a cigar between his thick lips without lighting it. He chewed on it for a moment. `Where is Tweed? In another room here?'

`No. He has left Lubeck temporarily to check something.. `If he is still in Germany I must know. I have strict orders from Bonn to keep an eye on him.'

`He is outside the Federal Republic, but I am certain he will be returning…'

He broke off as the phone rang, Kuhlmann said that would be for him and he stood listening, saying `Ja', and 'Nein', several times. When he put down the phone he spread his hands.

`The bird has flown again. He checked out of his room about ten minutes ago. He must have recognized you. He left on a motor-bike. Road-blocks are being set up, but this is a complex area. I think we've lost him again.'

`At least he's on the run.'

Newman was appalled at the news. Unless Kuhlmann caught Kurt Franck he was pretty sure the blond German would report sighting him to the East. That was if, as he suspected, Franck was from The Zone.

`You say,' Kuhlmann remarked as he stood up to go, 'Tweed will be back. I predict that on his second coming all hell will break loose.'

`Why do you think that?'

`I know Tweed. On the surface mild and cautious. This time I sensed something different in him. A thrust of steel…'

`You cross the border tonight,' Toll announced when Newman had let him inside 104. 'Why hang out the Do Not Disturb notice? I came back twice before you'd removed the sign.'

`Kuhlmann was here…'

`Jesus! How did he find you?'

`I called him…'

Newman explained the sequence of events since his arrival at the Movenpick. Toll listened in silence, pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and clasped his hands.

`Describe this Kurt Franck,' he said at last.

He listened again while Newman gave him a concise description. He showed no reaction when Newman finished. Then he shook his head after a brief pause.

`Doesn't ring any bells.'

`In that case, cancel the border crossing.'

Newman's tone was hard and tough. He stood up, lit a cigarette and walked to stare out of the window. Behind him Toll flexed his long fingers and frowned before speaking.

`What's gone wrong, Bob?'

`You have.' Newman swung round to face the BND man. `There's no polite way to put this. I'm a reporter by profession. Lord knows how many people I've interviewed, but one thing I've learned – to spot when someone is lying. You're lying in your teeth when you say my description of Franck means nothing.'

`I can't be sure…'

`Be unsure then – or walk out of that door and don't come back.'

`Could be Erwin Munzel.'

`Who is?'

`Markus Wolf's top professional assassin. Specializes in making murder look like an accident.'

`Charming. How very encouraging.'

`I said I can't be sure,' Toll protested. 'How many blond Germans over six feet tall do you think there are?'

`Weight, height, age – I gave you them all, plus appearance – and manner. Manner identifies a man. His arrogant insolence with women. Does it sound like Munzel?'

`Yes, it does,' Toll admitted. `Do you think he recognized you down in the lobby?'

`Looks like it. Otherwise, why run? How long do you think it will be before he reports my miraculous reappearance here to Wolf?'

`Quite several hours.' Toll was very positive. 'They've stopped using hidden radio transmitters for the moment. We have too many detector units flooding the area. We're pretty sure they communicate with the East by routing the message through several phone numbers over here. Then someone calls their contact inside West Berlin. The contact walks through one of the checkpoints and reports the signal verbally. That way it's untraceable. We just haven't found that West Berlin contact. Yet.'

`Several hours?'

The fact gave Newman an idea. He said he'd have to think over whether he'd go ahead with the crossing. Would Toll kindly push off and leave him alone while he did think? The German agreed reluctantly, gave a deadline of nine that night for a decision.

`I'll come back here and see you then,' he said and left.

Newman opened the door to make sure Toll had gone. The corridor was deserted. He closed and locked the door. Sitting down, he called Lubeck-Sud. Again he was lucky – Kuhlmann was at the police HQ.

`Otto, can you do me a favour? Without asking questions?' `Name it.'

`Is it possible to put such pressure on our mutual associate, Franck, that he won't be able to make a call from a public phone box?'

`I will try.' Kuhlmann paused. 'Don't let your work take too great a toll on your energy.'

Breaking the connection, at Lubeck-Sud Kuhlmann dialled a number. His instructions were simple and given with vehemence. 'Karl, I want that manhunt stepped up. Call back everyone off duty. Flood Lubeck and Travemunde with men on foot and inside patrol cars. Show a very active presence. Check the identity of all blond men whether they conform to the description or not. Special target, public phone boxes. Don't overlook the railway stations. The whole district must know there's a big dragnet out. What? So, it upsets the tourists. Who gives a sod for them?'

After leaving the Movenpick Kurt Franck headed towards Travemunde on his motor-cycle. Outwardly he was a typical holidaymaker enjoying himself. But inwardly he was churning with anxiety.

He had three specific worries. The police could be looking for him again. After the abortive attempt to kill Tweed on the Kolk below the church, he had gone to earth. Normal procedure.

Catching a train from Lubeck for Copenhagen, he had left the train at Puttgarden. From there he caught the local bus to the tiny town of Burg on the remote island of Fehmarn. He had stayed for several weeks inside a small cottage on the outskirts of the town, a cottage owned by a Martin Vollmer of Altona.

Returning to Lubeck, he had again taken a room at the Movenpick, reasoning that this was the last place the police would look for him now. Again, routine procedure. Once the dogs have inspected a foxhole, they rarely revisit it.

He raced along the open road, keeping just inside the speed limit. The suburbs of Lubeck were now fading behind him and he was in open country. His second worry was Robert Newman Had he really seen him entering the lobby of the Movenpick? Franck simply couldn't make up his mind.

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 Travemunde 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. Travemunde 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 Sudwind 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 Travemunde 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 Travemunde Hafen station. Sitting on the platform, waiting for the next train to Lubeck, 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 Lubeck Hauptbahnhof. At least he had covered his tracks.

At Lubeck 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 Lubeck 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 Lubeck. 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.