The Janus Man

Thirty

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 Lubeck. In Travemunde. 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 Lubeck. Then you can have the compartment to yourself.'

'But I'm going to Lubeck 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 Lubeck 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 Lubeck. 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 Lubeck.' 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.

`I don't like this,' Newman told Falken firmly. 'I don't like it at all…'

`Don't like what, my friend?'

`Staying here for even a short time – endangering the lives of this old couple. It's not right. I want to move on. Now!'

`For many hours we have had no sleep, no food, nothing to drink. It is essential we have these things,' Falken snapped. `Sleep, after food and drink…'

`You don't give a damn, do you? If they were younger it would be different. Someone has to run the underground. I understand that. But,' Newman continued vehemently, 'I refuse to be a party to risking this old couple. I want to leave. Now!'

`You don't understand at all…'

`Explain it – if you can.'

`We are all very fatigued…'

`Stick to the bloody point,' Newman rasped, keeping his voice down.

`Of all the people I work with, Ulrich Radom is the most reliable, the cleverest. Look how he is using the tractor to…'

`I know about that. All right, he's very careful. Good for him. Now you be careful – get us out of here…'

`If you will just keep quiet and let me finish my explanation you may see it differently…'

`Then get on with your explanation. But make it quick.'

Falken's lips tightened. He opened his mouth to speak, to hit back, his eyes furious, when Gerda leaned forward and laid her hand on his knee.

`Emil,' she said quietly, using Newman's new identity, 'is entitled to his explanation. Calm down. Tell him…'

`Another thing,' Newman interjected, 'supposing the Vopos do arrive in force. We can't get away from here.'

`But we can,' Falken contradicted. 'Why do you think the car is parked in that hollow? Because there is another way out from the farm – across the fields by a sunken road leading to another side lane. From the lane we drive back down to the highway.'

`And you think the Vopos won't hear the Chaika being driven away!'

For the first time since they had met he began to doubt Falken's judgement. The German was near the end of his resources. He was losing his sense of perspective.

`The Vopos will not hear the Chaika,' Falken said. 'If – and I hope it does not happen – they arrive, you will see. And when we sleep we all sleep in our clothes and with our shoes on. Ready for instant departure.'

`Fine! Just dandy.' Newman's tone dripped sarcasm. 'What is to prevent these Vopos bursting in on us before we have a chance to reach the Chaika? Tell me that.'

`The geese,' Falken replied.

`It could be someone else. Not Vopos. One of his neighbours.'

`He has none. No neighbours. No friends. He has deliberately cultivated the reputation of being a man who hates and distrusts everyone. When people did call he met them with a shotgun. That soon discouraged idle visitors. If the geese honk, the Vopos are coming. And they will hear them a long way off. Time enough for us to leave. Now, maybe you will use your mouth for eating the excellent meal I see Hildegarde has laid for us? Yes?'

Newman sat at the table, still not completely convinced. Radom had finished using his tractor and came in to sit with them. His wife sat in a basket chair and watched them, hands clasped placidly in her lap.

`Cheese soup,' said Gerda.

It's wonderful,' Newman replied, spooning more of the liquid out of the bowl. His stomach reacted to the warmth, the tension gradually faded. Gerda watched him.

`Try your drink,' she suggested with an impish smile. What is it?'

`Try it.'

He picked up his glass, swallowed a mouthful, then choked and waved his mouth. His mouth, throat, stomach felt to be in flames. Gerda poured him water. He drank a large portion, set down the second glass.

`What the hell is that stuff?'

She giggled. He made a playful gesture of punching her. She giggled again. He took a more cautious sip. It was very good, again relaxing his insides, once he got it down.

`Schierker Feuerstein,' she said. 'Fire water. From the Harz mountains. Like the cheese soup. Once the Radoms lived in the Harz. The drink is good? Yes? No?'

`Fire water is the word for the stuff.'

`After this meal you will feel a different man. You will wish you had a willing girl…'

`Gerda!' Falken frowned, indicating Hildegarde with his eyes.

`It is good that we now all talk in a more friendly manner,' she remarked. 'Emil will sleep like a dog – providing he drinks all his fire water.'

`I'm beginning to fall asleep now,' said Newman, pushing away the huge bowl. 'No, thank you,' he said to Hildegarde. `I am full. I couldn't take any more. It was marvellous.'

She had hurried to the table to serve more; now she replaced the spoon inside the soup tureen and covered it with the lid. Before Falken had started his meal Radom had collected the grey lag and taken it away.

`He's putting it in a separate coop, away from his own geese,' Falken had explained. 'I will collect it later. Never use the same stratagem twice. The fat Vopo may have reported that there was a goose in the car. Now, to bed. Mid-morning we have to be up, on our way.'

Newman shared a small room which had two single beds with Falken. First, they shaved to make themselves presentable. `There may be no time later,' Falken warned. 'And don't even take off your shoes.'

Lying under the duvet in the darkened room which faced west, Newman listened to Falken's even breathing in the other bed. The German had fallen fast asleep. Newman tossed restlessly, uncomfortable in his clothes and shoes. He'd have given anything for a bath. His stomach felt a great deal happier – the huge quantity of soup he had consumed had driven the chill from his bones.

He sank into a troubled doze, feeling now the full pressure of being a hunted man, a man deep inside the DDR and Lord knew how many kilometres from the Western border. Images floated into his disturbed mind.

Crossing the minefield belt… meeting the East German agent coming from the opposite direction… the mist drifting through the dark forest after he'd met Falken… headlights glaring… the first encounter with Schneider… the damp lock-keeper's cottage… the nerve-chilling moment when Gerda re-entered the cottage followed by Schneider aiming his Walther… the killing of the German… the body which obstinately refused to sink beneath the dark silent lake… the honking of geese.

`Get up, Emil! Quick! The Vopos are coming.'

Falken was shaking him roughly by the shoulder. Newman blinked. The honking of the geese was for real. Broad daylight was flooding through the windows. We are trapped was his first reaction…

Three hours earlier Wolf had been surprised to see Lysenko arriving in his office. Freshly-shaven, below his bushy eyebrows his eyes were alert, there was a spring in his step as he threw his outer coat over a chair. He stared at the trestle bed pushed against one wall, the blankets neatly folded back.

`What is that for?' he asked.

`I've had a nap. In an emergency I sleep on the job.' Wolf gave a wintry smile. `Oddly enough, I understand Tweed in London does the same thing at a time of crisis. I know that man's habits as well as my own.'

`Fresh developments? I see you've put up a wall map.' `Yes. Come and look at it…'

It was a large-scale map of both West and East Germany, extending to the Baltic in the north. Pins with red-coloured plastic heads had been pressed into the map. A red crayon had been used to circle a certain area.

`Why the pins?' Lysenko asked crisply, scratching his chin.

`They identify the points where incidents have occurred since the traitors in that watchtower short-circuited the electricity. This pin is the watchtower, this one where Schneider stopped two men on bicycles. This one where a patrol discovered Schneider's abandoned truck in a hollow by the side of the highway.'

`When did you learn this?'

`The report came in over two hours ago. A pattern is forming, a route…'

`And the red circle?'

The area where I have sent out fresh patrols to search every building – every cottage, farmhouse, isolated barn. Anywhere fugitives might spend the night. I did not spend long in bed,' he went on. 'A report has also come in from Erwin Munzel. He has surfaced. In Lubeck. He is waiting there for Tweed to come back.'

`You seem confident he will do that…'

`I know Tweed. He never gives up. As soon as he is on his way I shall know. From Balkan at Park Crescent.'

`And that route you said the fugitives were following. Where does it lead to?'

`Here. Leipzig. I am sure of it. Look at the pins again. They must have killed Schneider – he would have reported in long before now. That is the most positive evidence of all. And I have flooded Leipzig with patrols, many in plain clothes. We are going to catch these people on our own doorstep!'

The honking of the geese was a deafening chorus which went on and on. Newman followed Falken into the living-room as Hildegarde slipped past them into the bedroom. 'She is making up our beds,' Falken said quickly.

Newman paused in the large living-room, glancing round for any sign of their visit. On the metal worktop beside the old-fashioned stoneware sink stood two dirty soup bowls and two glass tumblers. Two, not three. The relics of the Radoms' breakfast, apparently. Hildegarde had washed up Gerda's bowl and glass. The three glasses which had contained Harz fire-water had also disappeared.

`Come on!' Falken called out as Gerda appeared. 'Move. Out the back way…'

They followed Falken who led them through a doorway at the rear of the farm, running along the track over which Newman had driven the Chaika. Gerda was close behind, clutching the windcheater, concealing the Uzi machine-pistol.

The sky was cloudless, the sun shone down and the August heat was building up. Newman found he was sweating as he ran, with effort or fear, he wasn't sure which. They reached the Chaika in the hollow and Falken climbed behind the wheel, Gerda slipped into the back and Newman sat alongside Falken who remained still, making no effort to start the engine. In the distance the honking of the geese reached new heights of indignation.

`What the hell are you waiting for?' Newman demanded. `Radom's diversion.'

`Which is?'

`Listen

He had hardly spoken when from the far side of the farmhouse came a roar, the explosive bursts of an exhaust pipe, the wild throbbing of an engine which sounded as though it was on the verge of bursting out of its casing. Falken smiled, started his own motor and drove forward up the gentle incline out of the hollow and down the other side into a sunken lane.

In the front yard Radom was perched on the high seat of his monster of a farm tractor, clashing the gears, revving up the motor as three cars appeared. The first vehicle drove straight through the closed gate, hurling it into the yard, followed by the other two cars. The motorcade stopped, doors were flung open, Vopos spilled into the yard, several heading for an old barn, others running inside the farmhouse.

The leader of the patrol ran up to the tractor, shouted up to Radom, who waved one hand helplessly. The engine sound increased as he clashed gears. The machine jerked backwards. The Vopo waved his hand, gesturing behind the tractor which was backing at speed towards one of the parked cars. Radom moved more levers, the tractor stopped with a back-breaking jerk, inches away from the car, then surged forward. The Vopo swore, jumped back out of its way.

`Kaput! Out of control! Can't stop it,' Radom shouted down at the Vopo.

The Vopo moved to the rear, searching for a way to climb on to the tractor. The rear exhaust belched a jet of fumes into his face. He backed off, choking, eyes watering, grabbed for his handkerchief as the tractor began to move in a circle and Radom moved the levers again. The honking of the geese was completely drowned by the appalling roar and thunder.

Falken had driven the Chaika almost to the end of the sunken lane. He turned right on to the deserted country road leading back to the highway. Then he accelerated, slowing only at the bends.

`You see,' he said to Newman, 'why I say Radom is one of my most reliable allies? The Vopos will never have heard this car leaving above the sound of that racket. And I tell you something else. Radom and his wife will make the lives of the Vopos a misery. They will be glad to clear out.'

`How? Apart from that deafening row?'

`The Vopos may well be thirsty – it is a hot day. They'll get nothing to drink. Hildegarde will see to that.'

`Again, how?'

`As soon as she'd made up the three beds – which would take her no time at all – she'll have turned off the water at the main. Very hard to find, the mains tap. She'll tell them something's gone wrong with the water supply. No milk. The cows haven't been milked – they drank what there was for their breakfast. No Harz fire water. That is locked away in a concealed cupboard. No nothing…'

'But something for us,' Gerda called out. 'Bless her, the old saint.'

`What's that?' Newman called over his shoulder.

`A basket with a cloth over it. Black bread. Canned food and fruit. A thermos of coffee. She must have prepared this and brought it out to the car while we slept. We can survive for another day without going near a shop. There's even a large bottle of mineral water, some paper cups.'

`A remarkable couple,' Newman said. 'But I worry about them. If they play up those Vopos they could turn rough, wreck the farm.'

`Then they will get the surprise of their lives,' Falken commented. 'Radom won't tell them, but he has influence in high places. His farm should have been merged long ago with a collective. His protector stopped that.'

`And who is this benefactor?'

`A man called Markus Wolf.' Falken chuckled. 'Wolf has one weakness. His stomach. He likes good country food – fresh eggs, butter, fowl. Radom provides it. Those Vopos make the wrong move and they end up working in a labour battalion.'

`Pull up,' Newman said suddenly. 'Isn't that the highway?'

`Yes.' Falken had stopped the car. 'Why?'

`Because I'm taking over the wheel. I'm Border Police. And you're both risking your necks for me. But before we change places, I want to know what's waiting for me. This witness – who is she?'

`We are close enough now to tell you. She was the nursing sister at the hospital for tropical diseases where Dr Berlin arrived twenty-odd years ago when he returned from Africa – because he was afflicted with a rare tropical disease, they said.'

`Go on.'

`Karen Piper – that is her name – was attached to the private ward Dr Berlin occupied. Eventually she became what you would call in England the matron. What she will tell you will come as a great shock. Now, if you insist, we change places.'

They had turned on to the broad highway when Falken made his remark. 'I have a feeling we are going to be lucky in Leipzig.'

`Why then,' asked Gerda, 'does my woman's intuition tell me we are driving into terrible danger?'