The Janus Man

Thirty-Nine

The traffic jam on the main highway leading into Leipzig went on for ever. The camper was stationary. Concrete multi-storey apartment blocks of a Leipzig suburb rose on either side. Newman rested his arms on the wheel, trying to control his impatience.

The next vehicle ahead was a Volvo. Behind him a big diesel truck shut out the view. He was glad it wasn't the other way round. At least he could see what was happening ahead, could watch the Vopos trying to sort out the mess, waving on cars in the opposite direction. Single-line traffic. That is all I need, Newman thought as Falken hobbled into the cab, sagging into the passenger seat.

`We are very late,' Falken observed.

`You have a rendezvous with someone?'

`No, but you and Gerda have. With someone who cannot wait. I'll be glad when you're on your way. We don't care who gets Dr Berlin – as long as someone does. I've lost valuable men because of that swine.'

`Any other information I can pass on for you?'

`Yes. That is what I came to see you about. Tell Peter Toll at Pullach Markus Wolf has broken the code for our radio transmissions. That is why they have ceased. Tell him switch to the Weimar system. Weimar the town. He'll know what to do.'

`I feel hemmed in here – more so than back at the zigzag. What happens if I'm challenged?'

`You bluff your way through. You've done it before…'

`And supposing I don't pull it off? Where do we go?'

`You have to carry off a bluff. Look around you – there is nowhere to run, to hide. It's that damned storm. It must have flooded stretches of the road. Now, listen to me. You have to get out to pass on the information inside your head. You think only of yourself. In Leipzig, if Gerda gets into trouble and you can slip away, you do so. No heroics. We have expended too much effort to have you caught.'

`You mean I just leave her in the lurch?'

`You leave her to cope on her own. She will expect it. That is an order. And now I will get back inside, lie down on the couch on this side with a travelling rug thrown carelessly over my legs. Gerda is huddled up behind you. Three become one.'

`I don't follow that…'

'We were stopped at the road-block just before we reached the Radom farm. The patrol saw two men and a girl. We were stopped again by those two Intelligence men on the country road. They also saw two men and a girl. Either may have reported us to Leipzig. Now we try to look just like one man on his own. If they come up to us they're likely to arrive on the driver's side – at your window. Do the best you can.' Falken paused as he prepared to lift himself up. 'And if Pullach really wants to help us, they will send you to join us as a member of Group Five.'

Newman was left alone. He pursed his lips. Falken had just paid him the highest compliment. He had little time to dwell on the subject. A Vopo, very fat with a beer belly, was walking down the line of stationary traffic, glancing at each vehicle.

Let me have men about me that are fat. The quotation flashed into Newman's mind. Shakespeare. Julius Caesar? He wasn't sure. He lowered the window. The portly Vopo hitched up his Sam Browne belt, peered in Newman's window.

`And where are you off to?'

`Supposed to be a holiday. I don't know whether she'll come now. Camping out in this weather?'

`If she likes you enough, Comrade. Make her like you enough.' The Vopo's jowls shook with amusement. 'You'll keep her warm enough inside there. Just the two of you?'

`Why would I need her mother?'

The jowls shook again. Newman thought he was probably the first driver who had not grumbled at the hold-up.

`How long before we start moving?' Newman asked. 'You have a difficult job, I know. But if I'm late her mother will get back before we leave.'

`We can't have that, can we?'

The Vopo walked back the way he had come to the traffic control point. He disappeared but within two minutes the traffic flowing in the opposite direction stopped. The traffic ahead of the camper began moving forward. As he passed the control point Newman waved thank you to the fat Vopo who personally waved him on, giving a significant wink. All boys together…'

Which one of you is Janus? Tweed asked himself the question as he looked round the four sector chiefs on either side of the conference table at Park Crescent.

Harry Masterson, his chin showing traces of another five o'clock shadow, drummed his fingers quietly on the polished surface. Hugh Grey, seated on Tweed's right, had his usual eager-beaver look, ready for anything. Erich Lindemann to the left, waited, pad and four coloured pencils arranged neatly in front of him. Guy Dalby sat perfectly still, his eyes never leaving Tweed, who cleared his throat.

`Gentlemen, I've summoned you to this rather early morning meeting to save time. You can all return to your respective European headquarters at the first opportunity. By now your people may have come up with some theories about the lack of opposition activity. It worries me. It signals some major operation. But what? I hope you find out quickly. I have a feeling we're short of time.'

`And what will you be doing?' Dalby asked in his brusque, businesslike manner. 'Where can we contact you?'

`I return to Hamburg.' Tweed paused, his eyes scanning the four men, searching for the smallest reaction. 'I fly back there within the next forty-eight hours…'

`Maybe some protection this time? Discreetly, of course,' Grey suggested.

`No!' Tweed was emphatic. 'I go alone. I work better that way. As to contact,' he addressed Dalby, 'call Monica. Talk to her as though you're talking to me. I'll be keeping her posted.'

Masterson grinned, smoothed down his jet black hair with one hand. 'Can't keep away from the field, can you? Itchy feet – that's your problem.'

`I especially expect results from the Balkan sector,' Tweed rapped back. 'That's where the hornet's nest is.' He switched his gaze. 'Any comment, Erich?'

Lindemann was scribbling away on his pad with the red pencil. Which one was that? Tweed was too far away to see. Lindemann laid down the pencil, folded his hands.

`Nothing I can think of.'

Typical, Tweed thought. Dry as dust. No wonder he'd earned the nickname of The Professor. While they all waited he removed his glasses, deliberately took his time cleaning them on his handkerchief. At a side table Monica sat taking notes for the minutes she'd type later. Now she also watched Tweed with a puzzled expression. Not like him to prolong a conference. He regarded most meetings as a waste of time, to he got over with as soon as possible. Pressure, Tweed was thinking. That was what the psychiatrist, Dr Generoso, had said would drive a man leading a double life to panic eventually. He was putting on the pressure now. The silence became oppressive. Someone shuffled their feet. He glanced round the table again.

Grey sat with a smile of anticipation on his pink face. He was expecting another pronouncement. Masterson smoothed his gleaming hair again while Tweed went on polishing his glasses. Dalby sat with his arms folded, quite motionless as he stared at his chief. Iron self-control. Lindemann was scribbling on his pad, this time with the green pencil. Did he change the colours for each sector chief? Nutty way of going on. Tweed replaced his glasses, spoke suddenly, watching them closely.

`Dr Berlin.' Another loaded pause. 'Any information any of you can get on him. Supposed to be the Light of the World, the guardian of refugees, the protector of the helpless everywhere.' His tone was heavy with irony. 'I just wonder.' He held up a hand to silence Grey who had opened his mouth, anxious to make a contribution. 'No comments, please. Just dig. Deep as you can go into his background.'

Tweed clasped his hands on the table, studying each man in turn. Janus was here, at this very meeting, concealing himself behind a mask. The man who looked both East and West. And possibly a mass murderer. Unless I've got it all wrong.

No, I'm damned if I have. One of these faces sent Fergusson to his death. That's for certain. And they were all in Frankfurt, attending the meeting I held just after promoting them. The night the Dutch girl was slaughtered. And they were all in Europe – whereabouts unknown – when Helena Andersen, the blonde Swedish girl had been cut to pieces on Priwall Island. As was the case when Iris Hansen, the girl, again a blonde, from Copenhagen had met the same grisly fate.

But most telling by far was the two-year-old unsolved killing of Carole Langley in East Anglia on the night of July 14. The four men he was looking at had attended Hugh Grey's birthday party at Hawkswood Farm. Too much coincidence. It gave him an eerie feeling to be sitting with these four men. They all looked so normal. Dr Generoso again. He'd said such a person might well appear completely normal for long periods. Tweed stood up.

`Meeting ended.'

`Tweed is coming back… flying to Hamburg… within forty-eight hours…'

The caller, using German, was speaking from a phone booth in the Post Office near Leicester Square. Martin Vollmer, in his apartment in Altona, took the message, thanked the caller, but already the connection was broken.

Vollmer cradled the receiver, waited a few seconds, lifted it again and dialled a number. He had to wait for the phone to ring five times before it was answered by the girl he was calling.

`Tweed is coming back…'

For the second time the wires were humming across West Germany. Always the same message, couched in exactly the same words. Until it reached the office of a lawyer in West Berlin. He took the call, put down the phone, told his secretary he had to go out, and walked the short distance to Checkpoint Charlie where he crossed into East Berlin.

`What's happened? Why are you looking so smug?' demanded Lysenko as Wolf put down the phone. He had just entered the room.

`As I predicted, Tweed is coming back. Flying in to Hamburg. I predict something else. He will make straight for Lubeck. I have arranged for Munzel to be informed. You don't look so smug yourself…'

`The timing!' Lysenko barked. 'It's going to be close. We have a major operation under way.'

`What major operation? Or does it, by chance, not concern me?'

`It does not. You have enough on your plate. The timing? How many times do I have to ask you a question? I don't like this at all. Tweed is a menace.'

`I probably know more about Tweed than you do,' Wolf commented. 'As to timing, he's expected in Hamburg about two days from now according to the report from Balkan.'

`Then Tweed has to be eliminated quickly…'

`I have already sent a message to Munzel – who is waiting for his arrival in Lubeck.'

`We can't be sure he'll go back to Lubeck,' Lysenko snapped.

`Which is why I've also alerted our man at Hamburg Airport – Tweed will be followed from the moment he comes through Customs.'

`Munzel made a hash of the job before. This time he must do the job. And fast.'

`He will deal with the problem as soon as he can. More than that I cannot guarantee. How much time would you say he has?'

`A week. Two at the outside.'

`I think you can sleep well tonight.'

Inside his hotel room at the International, facing Lubeck's main station, Erwin Munzel sprawled in bed as Lydia Fischer, the German girl he had picked up on the train from Puttgarden, took a shower. He was finding her very satisfactory – and not only as a cover. He reached for the phone as it began ringing.

`Vollmer speaking…'

The voice paused. Munzel had to think of the code word after his recent enjoyable experience with Lydia.

`Sylt is the place I've booked for the holiday,' he said. `Listen. Tweed is coming back. Flying in to Hamburg within the next two days. Call me at noon as usual. You have three days to complete the deal after the customer arrives.' `I don't work to time schedules…'

`You do on this one. Or lose your job.'

Vollmer had gone off the line before Munzel could protest. He lay staring at the ceiling for several minutes. When Lydia came out of the shower he went into the bathroom and took a quick shower himself. He dressed quickly, talking as he did so.

`You wanted to do some shopping on your own. How about doing it now? I have some business calls to make.'

He waited until she had left the room, then packed half his clothes in the suitcase he had recently purchased. Leaving the International, he walked in blazing sunlight past the Movenpick and continued on over the bridge on to the island.

He paused outside the entrance to the Hotel Jensen, peered in, saw there was only a girl on reception – not the manager – and walked in. He booked himself a room in the first name that came into his head. Hugo Schmidt from Osnabruck. Ascending in the lift, he unlocked the door of a room at the back.

It took him only a few minutes to put his clothes inside the wardrobe and a couple of drawers. He left toothbrush, paste and shaving kit in the bathroom. Then he went back down in the lift and walked out of the hotel, the key of the room still inside his pocket.

He was second-guessing Tweed, gambling that if he did turn up in Lubeck he'd go back to the Jensen. The English were conservative, habit-ridden. Now all he had to do was to wait for Vollmer to warn him Tweed was on the way.