The Janus Man

Forty-One

Inside the moving truck Newman swivelled the torch slowly round, getting his bearings before he looked for the seat at the front. There was a narrow central corridor which ran straight to the driver's cab. Along either side of the corridor long heavy wooden boxes were piled on top of each other from floor to roof.

They reminded him of ammunition boxes. Each had a handle at the end made of rope thick as a ship's hawser. They were held in position by leather straps which pinioned them to the walls. He checked for stencil markings which might indicate the contents. Nothing.

He made his way cautiously along the corridor. The walls of the truck puzzled him. From the outside the vehicle had the appearance of a refrigerated truck. There had been some lettering along the side of the vehicle but Stahl had hustled him aboard so quickly he hadn't read it.

At the front end the driver's cab was closed off from the main body of the truck. In his torch beam he saw a sliding panel and guessed that gave access to the driving cab. He found a small space just behind the cab beyond where the last boxes were piled up. To the left a leather padded seat was screwed to the floor. Opposite was an enamel bucket with a lid; toilet facilities, he guessed.

He sank into the seat, still wearing his raincoat, suddenly exhausted. It had been constant tension ever since they'd left Radom's farm. First the camper underneath the zig-zag. His concentrated interview with Karen Piper. Their flight along the old rail track. Hiding under the arched bridge as the Vopos stayed parked overhead. Then the storm, driving the camper along the flooded gulch.

Above all, what hit him now was seeing Gerda taken away by that bloody patrol car. Would she bluff her way through? He had no idea. Probably he'd never know her fate. He switched off the torch to save the battery, then stood up and knocked on the panel to let Stahl know where he was. The panel opened briefly. Stahl called out over his shoulder.

`Comfortable in there?' An ironic note.

`I'm all right…'

`Talk to you soon. When we can safely stop. Things you should know…'

The panel was shut in his face. Newman had caught a brief glimpse of the highway stretching ahead into the night. The powerful headlight beams showing a deserted road. More trees now, some lining the edge of the highway. He kept on his raincoat. It was cold inside the truck.

He didn't expect to sleep, but sagged on the chair he dropped into an uneasy doze. The vehicle was moving faster, the huge tyres carrying it on and on. He wished he had a compass to check in which direction they were moving. He blinked his eyes open. The truck had stopped.

Stahl opened the rear door and Newman jumped down on to the highway. His night vision was good – he'd deliberately felt his way back along the corridor without using the torch. The truck was parked in a lay-by, dense fir forest crowded to the edge of the highway on both sides.

`Get into the passenger seat in the cab. Join you in half a minute.'

Stahl was closing the door, locking it- as Newman strolled along the highway past the truck, stretching the ache out of his legs. The night was heavy with silence, the air fresh and invigorating. As he reached the cab Newman saw Stahl had parked on the crest of a hill, giving a view of many kilometres in both directions. Not a pair of headlights in sight.

He climbed up into the high cab, closed the door and Stahl nimbly mounted the other side, shutting his own door. He offered Newman a thermos and a package wrapped in greaseproof paper.

`Sandwiches and coffee, Comrade.'

The 'Comrade' startled Newman for a moment, then he realized it was a reflex greeting on the part of Stahl. After all, he was a Party member.

`The coffee's welcome,' Newman said, unscrewing the top which served as a cup. 'The sandwiches I'll eat later.'

`Good idea. We have five minutes, then I have to get moving. You go back inside the truck. You've got identity papers? Let me have a look. And we're parked here because we can see anything coming for kilometres.' He whistled as he checked Newman's folder by the overhead light.

`Something wrong?' Newman asked.

Stahl shrugged his broad shoulders and grinned. 'No. Something's right. Border Police. Special assignment. Couldn't be better. If we're stopped – but especially when we arrive in Rostock.'

'Why?'

`Most people in the West know about the minefield belt along the landward side of the border between the DDR and the outside world. Not so many know there's a similar forbidden zone along the Baltic coast. Minefield, patrols, dogs – the lot. You're Border Police so you're permitted entry. We're not likely to be stopped,' he went on in his confident way, 'because of what we're carrying. If we are, you're in the guard's seat. And you're the boss. Special assignment? Escorting the stuff I'm carrying.'

`Which is? Or shouldn't I ask?'

`You found the bucket? Your own private toilet? Well, when you go back, open the box behind the bucket. They forgot to padlock that one. Arms for Cuba, as you probably know. They come from the Skoda works in Czechoslovakia.' He handed back the folder. 'Be ready to show that. Kick up hell if we are stopped. Boot them up the ass. Thanks.' He took back the thermos.

`When do you expect to reach Rostock?'

`About dawn. The way I'll drive between cities. With a bit of luck it will still be dark. Easier to smuggle you aboard a ship bound for the West. We'll stop again later and I'll tell you more.'

`I thought this was an armoured truck…'

`It is.' Stahl grinned again, swallowed some coffee. 'Tap the side gently when you get back. This is quite a vehicle they designed, the bastards. On the outside it looks like a refrigerated truck. Camouflage. It's armoured, all right.'

`Why all the secrecy?' Newman asked. `Inside the DDR?' `Because they're clever. It's never broadcast to the West -for obvious reasons – but there is a resistance movement here. Small but powerful, well armed. They know someone like Falken would love to get his hands on what you're travelling with, that he can muster a large number of men. So they send me through like any ordinary truck.'

`You said earlier we shouldn't be stopped..

`The chiefs of police along the route we're taking are given my registration number. They spread the word it's a consignment for the Party. Let it through. But, we shall be stopped at certain points,' Stahl warned. 'You pay tolls to use certain highways. I just pay and move on. So don't worry if I stop and you hear voices. Just keep quiet.'

`Thanks for the tip. My nerves will rest easier.'

`That special assignment folder you're carrying. Can I ask if you've had to use it? What you said? Sheer curiosity. I find it lonely sitting hour after hour in this cab.'

`Drugs. I was chasing a drug ring.'

`Funny that,' Stahl commented, 'that you should use drugs. After what I heard.'

'Why?'

Newman was only casually interested. He drank the rest of his coffee, thinking how much warmer it was inside the cab.

`Because we heard something – maybe information you should pass on to the BND when you get back. We have a man at Leipzig Airport. Won't tell you what he does. Recently a Tupolev landed from Moscow. Quite a fuss about the passenger. Colonel in the GRU. He came off the aircraft dead drunk. Vodka. Could hardly get down the mobile staircase. Got into a waiting car and started to drive off. Our chap went on board. Guess what he found.'

`You tell me.'

`This stupid colonel's brief-case. Let's call our man Karl – not his real name. Karl carries a lock-pick. He used it on the locked brief-case, glanced through the papers inside a file. One of them – Karl understands Russian – was a report about a cargo of heroin bound for England. Five hundred kilos..

`How much?' Newman was suddenly alert. 'That's enormous.'

`So we thought. Then Karl saw the car coming back. He put the file back, locked the brief-ease, slipped it back under the seat and hid in the crew's cabin until they'd collected it and gone.'

`Any indication as to the method of transport?'

`Yes. By sea. Aboard a Polish freighter. The Wroclaw. It was routed to call in at Rostock shortly..

`Which British port was it heading for?'

`The report didn't say. Or maybe Karl didn't get that far. I think we ought to get moving soon now. Funny about that brief-case. The Russkies aren't as bright as they'd like the world to think. Thank God. I'm going to have a pee before we start.'

`I'll join you. By the way, can I ask which route we're taking to Rostock?'

`Why not. Magdeburg, Stendal, Tangermunde – then due north through Pritzwalk, the lake district, Gustrow and on to Rostock.'

He made it sound like a morning's outing to Brighton. As they relieved themselves at the edge of the forest Newman's head was spinning with what Stahl had just told him. They were walking to the rear of the truck when he asked his question.

`Do you really think Karl got it right – five hundred kilos?'

`Karl never gets anything wrong.'

It was nearly midnight at Park Crescent. Everyone had left the building long ago – except Tweed, Monica and the two men seated in his office. Which was why Tweed had chosen this late hour.

`I'm taking you with me to Hamburg for protection,' he opened the conversation. 'Normally I wouldn't dream of travelling in this way, as you know.' He paused and threw out his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'But the PM insists. Last time I flew there I took Bob Newman with me – but he's disappeared.'

`Sounds as though the PM knows what she's doing then,' Harry Butler commented.

Tweed studied the two men. Both spoke fluent German, so that made sense. Harry Butler was the taller, more heavily-built of the pair; also the older and more experienced. He had a wary look, a relaxed manner and moved as though treading through a minefield.

Pete Nield was dark-haired, had dark, quick-moving eyes and was a man for a tight corner. Slimmer, he took trouble over his dress and was wearing a smart navy blue business suit with a carnation in his buttonhole.

The two men were a great contrast in personality but together they worked well. There was a famous occasion when they had acted as streetwalkers, tailing a Markus Wolf agent for a whole week before he made the contact they were seeking. During all those long seven days the experienced German agent had never once suspected their presence.

`Any suggestions as to how we go about it?' Tweed asked.

`First,' Butler began in his deliberate tone, 'we'll both be happy to work on this one. Ian Fergusson was killed in Hamburg. Maybe we'll get lucky, meet up with the character who did the job.'

`Weapons,' said Nield. 'We can't take them with us. But can we get some at the other end?'

It was a typical Nield question. Tweed looked dubious, caught Butler's eye, who nodded his agreement with the suggestion.

`I suppose we could obtain you something from Kuhlmann,' Tweed replied.

`Kuhlmann?' Nield said. 'He's a toughie. I met him once. He never wastes a word – or a moment. Is he involved?'

`Yes and no. We. can talk about that later.'

`The method,' Butler questioned, again typically. 'We travel with you on the aircraft? Good. The most effective technique is we travel separately. Pete takes a seat across the gangway from you. I'll be further back. What about arrival in Hamburg?'

`I'm staying for one night at the Four Seasons.' Tweed pulled a wry face. 'Cost us a bomb, but the PM has put no limit on the budget this time. Both of you stay there, too..

`But arrive separately,' Butler said firmly. 'Pete takes the first cab. You take the next one. I follow behind. That way we'll know if we're being followed – if you are being tailed. Could there be a leak? About your flying to Germany?'

Tweed hesitated, caught Monica's eye. `There is a leak, I know that. And what I've just said is totally confidential.'

`Then what I've just outlined is a good plan,' Butler stated. `No chances. Not this time.'