The Janus Man (31 page)

`Don't worry about money,' Sue interjected, 'I've got loads of travellers' cheques. And we're having such a good time. I like a good time.'

The remark jolted Kuhlmann. Shades of Diana Chadwick; the sort of remark she'd have made. Where was she now, he wondered.

`Money's no problem,' Sue went on. 'My father's a state senator.'

Kuhlmann received a second jolt. He looked at her, studying her sheen of blonde hair. In a way he wished they were leaving Germany at once. He looked at Ted again.

`I ought to warn you — in case you couldn't read the German on that poster...'

`We couldn't,' Sue told him.

`Then I must warn you, Mr Smith, that man you saw could be a mass murderer — his speciality is blondes. Three have been horribly killed already. Stick close to Sue. All the time.'

`I'll do that, and I'll buy a weapon.' Smith looked older and more serious than he had before.

`A weapon?' Kuhlmann queried.

`A heavy walking stick. I've seen them in the shops..

`A good idea. And I'm taking you both to dinner at the Maritim Hotel in Travemünde. But first, I must make a report.'

He picked up the mike, called Lübeck-Süd, began detailing the new description of Kurt Franck. The only two points Ann Grayle had not mentioned were the straw hat and the pipe. He must have gone to the shops soon after she'd spotted him.

`Lübeck-Süd? Kuhlmann here. Kurt Franck. New description...
persona
of hitch-hiker …'

In the loft of the barn near Burg on Fehmarn Island he was now ready to move. For the third time Munzel checked his appearance in the hand mirror. Flourishing blond moustache and beard, more blond hair flowing down the back of his neck. Unrecognizable.

Dressed in a light green T-shirt, khaki slacks and a pair of white trainer shoes, he put down the mirror, hiding it with the spirit kettle under a pile of straw. He hoisted the backpack over his shoulders. It weighed like a hundred kilos, but he'd soon get used to it.

He looked round the loft, checking for traces of his using it as a refuge. There were none. He had cleared up carefully. Reaching down, he picked up the straw hat and rammed it over his head, then took the curved pipe from his pocket — already filled with tobacco — and clenched it between his teeth.

He descended the ladder slowly, arrived at the bottom and ran heavily to the open barn door. He peered out. No sign of life. He went back to the ladder — the only evidence that the loft existed — and hauled it down until he held it parallel to the straw-strewn floor.

His arm muscles felt the strain as he carried it outside and round the back of the barn. Very slowly he lowered it inside the grass-choked ditch which ran alongside the rear of the barn. He spent several minutes straightening the grasses until it disappeared from view, then he returned to the front and started along the track leading to the country road.

An hour later, having caught the bus from Burg, he sat on the platform at Puttgarden station. While he waited for the train to Lübeck he struck matches, lighting and relighting his pipe.

Franck was in a confident mood. With his changed appearance he'd be safe in Lübeck. He'd stay at the hotel opposite the Hauptbahnhof — the International as far as he could remember. From there he would call Martin Vollmer in Altona for news of Tweed's movements.

Confident because the police hue and cry would be a thing of the past. Or at the worst they'd have him as a low priority. During his time on Fehmarn Island other crimes would have been committed. The police were like the press. Kurt Franck was yesterday's news.

Twenty-Nine

Newman drove the Chaika up the cinder track, the headlights swung in a wide arc as he turned east on to the highway. Behind them the lock-keeper's cottage was in darkness. Beside him sat Falken. Gerda had the dirty end of the stick — cramped in the back. Beside her was propped up the canvas-covered bundle which contained the corpse of Karl Schneider.

`The lake...'

It was Gerda who had thought of the place where they should deposit the motionless passenger. She had come running in from the kitchen with her suggestion. At first Falken shook his head.

`A long way off our route.'

`But you said we should leave here this evening,' she pressed. `We can drive through the night, then go on to Radom's farm. We will be close to Leipzig for the morning. You can phone her to tell her we shall be early.'

`I suppose you could be right...'

`I know I am right. Aren't you always going on at me about we must be flexible in our plans, ready to change them at a moment's notice if the circumstances warrant it?'

`It will be dangerous.. Falken had glanced at the chained bundle lying on the floor. 'There are patrols out at night.'

`It may be even more dangerous to stay here. You said they'd probably send people out to find him — why he hadn't come back.'

`The lake it is, then …'

Newman had been impressed with the care they took to erase all traces of their stay in the cottage. Gerda used a dust-pan and brush to sweep black bread crumbs off the flagstones, had then used it to sweep the fading relics out of the fireplace. She had emptied her pan in the canal.

Falken had carried out a final inspection of every room. When they had gone out across the fields to collect the Chaika they left every window and the door open — to disperse all fumes from the fire, all warmth.

After backing the car, they re-covered the farm tractor exactly as they had found it. When they returned to the cottage the interior was cold and fume-free. They closed the windows, locked the door, left the key under the paving stone outside where Falken had found it.

`I'll drive,' Newman had said. 'You've both been without any sleep for Lord knows how long.'

`So have you, my friend,' Falken pointed out.

`Don't argue. I'm Emil Clasen — of the Border Police. If we are stopped they'll be more likely to accept me than you.'

`I'm supposed to be in charge of this unit and everyone tells me what to do,' Falken said good-humouredly.

`Nobody's ordering you about,' Newman said as he got in behind the wheel. 'Just do what I say and we'll all be happy.'

The moment he turned on to the highway Newman experienced the feeling of being a hunted man. It had been unnerving — easing the canvas bundle into the Chaika. At one second the body had seemed to move inside its mummified wrappings of its own accord. Gerda has gasped. Newman had told her it was just the weight of the chains as he finally heaved it inside.

Driving along the highway no one noticed Schneider's truck which was still parked in the hollow for storing hay. Newman was driving just inside the speed limit. Suddenly he realized both hands were clamped tightly to the wheel. Bad driving. He forced himself to relax, to hold the wheel with a lighter grip.

A police patrol car came towards them, its light flashing on the roof. Falken uttered a warning and Newman snapped his head off. 'Who's driving this bloody thing? Sorry,' he added after a moment. The patrol car was slowing down as they came closer.

It passed them as Newman maintained exactly the same pace. In his rear view mirror he saw the patrol car increase speed rapidly. Falken had glanced into his wing mirror.

`Why did they do that?' Newman asked.

`A test. Had you altered speed, showed signs of nerves, they might have stopped us. They are full of little tricks.'

`Bugger them.'

No one spoke for a long time after his pithy comment. Newman was aware of controlled tension inside the car. With the cargo they were carrying it was understandable. Everyone was frightened, edgy. Then they came to a side road.

`Turn here,' Gerda called out. 'We are close to the lake.'

Lysenko yawned, exposing a metallic filling in his teeth. He walked to the window and gazed down. Two o'clock in the morning. The fluorescent lamp standards threw an eerie light over deserted streets. He felt the stubble on his chin, turned to stare at the German.

Markus Wolf sat hunched like a Buddha behind his desk, studying a file. The man seemed to have inexhaustible reserves. He never stopped working. The green lampshade he had pulled down on the pulley suspended over his desk glowed on his impassive features. He looked up.

`Time I sent out patrols to look for Schneider. He should have reported back hours ago. I think something has happened to him.'

`What can you do?' snapped Lysenko.

`What I've just said. Send out armed patrols. Give them a description of the farm truck Schneider was driving. It can't have vanished into thin air. And we know the exact route that Schneider was following. I'm sending out a team of cars — all in radio contact with each other. They will also stop any vehicles they find travelling at this hour. On top of that the DDR is plastered with posters of Newman...'

`If it was Newman. You told me you'd had reports from your people at Hamburg Airport. No sign that the man who travelled under his name has returned. He could be in London.'

`He could be.' Wolf sounded unconvinced. 'But Tweed is a tricky man.'

He reached for the phone and gave a stream of orders, his voice a flat monotone.

The night was still, soundless, the air heavy. Beyond the man- high reeds and bulrushes the lake was a large expanse of black nothingness, like a vast parade ground of tar.

They had driven the Chaika as close as they could. Now Newman and Falken were heaving out the canvas-wrapped corpse. It seemed to have grown heavier, as though the body had already swollen up. Gerda stood on guard a hundred metres back, holding the Uzi, head cocked to one side as she listened.

`This is a bloody nightmare,' Newman said. 'I'll take the head and you handle the feet.' The bundle lay on the hard earth outside the car. They lifted it and the body sagged in the middle. Gerda had told them that at this point the lake went straight down, thirty metres deep.

They staggered under their burden. One of the links of the chains slipped, made a rasping noise like a death rattle. They nearly jumped out of their skins.

`Keep moving,' Newman gasped. He just wanted to get rid of the thing, to get back into the car. They reached the edge of the black water and Falken called out a warning. The ground had become slippery mud. They stood still and lowered the body to the ground, resting for a moment. They had to heave it as far out as possible. Falken was sceptical of Gerda's assertion that the lake sheered straight down at the edge.

`Ready?' Newman called out.

At her listening post Gerda frowned. She could hear traffic noises on the distant highway. One vehicle. An interval. Then a second. Another interval. A third. A strange time of night for traffic. Most people went to bed early. There was nothing to do, nowhere to go during the early hours in the DDR.

Newman and Falken began swinging the bundle back and forth as much as they could manage. Like a child's swing, gradually going higher. Their night vision was good now and they watched each other. Newman nodded. They'd drop it if they didn't do the job now. They let go.

The late Mr Schneider sailed out over the lake, dropped with a heavy splash into the water, then stayed there, only half-submerged. Something flew out of the reeds, slammed into Falken, almost knocking him down. There was a honking sound. Newman stared as Falken's arms moved with the agility of urgency. God, what was it?

Falken came forward. His right arm was coiled round the neck of a huge goose, his hand clasping it behind the nape of its neck. He stopped a few feet from Newman. It had a pink beak, pink webbed feet. It was honking like mad, making enough noise to wake half the district it seemed to Newman. Falken made odd sounds and Newman realized he was talking to the thing, quietening it.

`A grey lag,' Falken told him. In England they'd call it an Eastern Grey Lag. You have the Western variety. See the ring on its leg? It has escaped from one of the sanctuaries.'

`What the devil is happening?' Gerda had come running down the beaten pathway. 'What is it?' Falken repeated what he had told Newman.

`We will keep it,' he said. 'As long as I hold it like this, there is no danger of your being pecked while driving,' he assured Newman.

`Why take that with us?' Gerda demanded.

`Camouflage. If we are stopped. I do belong to the Conservation Service. In any case I would want to rescue it. One wing is slightly injured. It needs attention.'

`And why, therefore,' Gerda demanded, her voice pitched higher than normal, 'are we hanging about?'

`Because of that,' Newman replied, pointing to the lake.

The goose had quietened down. On the surface of the lake the canvas-wrapped body floated, still only half-submerged. Gerda stared in horror. God, was it going to stay like that? The same thought was in the mind of the two men as they stood and gazed at the floating hump.

It was suddenly terribly silent. The goose remained still in Falken's grip. Then the hump rolled away from them, sliding slowly below the surface. There was a ripple —no more —marking where it had descended to the depths. The ripple also vanished and the black water was again smooth as a sheet of oil.

Gerda gasped with relief. 'Let's go. Now. Get away from all this …'

`We shall soon be at Radom's farm,' Gerda called out from the back of the car. 'And I've just remembered — they have geese. Won't there be a problem with Pinky?'

Pinky was the nickname she had given to the grey lag. Newman was behind the wheel as they drove on along the deserted highway through the night. Falken, sitting beside him, still held the goose in the same manner, its beak turned away from Newman. It seemed quite happy with Falken and hadn't honked once since they'd got back inside the Chaika.

Newman guided the car round a long bend. Beyond it was a long straight stretch. Red lights, winking, stood in the highway about half a kilometre ahead. He reduced speed, staring at the lights. Three cars, nose to bumper, were parked across the full width of the highway.

`Trouble,' Newman said as the red lights came closer. `Road block,' Falken commented. 'Checkpoint. Who are they looking for, I wonder?'

Thirty