The Janus Man (46 page)

Forty-Three

Erwin Munzel had an alarm clock inside his head. He'd 'set' it for 4 a.m. He woke, immediately alert, climbed carefully out of bed without disturbing Lydia Fischer, his German girl friend.

He washed and dressed in the bathroom with the door closed. Using one of the hotel pads, he wrote Lydia a note.
Couldn't sleep. Have gone for a walk. Wait for me for breakfast
.
Love
.

He left it tucked under her bedside lamp, collected the room key off the dressing table and went down to the lobby, using the stairs.

`Four hours' sleep does me,' he told the International's night porter as he unlocked the front entrance door. 'I'll be back for breakfast.'

Not that the stupid old cretin gives a damn, Munzel thought as he turned right and walked towards the centre of Lübeck. It was cold at that hour. He was glad he'd put on his thick corduroy trousers and a heavyweight sports jacket. On the opposite side of the street there was no activity inside the Hauptbahnhof. It was still dark and in the distance street lamps threw a weird light on the Holstentor; its ancient twin towers with their witches' hat summits looking menacing in the shadows.

He crossed the deserted bridge over the Trave and a breeze blew his long blond hair. As he'd expected, the door to the Hotel Jensen, where he'd booked another room, was closed. He pressed the bell and a girl opened it cautiously on the chain. Recognizing his blond beard, she let him in.

`Time for bed, wouldn't you agree?'

Munzel gave her his most engaging grin, pressed the elevator button and went up to his room. He had the room key he'd taken with him in his hand and once inside he locked it again and began moving fast.

First he kicked off his shoes, rumpled the bedclothes and pillow, then got into the bed, pulled up the duvet and wriggled around, rolling from side to side. Throwing back the duvet, he got out again. Munzel was nothing if not thorough. He knew chambermaids could tell whether a bed had been slept in or not.

He went into the bathroom where he'd left his spare set of equipment on the glass shelf over the wash-basin. He cleaned his teeth, put the brush back inside the glass after spilling paste on the shelf. He turned on the tap again, lathered his shaving brush, ran it over the palm of his hand, then cleaned it off, leaving it damp and in a different position on the shelf.

Taking one of the bath towels, he held it for a few seconds under the bath tap, squeezed it out, and hung it up. He used the tablet of soap, wetting it under the tap, then rubbed it vigorously round the bottom of the bath. He washed out the bath by leaving the tap running briefly, went back into the bedroom and sat in a chair with a table lamp on while he read a paperback.

He went downstairs to breakfast in the back room as soon as he knew it was open. The cold night air had given him a good appetite. He ate three rolls, drank three cups of coffee and was leaving as a couple came into the room.

With the room key in his pocket he walked out, noting that a man was now on reception. He arrived back at the International to find the doors open and by now it was broad daylight. A clear sky promised yet another hot day.

Lydia was in the bathroom when he re-entered the bedroom. She called out that she wouldn't be long. He told her not to hurry and sagged into a chair. He was successfully keeping up acceptance of his residence at both hotels. Tweed was coming back, so Vollmer had said. He'd phone the Altona number at noon from the station to get the latest news. Munzel was convinced that when Tweed did return he'd go back to the Jensen. And Erwin Munzel would be waiting for him.

Day had not yet broken when Tweed returned to his office at Park Crescent, carrying his suitcase. Reaching the first floor, he stopped. There was a light under his door. George, on duty downstairs, had not said anyone else was in the building.

Taking a firmer grip on the case in his right hand, he used his other hand to turn the handle slowly, keeping close to the wall of the corridor. He threw the door open, swinging his case backwards, ready to hurl it forward into the room. Behind her desk Monica looked up, startled.

`Sorry.' Tweed let out his breath. 'George didn't say you were here. And why are you still here?'

`I knew I wouldn't sleep if I did go home. So I had a bath upstairs. And I thought Toll might call from Pullach with news about Bob Newman. I switched the phone through to the bathroom extension while I wallowed.'

Which is the real reason why you stayed, Tweed thought. Monica had a soft spot for Bob Newman. He took off his coat and settled himself behind his own desk.

`A pretty short nap,' Monica observed.

`An hour. It was enough. I'll get in a good night's rest at the Four Seasons tonight. The flight leaves at 10.35. I can get breakfast round the corner.'

'Flight LH 041,' Monica confirmed from memory. 'Arrives at Hamburg 12.55. Local time.' She played with her pencil. `I've been wondering about Diana Chadwick. You're sticking pretty close to her.'

`I've told you. She could be the vital witness.'

`Witness to what?'

`Not yet. I'm not sure I'm right.'

`I've been wondering about something else. I like the office when no one else is here — gives me a chance to ruminate. And don't say all cows do that.

`Did I say a word?' Tweed threw up his hands in mock horror.

`Dr Berlin. Why did you throw that into the pot when you had the sector chiefs at that meeting? You said you were flying back to Hamburg — knowing one of them is Janus. Then near the end of the meeting you mention Dr Berlin. I know you. If you've something you want to stick in people's minds, you hold it back until the end of a meeting or conversation.'

`To put even more pressure on Janus.'

`You've lost me again.'

`Because, as before, I'm not sure yet.' Tweed sat up erect in his chair. 'Monica, all the threads are coming together. I can vaguely discern a pattern forming. Isolated facts which I didn't connect up are slipping into place. The trigger which will detonate the climax — which may be very close — is my return to Germany.'
'Why?'

`I'm convinced now some very big Russian operation is planned, will soon be activated. That's why everything went all quiet — not only on the western front but right across Europe. Janus is up to his neck in whatever the operation might be.'

`So it could be very dangerous. Thank God you're taking the heavy mob with you.'

`I agree.' There was a look of eager anticipation in Tweed's expression. 'And when that climax comes I intend to be there.'

At the wheel of his black Porsche Harry Masterson was driving through the night as though all the fiends of hell were at his heels. Vienna was already far behind. He had crossed the border into West Germany at Salzburg — and there he had joined the autobahn.

Salzburg... Munich... Bypass Augsburg... Bypass Ulm... Bypass Stuttgart... Karlsruhe... Mannheim... Frankfurt... then due north via Hanover to his ultimate destination. Hamburg.

He was already approaching Mannheim. Driving non-stop all night he'd be in Hamburg by morning. In the high-speed lane he overtook great eight-wheel trucks lumbering through the night, belching great exhausts of diesel fumes.

In the glow from the dashboard his black hair gleamed. His chin was unshaven, a thick dark stubble which was the beginnings of a beard. A Mercedes drew alongside him. He glanced to his left. The driver, a blonde-haired girl, gave him a superior look as she flashed ahead. He signalled that he was turning back into the fast lane.

His foot pressed down hard on the accelerator, way over the speed limit. He moved like the wind, overtaking the Merc at the moment it was also about to pull out to pass a truck. As he passed her he glanced at the girl. She looked furious. He grinned, then her headlights were fading into the distance as he kept up the pace. Macho Masterson. No one overtook him. Certainly not some blonde tart who undoubtedly put it about if the mood took her.

It had started the moment he had arrived at headquarters in Vienna. Pat Lancing, his deputy, had the message. Strictly for Masterson only. A phone number. And one word.
Candlestick
.

He'd closed the door of his private office, dialled the number. His top agent working under cover behind The Curtain. The Candlestick Man. They called him that because he was thin as a celery stalk, very stiff and erect. Based in East Germany.

Which was poaching on Hugh Grey's territory. The DDR was his penetration zone. Harry didn't give a toss. Just get the info. The phone conversation had been brief. Urgent — would Harry meet him outside the Opera House in thirty minutes? Harry had said yes, slammed down the phone, left the building, climbed inside the Audi held for his use.

He'd driven slowly along the Opern Ring, spotted Candlestick, pulled into the kerb and Candle had dived into the front passenger seat almost before Harry opened the door. While he listened, Harry drove round the whole Ring system at a sedate pace.

I've just come out of the DDR,' Candle had said. 'I think I'm being followed..

`Great. That's all I need.'

Candle had hardly heard him as he rabbited on in German. `I came from Leipzig through Czecho, crossed the border at Gmünd. I thought you should know quickly...'

`Know what?'

Candle was wearing a rumpled brown raincoat and a cap. He'd never looked anything much, which was part of the secret of his success. He didn't look clever enough to worry about. His face looked more bony than ever, his thin nose longer, his spaniel eyes more mournful.

`That Dr Berlin has just returned to the Federal Republic — from London.'

`How the hell do you know that?'

Harry's technique was always the same dealing with agents who worked for money. Aggressive manner, short bursts of invective. Put them on the defensive. Make them feel important and they'd ask for more money.

`I got it from a contact in Markus Wolf's headquarters in Leipzig...'

`Wolf works out of East Berlin. Every schoolboy knows that.' `He has a secret HQ in Leipzig. My contact is on his staff.

He listened in on a conversation from someone in East Berlin.' `And who was this person in East Berlin talking to?'

`Markus Wolf himself. They use the code-name Balkan for Dr Berlin...'

`Balkan? Dr Berlin? What is this goulash you call information?'

`My informant knows about the code-name. He is high up in Wolf's organization. An Intelligence officer, if you must know.' `I need to know everything if I'm to believe anything.'

`It took all the money you gave me to obtain this — the fact that Dr Berlin is someone in London...'

`All the money?' Masterson sounded incredulous. 'That should have lasted you for months. It was a small fortune.'

`What I've given you is worth a small fortune,' Candle insisted. 'Someone in London,' he repeated.

'Sounds like a bloody fairytale to me,' Masterson snapped. `Check it with London. But be careful — Dr Berlin could be someone high up. My informant said he was...'

`So, give me a name.'

`Oh, he didn't know that..

`Sweet Jesus! You throw my money around like confetti. You don't expect more, I hope?'

`If I'm to go back there, find out more, I need funds.'

`Take this.'

Masterson opened the glove compartment, handed Candle an envelope stuffed with deutschmarks. He drove on while Candle carefully counted the amount. He slipped it inside his pocket, looking more mournful than ever.

`It's not what I expected..

`It's all you're getting. Anything else? No. Right. Where do I drop you?'

`In front of the Opera House. I'm staying at the Astoria — it's only a short walk from there. I don't want to he on the streets a moment longer than I can help. I was followed.'

`You said that before. Shake them, for God's sake. I'll be seeing you.'

He'd dropped Candle back in front of the Opera House, driven on to his office, told Lancing to take control until he got back. His Porsche was parked in a secret garage some distance from headquarters — no one on his staff knew it existed.

Masterson recalled all these recent events as he sped along the autobahn through the night. He had to reach Hamburg by morning. The information Candle had given was disturbing — to him personally. He could have flown, but he needed mobility.

Hugh Grey flew direct to Frankfurt International, took a cab from the airport to his headquarters — housed in a concrete slab of a building near the Intercontinental Hotel where he frequently entertained visiting members of the Bundestag from Bonn.

`Keeping my finger on the pulse,' was one of his favourite phrases.

He spent the rest of the day reading carefully typed reports prepared by what he called his 2-ic. If it was down in writing no one could later say he'd misunderstood them. Grey was notorious for his use of files.

It was late evening when he called in his deputy, Norman Powell, told him to take charge again. 'I have to check on something which has just cropped up,' he explained. 'And — taken by and large — you've done quite well. Keep up the good work...'

Grey had chosen Powell for the job for two reasons. First, he was good at admin. Second, a plodding man, Powell posed no threat to his own job. Grey had a leisurely dinner by himself at the Intercontinental's
Rotisserie
, ordering only a half-bottle of Chablis.

After the meal he collected the office Volvo from a nearby underground garage and drove north out of Frankfurt, moving quickly on to the autobahn. He didn't realize it, but Masterson was coming up behind him, still driving like a maniac between Mannheim and Frankfurt. Grey drove carefully, keeping within the speed limit. His destination — Hamburg.

Guy Dalby, characteristically, moved faster than any of his colleagues. He could have flown from Gatwick direct to Belp, the small airport outside Bern. Instead he flew to Geneva. He'd phoned his deputy before leaving London and Joel Kent was waiting for him at Cointrin Airport.

They had dinner together at the
Au Ciel
restaurant with huge picture windows looking out on to the nearby Jura Mountains.