The Janus Man (47 page)

Dalby listened while Kent, in his late thirties and very bright, talked. They drank a Montrachet '83 with their meal which Dalby selected after careful study of the wine list.

`I have to go on somewhere else,' Dalby informed Kent over the coffee, checking his watch. 'Keep things humming over...'

This decision did not surprise Kent in the least. Dalby was a man who believed in visiting his agents in the field to hear direct from them what was happening. The meal over, Kent left Dalby in the restaurant. He had no idea what Dalby's destination might be, nor would he have dreamt of asking. Dalby was a lone wolf.

Erich Lindemann landed at Kastrup, the airport for Copenhagen, waited at the carousel, collected his case, walked through Passport Control and Customs, and made for the bar in the exit hall. He chose a table with its back to the wall, ordered coffee, drank it slowly.

All the time he watched the entrance to the bar, searching for a familiar face. On board the flight from Heathrow he'd made one trip to the toilet at the rear of the aircraft. He had walked slowly down the central gangway, a dreamy look on his face. He was studying every single passenger and his photographic memory recorded them all. At Cambridge he had been a brilliant student; he only had to read a page once and all the relevant data was recorded in his mind.

Now, as he sipped his coffee, he checked to see if one of the passengers followed him into the bar. None of them did. Tweed had not, as he'd suspected he might have done, sent a streetwalker to tail him.

Wearing an old pair of grey flannels and a sports jacket with leather elbow patches, he carried his case back into the entrance hall, paused to glance round like a man unsure of his bearings, checking again, then went out and climbed inside a cab.

`Hotel d'Angleterre, please,' he said in English, his precise voice carrying through the open window where several people stood with luggage, presumably waiting for the airport bus.

Half-way along the fifteen-minute drive into the city past a pleasant suburb with neat houses, trim lawns, trees and shrubs, he tapped on the partition window. The driver slid the glass panel back.

`I've just realized the time,' Lindemann said. 'Drop me instead in the Râdhuspladsen.'

He paid off the driver in the bustling Râdhuspladsen — the Town Hall Square — and walked the last few metres to his HQ inside an old building. The chrome plate at the entrance to the staircase read
Export-Import Services North
. Inside his office he placed his case against the wall and sat behind his desk as his deputy, Miss Browne (`with an "e", please') came in with an armful of files.

An ex-senior Civil Servant, Miss Browne was in her fifties, a tall severe-looking woman with grey hair and the nose of a golden eagle. There were no greetings. He sat back, steepled his hands and listened while she reported.

`Any further news from Nils Omdal about Balkan?' he asked. `Not a word.'

`Then I'll be catching the shuttle to Oslo.'

They called it the shuttle because the fifty-minute non-stop flights from Copenhagen to the Norwegian capital were so frequent. Lindemann picked up his case, glanced at his desk. It was a model of tidiness. The two phones, his slide rule, notepads and pen set neatly lined up.

`A most competent report,' he told Miss Browne, who was now standing. 'Keep the wheels turning while I'm away. Not sure how long.'

`Any means of contacting you?'

`None at all...'

He crossed the Râdhuspladsen as though seeking a taxi. He gave the Râdhuset, with its steep roof and old tiles, an approving glance. One of the many things he liked about Copenhagen. Only two high-rise buildings anywhere near the city centre — the Royal Hotel and the SAS place you passed on your way in from Kastrup.

He walked on past a cab rank and continued on foot until he crossed the wide Vesterbrogade and hurried inside the main railway station. He was in good time to catch the express — the train bound for Rødby. There it would be shunted aboard the huge ferry for transportation across the Baltic — to Puttgarden, Lübeck and Hamburg.

Forty-Four

Newman was grimly aware this was the most dangerous hurdle — entering the fortified coastal zone. Stahl had stopped the truck in front of the closed wire gate. 'No!' Newman whispered. `Don't switch off the engine.'

The warning lights threw a red glow over the bonnet. The two guards walked towards him as he lowered his window. He studied them as they came towards him, trudging on leaden feet, holding their machine pistols slackly in one hand, their faces haggard with fatigue. They'd been on duty all night, probably due to be relieved shortly. That might just help.

The man closest to the cab was tall and thin, his companion was short and squat. Newman said nothing at all as the thin man stood beneath his window. He simply handed out the document he'd taken from Stahl, his expression bleak as he checked his watch.

`What's this?' the guard demanded, snatching the sheet of paper.

`Read it. You can read, I presume? And we're late. If we miss the ship at Rostock, God help you...'

`Don't talk to me like that..

`I said read it! You can recognize a movement order when you see one, can't you? And you might look at the crest at the top. Then perhaps we can get moving.'

`We've had no notification about this vehicle. I want to see inside it...'

`Absolutely forbidden! Read the bloody thing.'

The squat man had joined his comrade, was peering over his shoulder as the thin one examined it in the headlights. Newman heard the squat man mutter, 'Be careful. That's Intelligence...'

`I still want this truck opened up,' the thin man insisted.

Newman turned down the handle of his door, half-opened it, but he remained inside the cab. The two men looked up at the sound. Newman gestured towards the guard hut.

`I'm not hanging about here any longer. Is there a phone in that thing? I'm calling Markus Wolf. He'll be pleased to be woken up, I'm sure. And I'll need your names. That information he
will
want. Look at the signature at the bottom.'

`God,' he heard the short guard say, 'it is Wolf's signature. Like I said, be careful..

Newman pressed home his advantage, his tone terse and clipped. 'It also says,' he quoted from memory, 'that this is a sealed consignment which must be permitted free and uninterrupted passage inside the Rostock port area.
You
...' He paused, 'are interrupting its passage.'

`I've read it.' The thin guard handed the document back to Newman, saw the Skorpion Newman held casually across his lap, carefully pointed away from tke open door. 'What the hell is that for? Who are you?'

Again Newman said nothing. He produced his folder, handed it to the guard, checked his watch again and looked at Stahl with an expression of extreme impatience. The German had begun to sweat, beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead.

`Wipe your forehead,' he whispered. `Use the back of your hand.'

`Border Police,' the thin guard said. 'Special assignment, too. Why didn't you say so earlier?'

`Because,' Newman said with cutting emphasis, 'the movement order is explicit, should have been sufficient. And this gun is to protect the consignment. I have orders to shoot anyone who attempts to look inside this truck. Now, open the bloody gate.'

`We have to check...' the guard began, handing back the folder. 'Let them through,' he told his companion. 'Just doing our duty, Comrade,' he maundered on as the gate swung inward automatically. The three red lights moved with it, which gave a weird effect, and Newman realized for the first time they were attached to it.

`Drive on, for God's sake,' he snapped at Stahl.

The vehicle lumbered forward, picked up speed. In his wing mirror Newman saw the gate closing behind them. They were inside the fortified zone.

*

About three kilometres beyond the guard post they were pass-a ing through a wooded area as the dawn light grew stronger. Newman told Stahl to pull over as they came up to a lay-by.

'Why?'

`So I can get a quick shave. I have a feeling Captain Anders is a man impressed by personal appearances. And you'd better shave, too. You can borrow my kit afterwards...'

`I've got my own stuff.'

`Use it then.'

Newman unwrapped the hold-all containing his shaving materials, propped a small mirror against the windscreen, turned on the overhead light and made the best job he could of it. He'd forced his companion to follow suit hoping it would lift his morale. He'd sensed Stahl had been badly shaken by the episode at the guard gate.

Freshly-shaven, they drove off out of the wooded area. Soon Newman could make out against the pale glow of the lightening sky the silhouettes of great mobile cranes, the type of cranes you see alongside a dock area.

And there was more traffic about. Wheeled and on foot. Workers trudging along for early shifts, trucks coming out from the port area laden with cargo. Huge standards of timber. Brought in from Sweden. Tankers — undoubtedly laden with oil from the Soviet Union.

A strange glow hung over the docks. The Martian-like cranes stood out against the glow of fluorescent lights mingled with the growing dawn. Then it began to rain, a heavy downpour. Stahl switched on the wipers and Newman's view bleared as rivulets streamed down the windscreen. Still clasping the Skorpion, he slipped into a doze, unable to keep his eyelids open.

He was woken by Stahl shaking his arm. He blinked, realized he felt much fresher, more alert. It was still raining heavily, pounding on the cab's roof with a steady staccato. Ahead were the dock gates.

`I'll leave the talking to you,' Stahl said.

No talking was called for. The gates opened inward. A man in oilskins beckoned the truck to proceed. 'Leipzig must have phoned through our registration number,' said Stahl and drove on. The truck bumped over rails set in concrete. It was daylight, if that description could be applied to the grey murk which shrouded the docks.

`The rain could help you,' Stahl commented. 'Everyone will be keeping their heads down.'

He'd recovered his nerve. They passed a giant mobile crane standing on rails. Newman lowered his window a little, peered up. At the top of the crane a light was on inside the cabin. The smell peculiar to ports all over the world drifted in through the window — a compound of resin, oil, tar and the salt air coming off the Baltic.

`Leave the Skorpion with me,' Stahl continued. He reached under his seat with one hand, pulling out a bundle which he handed Newman. 'Oilskins, you'll need them. I have to take the truck immediately to the
Wroclaw
for loading of the guns.

I'll send Captain Anders to see you. Then you're on your own.

There's a small but where you can shelter.'

`How quickly will he come? The longer I hang around the greater the risk..

`No idea. Up to him. You can't hurry Anders.'

`Thank you for getting me so far,' Newman said as he struggled into the oilskin. It had a hood which he pulled over his head.

The truck rumbled past great storage sheds, their roofs gleaming in the rain. Seamen dressed in oilskins and rubber boots hurried across the truck's headlight beams which Stahl still had on. The vehicle was crawling. A huddle of ships, moored prow to stern, their funnels poking up into the murk, told Newman he was close to the wharves. Stahl confirmed the thought.

`There's the but where I'm leaving you. Just wait. You left nothing back in the truck?'

`Not a thing. I was careful. A screwed-up piece of greaseproof paper in the urine bucket. That's it.'

`You get off here. Good luck. You'll need it.

With this encouraging farewell Newman stepped down off the stationary truck, slammed the door shut as the rain hit him, and the truck was moving out of sight round a corner. He'd no doubt Stahl was glad to see the last of him. He pushed open the door of the single-storey shanty-like structure, listened and stepped inside, leaving the door half-open.

Half an hour later, still standing — there was nowhere to sit — he was joined by a German seaman who rushed in out of the downpour. He produced a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Newman, who shook his head, and lit it for himself.

`Waiting to catch a ship, mate?' the German asked. `I hope so.'

He wanted to get rid of the man. Anders might arrive at any moment. The seaman went on puffing at his cigarette, stamping his feet. His boots squelched water.

`Not as bad as it looks,' the German commented. 'Heard the met forecast. Out there beyond Warnemünde the East Sea's as smooth as a millpond. No wind. Overcast all day. I'd better be off. My bosun's a bastard..

Anders arrived half an hour later. A short stocky man with broad shoulders, he wore a navy blue duffel jacket and a peaked cap. He took off the cap and shook water from it out of the door. In his late fifties, Newman estimated. A weatherbeaten square face, a jaw like the prow of an icebreaker, piercing blue eyes. He stood there like a rock, hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket.

`I'm Anders. Who are you?'

`Emil Clasen. I need passage aboard the
Wroclaw
. I want to get out to the West. Anywhere convenient to you will do.'

`I'm not taking you.'

It was like a blow in the face to Newman. He'd come so far. To be pipped at the post now, abandoned inside the DDR. Newman stared back at the Pole. He had to say the right thing first time. There'd be no second chance. What the hell was the right thing?

Then he remembered. Stahl had said Anders didn't like the Germans. Stahl had said that he — Newman — passed for a German. He took a deep breath. He had to gamble everything on one throw, pray that his assessment of the Pole was correct.

`I'm not a German, you know. I'm English.'

`I look stupid?'

`I said I was English and I am. I desperately need passage out of here to the West.'

He'd said these words in his own language. Anders studied his clothes, looked back at his face. His expression showed extreme doubt.

`They have language laboratories in Moscow to teach you to speak perfect English,' he replied in German. `So, you say you're English? I haven't much time to waste on you. Where were you born?'