Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

The Intelligence chief glanced at Lysenko to see if he had got the message. No, he hadn't, he decided. He explained at greater length.

`First, Munzel has made his second report via the Eichholz watch-tower. He has signalled the arrival of Tweed at the Hotel Jensen in Lubeck. We spun out a string for Tweed to follow – and he is following it. Second, Munzel will want to study his target, get to know his habits, his way of going about things.

Only when he has a complete picture of Tweed will he strike.

And in any case, Balkan will soon arrive in Lubeck. Our eagles are gathering…'

`There is a time limit.'

`No, General, there is no time limit.' Wolf's graven image of a face became bleaker. 'From my informant inside the Berliner Tor in Hamburg I hear both the deaths of Fergusson and Palewska are regarded as accidents. That shows Munzel's great competence. It is only this pest of a Federal policeman, Kuhlmann, from Wiesbaden, who is unconvinced. A clever man, Otto Kuhlmann…'

'He may have to be eliminated…'

`God forbid!' Wolf was appalled. 'An intimate of Chancellor Kohl himself? I understood from you the General Secretary warned there must be no incidents – only accidents.'

'And yet,' Lysenko sneered, turning away from the window, 'you tell me Munzel is an expert on accidents…'

'Bonn would never believe Kuhlmann had an accident. More than that, Kuhlmann would smell Munzel as coming from the DDR a mile off. Fortunately he has no suspicions in that direction.'

'And why is Munzel known as The Cripple? He's as fit as a Nazi storm-trooper. Looks a bit like one.'

`Because he often adopts the guise of a cripple on a mission. Who suspects an apparently blind man? Or a man in a self- propelled wheelchair? It is some such technique he will use when he eventually deals with Tweed. Now, if you don't mind, I'll continue arranging my files…'

`Ah, the files. Yes, do be sure they are in order,' Lysenko urged in a sarcastic tone.

For the next week Tweed seemed to Newman to have lost his sense of direction and purpose. They wandered round the island of Lubeck in the sunshine and the heat which had become torrid. Lubeck was full of holidaymakers, which worried Newman. Too many crowds.

Mostly Germans, they sat at pavement cafes, drinking and chatting. The Jensen was a small, well-run establishment and Tweed's window overlooked the twin towers of the Holstentor across the river. Across the road from the hotel pleasure boats moored and picked up passengers for river cruises. It was a lazy, relaxed atmosphere.

Tweed spent some time talking with the Jensen's manager, a man who liked the English and was both shrewd and knowledgeable about conditions on both sides of the border. Newman got to know the blonde woman, Diana Chadwick, who wore her hair short and reminded him of pictures he'd seen of girls in the '30s before the war.

`You simply must come to Travemunde,' she said to him over a drink outside the Jensen as they sat at a pavement table. 'There is the most divine crowd there. Boaty people and tremendous fun. You'll get an idea of what life used to be – when every day we enjoyed ourselves. None of your creepy machines – computers or whatever they're called…'

`They are called computers…'

`And if you live in England now they have you all listed in one of their beastly machines. No privacy any more. Just like a police state, I say. Credit cards and all that. Came from America, of course. Everything awful comes from America. I hate the place.'

`You have been there, then?'

'Once. New York. Those dreadful canyons. Why go to Arizona – or wherever the Grand Canyon is? New York is full of them. I did have the most marvellous time, actually. Everyone asked me to lots of parties. But I felt I was an exhibit. "Look, we have a Brit. girl. Isn't she quaint? Love to hear her talk – so different from us." ' She finished her Bloody Mary and said yes, she'd love just one more. 'So different from us,' she repeated. 'Thank God, I thought. Who'd want to be like you?' She smiled and studied her companion. 'Bet you think I'm the most awful snob. Which I am, of course…'

'You mentioned Travemunde,' Newman reminded her. 'Isn't that where Dr Berlin lives?'

'Only part of the year. He's away at the moment. Expected to join the fun any time…'

'Where is he then?'

`God knows. He goes off without telling a soul where. But he has his refugee work. He's bonkers over that. Can't understand why. People must cope on their own. I've always had to…'

'Where were you born?' Newman lifted his glass to her.

Diana Chadwick had slim, well-shaped legs, a small waist and a good figure, not over-full. She wore an attractive summer dress with polka dot design, a high neck and a pussy bow. Very feminine. Her bone structure was well-defined, a straight nose above a firm mouth suggesting character, a trait reinforced by the pointed chin.

Her most striking feature was her sapphire blue eyes which held a hint of wickedness which also showed when she smiled and stared direct at Newman. He thought he could listen to her soft voice all night long. Above all it was her personality, her air of cool assurance which appealed.

`Hampstead, London,' she said, knocking ash from her cigarette into the tray. `My father was in the Colonial Service – so we moved around the world from place to place. My education was, to say the least, spotty. A term in Kuala Lumpur, another in Hong Kong, then on to Nairobi in Kenya. Both my parents were killed in a car crash when I was eighteen. By nineteen I was married. It was in Kenya where I first met Dr Berlin. He wasn't much older than me – but even by then he had become a legend.'

`Quite a coincidence – that you should bump into him again here in Lubeck of all places…'

`Mr Newman.'

`Bob will do…'

`Diana. Bob, would you by any chance be interviewing me – doing a piece on Relics of the Empire?'

`I'd hardly call you a relic…'

`You're dodging the question.' She waved her cigarette – held in an ivory holder – at him, took the sting out of her remark with her smile.

`No, I'm just enjoying talking to you. I haven't written one piece for a newspaper in over a year..

`Why not? All that money from your bestseller make you lazy?'

`My wife died…'

`I'm sorry to hear that. I have a gift for saying the wrong thing. I'm sure people ask me to parties to hear me put my foot in it. I say the most outrageous things. I'm going to say one now. Are you looking for a new woman?'

`I might just be doing that…'

Her complexion was flawless, Newman thought. Her skin was dead white. On the chair beside her rested a wide-brimmed elegant hat of straw. Another touch of the 1930s. And the tropics. No girl worth her salt ever exposed her skin to the rays of a Nairobi sun.

`Then again,' she said lightly, 'you might be after an interview with Dr Berlin. Very difficult. I might be able to help you if that is what you're here for…'

`Thank you. I'll bear your offer in mind. Why are you staying at the Jensen when your friends are out at Travemunde?'

`To get away from them, of course!' The wicked smile again.

`I like to be on my own from time to time.' She glanced down. `Damn! I've got some drink on my frock…'

Frock. Newman had only read the word in novels written twenty years or more ago. A German at the next table, a tall blond man of thirty or so, handed her a glass of water.

`Thank you so much,' Diana said. 'That's just what I need…'

`Glad to be of service. Any kind of service…'

`Oh, yes?' Her expression froze and she used a paper napkin dipped in the glass to dab at her dress. The German pushed back his chair, grinned again at her and strolled off.

`A regular charmer,' Newman observed.