Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`I can't see Lindemann,' Newman observed.

`Patience. We'll walk up and down the platform… `

Who are those people?'

Newman pointed to a small group who had left the train and were standing by the road outside. About a dozen passengers, no more.

`They're waiting for the local bus to Burg. That's a nowhere place,' Tweed commented. 'Only a handful of houses and shops – but the largest hamlet on Fehmarn. Ah, who have we here?'

Newman hardly recognized Erich Lindemann as he alighted from the express. He wore a Norfolk jacket, corduroy slacks, a deerstalker hat and, perched on the bridge of his nose, a pair of crescent-shaped glasses. Shrewd grey eyes stared at Newman over the top of the lenses. His whole appearance was changed and he looked the very image of The Professor.

`You've come up on the same train as us – from Lubeck?' Newman asked, puzzled.

`That is how it would appear to anyone observing us.' Lindemann smiled wryly. 'As soon as the express train arrived I boarded it at the front, walked half-way through the train until I found you, then I got off. Shall we stroll up and down – I'm catching this express back to Copenhagen and it leaves at 17.25. That gives us less than ten minutes.' He turned to Tweed. 'In view of the news I bring I am glad you have Newman with you. Keep him by your side at all times…'

`What news?' Tweed asked. He raised a hand to his hair which was blowing all over the place. The air was fresh with a salty tang and a powerful breeze came in off the Baltic.

`For months I have been trying to discover the identity of the man who controls the army of enemy agents infesting West Germany. All of them East Germans, of course. Yes,' he continued in his precise way as they walked, 'I know that is strictly speaking the job of Hugh Grey, but our territories overlap. All these ferries crossing the Baltic – here and at Lubeck.

`What have you found out?' Tweed enquired.

`His code-name. Balkan. I know it isn't much. But I have also heard Balkan has arrived in Lubeck very recently. I thought you should be warned.'

`Where does this information come from, Erich?'

`I can't identify my informant, of course. Let us say I made a quick flight to Oslo recently. An interesting city – and of course just north in the mountains is the great NATO base.'

`I see…' Tweed was silent for a short while. He was pretty sure he knew what Lindemann was saying. Norway. In the far north there was a curious area close to the Barents Sea where a section of the Norwegian frontier ran next to Soviet Russia. It would take a brilliant agent to cross from Russia – but Lindemann was a brilliant sector chief.

`This Balkan,' Tweed continued, 'have you even the hint of a clue as to where he comes from?'

`Not the trace of a hint. I am told that only Lysenko himself is privy to his real identity. That gives you some idea of the power Balkan wields. Life and death, according to my informant. There is one other thing. He has been in place, holding that position, for a long time – probably many years…'

`Strange we've never heard of him before…'

`No, that's understandable. One other tiny item.' Lindemann was pacing slowly between Newman and Tweed. 'Lysenko changes the code-name at intervals. But he has been called Balkan for some time. I was also told he is very mobile.' He checked his watch. 'And that, Tweed, I am afraid is it. I'd better board my train in a minute…'

`Thank you for coming, Erich. And for the information. I sense we now have movement by the opposition…'

`Don't forget my offer,' Lindemann said as he opened the door of an empty compartment. 'If things get overheated down here, phone me and I'll meet you in Copenhagen off the express. Don't fly. Oh, it's possible Balkan is based in Oslo.'

The door slammed shut before Tweed could react. They decided to go for a walk along the country road since their train back to Liibeck wasn't due. Newman glanced back at the express which was still standing in the station and then a bend in the road hid it from view.

'Lindemann is all brainpower,' Newman remarked as they bent their heads against the wind.

`And a man of many parts. You'd never dream that when he was a few years younger his main relaxation was amateur theatricals. He could have made his living on the stage, I heard…'

`I didn't recognize him immediately when he came out of that compartment. He's still pretty good at disguising his appearance. I was also intrigued by the few snippets he's picked up about this Balkan. It's a thin comparison, I know, but he reminded me of someone else we've heard about recently…'

`Are we thinking on the same lines?' Tweed wondered aloud.

`Dr Berlin…'

`Exactly. Why?'

`Lindemann said Balkan has held his position for a long time, that he is very mobile. Diana told us Berlin is like a grasshopper, jumping all over the place. No one knows where he disappears to. Also he lives like a hermit, won't normally be interviewed. He gave me mine a couple of years ago to shut the others up, I'm sure. The weird thing is when I was talking to him I felt I'd met him before…'

`The trouble is one fact blows a hole right through such a theory. Diana Chadwick. She knew him way back in Kenya – that was twenty years ago. He can hardly have been Balkan then.'

`I suppose you're right.'

They walked in silence, each man mulling over his thoughts, for some time. Tweed checked his watch and said it was time to get back to the station. They were on board the train, travelling south, again in an empty compartment, when Newman said it.

`Tweed, we've got a lot to think about – and do. I have to check the backgrounds of Diana Chadwick and Dr Berlin. And all at once there are developments coming thick and fast. The party on Priwall Island the day after tomorrow. This business of the mysterious Balkan turning up. And, the imminent arrival of the killer Masterson called The Cripple..

`Should be enough to occupy us when we get to Lubeck,' Tweed agreed.

He didn't realize it, but he had just made the understatement of the year. The situation at Lubeck had exploded.

`All hell has broken loose at Travemunde.'

Kuhlmann, wearing the same sober dark grey suit, stood by the window in Tweed's bedroom at the Jensen, staring at Newman and Tweed. Beyond the window dusk was gathering, a purple glow hung over Lubeck, the street lights had an eerie, dream-like quality.

`And how did you know where to find me?' Tweed asked.

`Had you both followed to the Hauptbahnhof in Hamburg. My man watched you board the Copenhagen Express. First stop Lubeck. A phone call to police HQ here at Lubeck-Sud. Your hotel registration comes through. The Jensen..

`And what has happened at Travemunde?' Newman interjected.

`Another horrific murder of a foreign blonde girl. Rape and then sheer butchery. Found in the woods on Priwall Island. A Swedish girl. Another foreigner. That makes it Federal business.'

`You keep saying "another",' Newman commented.

`Six months ago in Frankfurt a Dutch girl was found in the early hours of the morning on the banks of the river Main. Same modus operandi – if you can dignify such manic frenzy with the term…'

`Could you be a little more specific?' Tweed pressed.

`Good job you've just had your dinner. All right, let's get a little more specific. First, both are blonde girls. This maniac slaughters them with a broad-bladed knife – really cuts them to pieces like a butcher chopping a side of beef. Then, for God's sake, he rapes them. Out at Travemunde they're barring their doors, battening down the hatches at the marinas. Panic isn't the word for it.'

`Surely you're making a very general assumption,' Tweed persisted. 'Look at the distance between Frankfurt and here…'