Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

'Is that so?' Newman commented. 'Sounds a profitable…' occupation. Some rich dowagers like a handsome young chap at their beck and call…'

`What exactly does that mean?' Franck's left fist clenched on the arm of his chair and his tone was savage.

`Now, now,' Tweed intervened. He leaned forward towards Franck. `I'm having difficulty placing what part of Germany you come from.' He waited, a look of cheerful anticipation on his face.

`Why do you want to know that?'

`I make a hobby of locating local accents. Just a foolish hobby of mine.' He smiled genially. `You don't mind my asking?' `Now we're getting personal,' Franck replied brusquely. `I'd have said Saxony,' Newman interjected.

Franck pushed back his chair, stood up and loomed over Newman. The Englishman placed his glass on the table, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles.

`I find your manner obnoxious,' Franck announced. `And you don't seem to appreciate the champagne..

`Obnoxious? I thought we were having a friendly conversation. As to the champagne, it's lukewarm and a rather inferior brand, now that you bring the subject up…'

`Bollinger? An inferior brand?'

`I'm afraid they saw you coming. The bottle may be Bollinger, the contents most certainly are not. Were you thinking of leaving us?'

`You and I will meet again, Newman.'

`Anytime.' Newman gave a broad grin. `Anytime at all…'

Franck turned on his heel, and strode off the cruiser. The gang-plank trembled under his weight, under the heavy thud of his feet. He disappeared amid the tangle of masts in the direction of the Priwall ferry.

`Well,' said Newman, 'that saved him answering the question where he comes from. I must have said something that disagreed with him.'

`I find him creepy,' said Diana. 'And I don't want any more of his bloody champers.' She hurled the bottle over the side. `He used the fact that he'd given me that glass of water at the Jensen to come aboard the other day. Thinks he's a real charmer. That women will queue up to spend the night with him. I simply love the type. A real lady-killer…'

`Maybe you're nearer the truth than you realize,' Newman told her grimly.

`Munzel has reported contact with Tweed,' Wolf told Lysenko as they wandered through the stark streets between the concrete blocks of rebuilt Leipzig. That means he is close to making his move to liquidate him.'

`How recent is the report?'

`Within the past few hours. His contact with Tweed was late this morning at one of the marinas at Travemunde.'

`How does Munzel safely make such a report?' Lysenko demanded. 'I emphasize "safely".'

`We have perfected our communications systems over the years.' Wolf was irked by this constant questioning of his organization. 'Specifically, in this case, Munzel phoned a West Berlin number from Travemunde. A lawyer who specializes in handling any legal problems between families in West Germany with relatives in the East. Bonn trusts him implicitly.'

`So you say. So far the message from Munzel has reached West Berlin. What then?'

`The lawyer has his office within five minutes' walk of Checkpoint Charlie. After receiving the call from Munzel he carries the message in his head and crosses into East Berlin. From there he uses a direct line to me here in Leipzig.'

`I suppose it is foolproof,' Lysenko said grudgingly.

`You'll just have to. take my word that it is. Munzel says he has no doubt he can accomplish his mission within days. At the first opportunity, and those were his very words.'

`So, we are in the hands of The Cripple…'

`He succeeded in Hamburg brilliantly. Fergusson and Palewska were dealt with. Both executions have been accepted as accidents, as I told you earlier.'

`The sooner the better. The General Secretary will be calling for a progress report any moment. I can feel it in my bones.' `So, you will be able to report mission accomplished.'

`The question is,' Tweed said to Newman as they finished their dinner at the Jensen, 'who is telling the truth? Ann Grayle, who calls Diana promiscuous – or Diana herself, who says the Grayle woman is a bitch?'

`Does it matter?' asked Newman.

The restaurant was quiet at 10.30 p.m. and night had fallen outside. They had stayed late at Travemunde, crossing by the ferry to Priwall Island. Diana had pointed out the mansion where Dr Berlin lived. The high wrought-iron gates had been closed with few signs of activity in the grounds beyond.

Two rough-looking individuals had stood close to the gates, gazing at them as they passed. 'A couple of the security guards,' Diana had explained. 'Dr Berlin has a fetish about his privacy.'

They had walked on down the Mecklenburger-strasse – ruler-straight as Diana had described it. Various residences on their right, interspersed with the occasional cafe. To their left the forest spread away towards the channel with a network of footpaths running through it. It was very peaceful, the only sound the distant siren of a ship. They approached a section with six police cars parked by the forest.

`Is this the spot?' Newman asked.

`Yes, this is where Helena Andersen was murdered,' Diana said and shivered.

The police had cordoned off a large area with ropes strung from poles. Newman caught a glimpse through the trees of a line of policemen advancing slowly, beating the undergrowth.

`It's horrid. Let's go back,' Diana had suggested at this point.

Newman finished his coffee. 'Did you get anything from your recce of Priwall Island?'

`Nothing that helps. We'll see what happens at the party tomorrow. And now I do have an idea. You know that area behind the hotel we walked round the other day. I fancy a breath of fresh air…'

`I'll come with you. And I can see you have something special in mind.'

`I'm going out alone – for a stroll past the church.' `Not on…'

`Wait. You follow at a discreet distance. Keep out of sight. We need someone we can question – hand over to Kuhlmann if necessary.'

`It's dangerous. That area in the old town is a labyrinth.' `We must try something, flush them out. I'm leaving now.' Tweed paused on the steps leading down into the street.

People still sat at the tables, drinking, chatting, joking. It was a warm night, the air humid and oppressive. He wiped moisture from his forehead, walked out and turned left along the An der Obertrave, the street running alongside the river on the far side.

Despite the heat, Tweed wore his shabby, lightweight Burberry raincoat. His right hand felt the rubber-cased cosh inside his pocket once given to him by a friend in Special Branch. Normally Tweed would never have dreamt of carrying a weapon, but he had the feeling this trip was dangerous. He was still being led on a rope paid out to him length by length.

He passed the medieval salt warehouses on the opposite bank, their steep gables silhouetted against the Prussian blue of the night sky. Then he turned left again up a side street leading to the church. Lubeck climbed the side of a hill from the Trave river, the ascent was steep, the street little more than a wide cobbled alleyway and quite deserted. Now he had left the river a sudden sinister silence pressed down. No more voices from the holidaymakers. It was as though a door had closed on the outside world.

Tweed trudged slowly up the uneven pavement and for a moment he thought he was entirely alone. Then he heard the sound behind him. Faint at first, it gradually grew louder, coming closer.

Tap… tap… tap…!

He paused, took out his handkerchief, mopped his brow, glanced over his shoulder. It was only a blind man. The tapping sound was the tip of his white stick following the edge of, the ancient stone kerb. He passed under the blurred glow of a lamp at the entrance to one of the alleys leading off the street.