Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`Any minute now,' Toll said.

`They're late.'

Newman had checked his watch. Five minutes past midnight. What had gone wrong? His right hand felt the shaving kit inside the pocket of his raincoat. Minimum equipment. Ordinary razor, packet of East German blades – like the razor. Small brush. Piece of soap. Also manufactured in the Democratic Republic. Democratic. That was a laugh…'

The lights went out.

Newman temporarily lost his night vision. He'd made the mistake of watching the lights too long. Toll reached out a hand, grasped his arm. He spoke so softly Newman only just caught what he'd said.

`Grab the back of my coat belt…'

They stumbled forwards to the gate, placing their feet carefully. Tufts of grass threatened to bring them down. Newman blinked several times. His night vision began to come back. They were at the gate. Toll raised the handle, prior to trying the first key. The gate opened, moved inward silently on well-oiled hinges. Toll was taken aback. He stood holding the handle, listening, and then he spoke.

`Gate unlocked. Something's wrong..

`Get out of my way. I'm going through.'

It had been over four years ago. His training with the SAS unit. He hadn't thought about it until this moment. Everything came -back in a flood, filling his mind. The sergeant who had drilled him unmercifully.

`Sometimes you'll get lucky. Grab it in both hands. The luck. You'll get one chance only. Don't hesitate. Not for a second. Do it, man…'

Newman had never known his name. He'd come from the Manchester area – judging from the way he spoke. Newman never knew where any of them came from. Bloody nightmare it had been. But a thorough bloody nightmare. 'Just call me Sarge…'

`You won't see it coming. The lucky break. When it comes see it. Grab it. Do it…'

Newman was through the gate and walking straight ahead, crouched low. Behind him Toll closed the gate, decided against trying to lock it, headed back for the parked car, long legs striding over the ground, downhill, fast. Once a man was through you left him to it. He was on his own. Just get well clear of the border – and hope and pray. He was too bloody confident, Toll said to himself and shrugged his shoulders.

Beyond the gate Newman was shit-scared.

The tower loomed up in the night like some alien, a Martian out of H. G. Wells. It was the guidepost. Walk straight ahead, pass the right-hand side of the tower, don't look up, keep moving at a steady pace. That much Toll had known.

Still crouched low, placing his feet flat, he thought he saw a shadow coming towards him. He blinked. Those damned contact lenses. Then he remembered Sarge again. 'Danger. Even a hint of it. Sight. Smell. Sound. Drop flat. Don't think. Drop fucking flat!'

Newman dropped flat, took the impact of the fall on his forearms, sprawled full-length behind a low patch of gorse, buried his head between his arms, head turned sideways. Then he began worrying. Had he done the right thing? Five minutes' duration of blackout, Toll had said. He was wasting precious time…'

He heard the faint crackle, like the sound of a foot breaking a twig. He lay motionless, listening. The shadow had been a man, a man walking stealthily towards him. He flexed his hands. Was he going to have to kill before he had even crossed the belt?

Another crackle, closer this time. Had he been seen? Was this an armed guard checking? He imagined the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against his head. At least he was turned the right way. The cautious footsteps – they were now definite footsteps – were much closer. The stupid bastard might tread on him…'

Newman blinked. He was staring at the side of a man's hiking boot, the type with spiked soles. The foot remained still. He knew, like himself, the unknown man was listening. Newman dug his elbows deeper into the hard earth, ready for springing to his feet.

Then he recalled something Toll had said. This crossing is also used by the East Germans sending agents into the West. We always let them through, never follow them. Something like that.

He was staring at the boot of an agent heading for the West. Hence the unlocked gate which had so worried Toll. By an extraordinary coincidence agents from each direction were passing at the same moment. Coincidence. He remembered something else Toll had said. Only a few minutes ago.

`Best night for a month for crossing. No moon. Heavy overcast forecast. No wind…'

That explained why Spiked Boot was coming out. The boot began moving again. Newman froze. The footsteps grew fainter. Heading for the gate. He couldn't waste another second. Very slowly Newman rose to his feet, glanced over his shoulder. The vague silhouette of the retreating shape had almost disappeared in the dark. Newman walked forward, aiming for the base of the huge watchtower rearing above him.

He paused by the side of the concrete circular pillar, looked up, saw the overhang of the cabin at the summit dimly protruding like a gigantic umbrella. From here he had to walk straight forward to the electronic fence where Falken should be waiting. He started walking, again crouching.

He stopped. Sweat streamed from his armpits. His right foot had trodden on something. He looked down, not moving the foot. It rested on a small mound shaped like an anthill. But this was no anthill. The sole of his shoe had felt unyielding metal beneath it. It rested on an anti-personnel mine.

The damned things detonated under pressure, the pressure of a man's foot. Was it a dummy? Toll had mentioned dummies. Or had the agent moving to the West known where the live mines were? He took a deep breath. Only one way to find out. Lift the foot with care, great care.

He used the heel, still resting on the ground, as a pivot, lifting the sole as though raising it from something live. Nothing happened. He walked on. Watch where you're putting your bloody feet. So much to watch. The tower. His rear. What might wait for him ahead.

On the East German side the minefield belt was lined with more fir forests, a solid black wall. He trod slowly among clusters of grass tufts, round stunted gorse bushes, watching for another of those hard-to-see mounds. He checked his watch. Seven minutes. He was late. The blackout was timed to last five minutes.

He kept moving. At any second the whole area might be flooded with light, those damned searchlights probing. He'd be a sitting duck for one of those swivel-mounted machine-guns. He saw a vague barrier, lower than the wire he had left behind. He had reached the electronic fence. Don't touch!

Where was the flaming gate? They were supposed to be opposite each other, the gates on either side. He had taken great care to walk in a straight line. Or so he thought. So easy in the dark to veer off course. He came up to the fence. No gate. To the left – or to the right? He had to guess correctly first time.

Newman glanced behind. He could just make out the tower. It was a little to the left. He moved along the fence to his right, keeping a distance of about a metre from it. He nearly walked past the gate, constructed of the same mesh as the fence. He checked his watch again. God! Ten minutes.

The gate opened away from him as though of its own volition. Startled, he paused. A tall figure stood holding the gate on the far side of the fence. Newman stiffened his right hand, ready to strike a blow with the side of his hand. The tall man called out, softly.

`Bismarck…'

`Rhine Falls,' Newman replied, completing the password Toll had given him.

`Hurry!' the voice whispered in German again.

Newman slipped through the gate. The tall man closed it and took Newman's arm, pulling him away from the fence. He must have had sixth sense. As they melted into the forest a glare of lights flooded the belt behind them. Searchlights began to probe, moving more swiftly, scanning the forbidden zone. He had made it by less than thirty seconds.