Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

Fifteen minutes after midnight. Wolf looked up from his desk in surprise but his expression remained blank. Lysenko had entered the room and Wolf sensed he was still in a bad mood.

`Why have you come back?' he asked.

`Couldn't sleep,' the General growled. 'Any news?'

`Yes, there is. Contradictory reports. I don't like contradictions. The phone has been busy.'

`What has happened?' Lysenko lit a cigarette and stood with his hands in his trouser pockets.

`You know we heard the British reporter, Robert Newman, flew from Hamburg with Tweed to England?'

`Of course I remember that…'

`Kurt Franck has just reported he saw Newman at the Movenpick Hotel in Lubeck this afternoon. He was disguised – wearing dark glasses and a Tyrolean hat. That is, yesterday afternoon.'

`Franck could be mistaken.'

`Franck is never mistaken. He is one of my most reliable men. So now we have two Newmans – one in London, one in Germany. I'm wondering which is the real man.'

`What do you think is going on?'

`There has just been another report,' Wolf continued in the same monotone. 'From the Harz district. Someone short- circuited the electricity supply to the watchtowers. There was a blackout from midnight for exactly ten minutes.'

`Power failure?'

`With the system locked in to a back-up generator? I think not.'

Wolf stared at Lysenko without a trace of friendliness. The Russian stared back at the eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses. Lysenko often recalled a picture he had once seen of Mount Rushmore in the United States, the great cliff where the images of four American presidents had been carved out of rock. Wolf's graven image reminded him of one of those impassive rock faces.

'It is complex,' Wolf continued. 'We had an agent passing over to the West at that point. A blackout had been arranged for midnight…'

'Then surely that explains it,' Lysenko snapped.

'If you would be so kind as to let me finish my report without interruption? The blackout was arranged from midnight to precisely 12.05 hours. Seconds before my man operated a switch the whole system – including the back-up – was short-circuited. The black-out lasted ten minutes. Not five as planned. When my operative pressed the switch again to reactivate the system it didn't work. Five minutes later the system came back on for no apparent reason.'

'A technical hitch?' Lysenko persisted.

'I think not. The missing five minutes worry me.'

God, Lysenko was thinking, these bloody Germans, they have minds like Swiss watches. Probably that was why they almost defeated us during the Great Patriotic War. They aren't men – they're machines. He had come back to make his peace with Wolf, and here they were, at daggers drawn again. He decided to go on the offensive.

'Well, if you're so cocked up about it, what are you going to do?'

'I have already done it. The three men inside the watchtower facing the exit gate have been arrested. They are under interrogation. In any case, they will not return to that tower.'

'Wolf, tell me what you think really happened?'

'How do I know? The two reports – one from Franck, the other from Border Control – only came in a few minutes ago.'

'But you seem to link them. This so-called blackout and the mystery about Newman.'

'I phoned Moscow just before you came back on the special line. I held on while they checked Newman on the computer.' Wolf paused. 'He speaks fluent German. I have just issued a nationwide alert. Photos of him will be here by morning.'

The blurred glow of the border searchlights penetrated the darkness of the fir forest just enough for Newman to get a glimpse of Josef Falken before they had walked into pitch blackness. Tall and slim, he had a long face terminating in a pointed jaw. There was a hint of humour round the corners of the firm mouth, in his pale blue eyes. He spoke in a light-hearted way as though they were embarking on a leisurely hike in friendly territory.

`You ride a bicycle, so Toll informed me?'

`I can, yes. And after three days I will be crossing back over the same route?'

`Toll always plans ahead. The cycles are less than a kilometre from here. Your German is very good. You could pass for one. In fact, you may have to.'

Again the same buoyant note, an apparent total lack of stress. Newman decided he liked Falken. Then he stopped, reached out his hand and grasped the German's arm. He pointed into the forest to their left away from the narrow path they were following.

`Something – someone – moved up there…'

`Yes, my flank guard. Gerda is watching over us. You only need to know her first name. She is carrying an automatic weapon – and she can use it. First lesson for you, my friend,' Falken continued as they resumed walking along the uphill path winding through the forest. 'First lesson,' he repeated, 'this is wartime. We are the underground fighting an alien regime. We are Soviet-occupied territory – The Zone.'

There was silence for a few minutes as Newman digested this and they climbed higher. And now he knew why the searchlight glow had been a blur – the mist was rolling in, coils of white vapour sliding in between the trees.

To his left Gerda was no more than a faint shadow, flitting noiselessly through the forest along a course parallel to their own. It was not at all what Newman had expected. More like being with a guerrilla group. He shivered as the chill of the mist penetrated his raincoat.

Falken wore a thigh-length leather jacket with large lapels which gave the garment a military cut. Corduroy trousers were tucked inside knee-length leather boots with rubber soles. The dense silence of the mist-bound forest was broken by no sound. Even their footwear made no noise on the moss-covered ground.

`Here are the cycles,' Falken said, turning off the path and reaching under a clump of bracken. 'They gave me your height. I think this one should suit you.'

Toll's thoroughness again, Newman thought as he raised the cycle upright and perched on the saddle. It felt comfortable, just the right size. Falken hauled out a larger machine and looked at Newman.

`Make sure your lights are on – including the rear light. It is the regulation.'

`What about Gerda?'

`There is a third machine under the bracken with a basket for her weapon. She will follow us at a certain interval – in case of trouble I like a surprise rearguard…'

The path had ended at a tarred road and they began cycling alongside each other uphill. Falken pedalled slowly until he was sure Newman could handle his machine competently, then he increased the pace.

Falken cycled with his head bent forward. Newman realized he was listening carefully. He suspected the German had exceptional hearing – a man who looked after bird sanctuaries would be accustomed to picking up sounds other men might miss. They had reached the top of the hill and were cycling along a level stretch of road, the beams of their lights showing only a short way ahead in the oily mist when the headlights of a car parked off the road were switched on, catching them full in the face. A voice shouted the command.

`Halt! Border Police. Stand still. We have guns pointed at you…'

Tweed was still working at Park Crescent. He was an owl and his mind moved at full power late at night. He closed the last of the four files and pushed the stack away.

`Shall I try phoning Peter Toll again?' Monica asked. 'I've tried four times so far.'

Tweed checked his watch. 'One o'clock. That makes it 2 a.m. in Munich. Leave it till the morning…'

`Did you find anything in the files?'

`Nothing. Grey, Masterson, Lindemann and Dalby. Not a thing.' He leaned back in his chair and went on talking, thinking aloud. 'How did it all start? Ian Fergusson was murdered. That was the bait to lure me into Germany. Then Ziggy Palewska is killed. A second body to hold my interest. Lubeck. I'm attacked, probably by Kurt Franck. Misfire, thanks to Newman. The central fact of the whole mystery is only my four sector chiefs knew Fergusson was going to Hamburg. Let's call the odd man out Janus..