Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`My own estimate of the situation exactly.'

`May I ask where we are going? What information you will be providing for me to take back with me?'

`Why not?' Falken smiled. 'Soon we change our form of transport. We have a long way to go and cycling is too slow – hut an excellent procedure near the border. First, however, I am intrigued how you knew we have a drug problem building up in the DDR.'

`I asked Toll what special job I might be assigned to as a member of the River Police. He told me about the heroin.'

`In some ways that man has no idea what conditions we have to work under. Which is why we take our own decisions. In other ways he often surprises me. He is only recently promoted – so naturally I wish to learn all I can about his ability. I have to think of the lives of the men and women I am responsible for. You may laugh, but they look up to me as a father-figure.'

`I'm not laughing. Talking about father-figures, what do you know about Dr Berlin?'

`My God!' Falken chuckled as he kept up his steady pedalling pace. 'You must be telepathic.'

'Why?'

`I asked Toll to send a reliable emissary so I could pass on verbally what we have learned about the august and much- venerated Dr Berlin…'

`You sound ironical…'

`I should. Your Dr Berlin is a fake.'

`You can prove that?'

`With the most solid evidence. Of course, if you were able to check the records at the Leipzig hospital where he went for treatment when he returned from Africa many years ago, you would find he was suffering from a rare tropical disease.'

`So what evidence do you have?'

`I want you to hear it for yourself. We shall transfer to a car shortly. Do you want a pee?'

`Yes. I'm all right for food – I ate well before I crossed over this evening…'

They dismounted and Falken pushed his cycle a few feet off the road, staying close enough so he would hear Gerda if she arrived. `She has a squeaky rear tyre,' Falken explained as they relieved themselves. 'I told her not to fix it. You will like her-but she is very tough. Women can be more ruthless than men..

They were remounting their cycles when Newman heard the squeaky rear wheel approaching through the mist. Falken commented on his acute hearing, took out a small torch and waved it slowly to one side and back again. A slim silhouette appeared out of the mist and braked.

Gerda would be in her late twenties as far as Newman could tell. Her hair was concealed beneath a head-scarf and she had a strong nose and a well-defined chin. She stared at Newman as she shook hands solemnly.

`I heard you dealing with the Border Police,' she commented. `You have had much experience of this kind of work?'

`Not really, no. Just regard me as the new boy.'

`Gerda,' Falken broke in, 'has an Uzi machine-pistol concealed under that folded windcheater in her cycle basket. Can you use the weapon?'

I was once trained to handle it, yes,' Newman replied, and left it at that. 'Now where are we going when we reach the car?'

`To let you interview someone about the real Dr Berlin. You are going to meet a witness…' He stopped speaking as Newman turned to look back the way they had come. 'What is it?'

`I can hear a car coming slowly. It could be Schneider and his sidekick, checking up on us…'

Gerda vanished off the road like a ghost, Pushing her cycle at speed. Newman noticed she had swiftly turned off her lights. Falken chuckled again before he replied, taking the sting out of his remark.

`Mustn't get paranoid, Albert Thorn. They are probably simply returning to their police barracks at Wernigerode. At this game you suspect everything and everyone, I agree. But also remember you will meet many who are merely proceeding on their lawful occasions.'

The slow-moving car's headlights illuminated them from behind, then were dipped. As the vehicle passed them Schneider leaned out of the window, calling to them in a hoarse voice.

`Good hunting, Mr Thorn…'

The car moved faster and was gone, its engine sound muffled almost immediately by the mist. Gerda rejoined them, jumped into her saddle and pedalled behind them.

`I thought there was a trace of irony in Schneider's voice,' Falken commented. 'And he made a point of letting you know he remembered your name…'

`Now who's getting paranoid?'

Falken shook with laughter. For a few seconds his cycle wobbled. Then Gerda overtook them, riding ahead. She gestured for them to halt, jumped nimbly from her machine and pushed it up a narrow track on the right-hand side of the road.

`We have reached the car,' Falken explained as they followed. `It's a Chaika, a Russian car. It gives a certain authority to anyone riding in it. And if you think your recent experiences have been a little tense, they were nothing.'

`What's coming?' Newman asked.

They laid the machines on the ground and helped Gerda who was already using her gloved hands to haul away great clumps of loose undergrowth, exposing the hidden Chaika, swathed with a neutral-coloured blanket over the bonnet to protect the engine against the cold.

They next hid the three cycles, covering them thoroughly with the loose undergrowth. Gerda checked the finished product, walking all round the buried machines before she pronounced that she was satisfied. Under her arm she had tucked the windcheater concealing the stubby-nosed Uzi machine-pistol.

Falken settled himself behind the wheel of the Chaika, his long legs hunched. Newman, at his request, sat beside him and Gerda squeezed herself in behind them. The ignition fired at the sixth attempt.

`What's coming?' Newman repeated. 'Where are we going?'

`To visit the witness you will interview. Concerning gentle and shy Dr Berlin – who does not like his photograph being taken. Our destination, my friend? The centre of Leipzig – only the throw of a stone from the building containing Markus Wolf's headquarters. And at the moment he has a guest, a certain Soviet GRU general – military intelligence. Vasili Lysenko. He must be planning a major operation. Come on! Let's go!'

He swung the Chaika on to the track, turned on to the road and followed the direction Schneider had driven along.

Newman thought the chill of the forest night had increased enormously.

London's Soho had not improved, Tweed decided as he walked along the street. But at least he felt safe now. No longer any reason for keeping an eye open for cripples who might be skilled assassins. It was good to be back in peaceful Britain.

But soon, he thought, he would get restless again – restless to return into the field, to Germany. The human mind was a weird instrument. Always next, the spice of variety. Portman Investigations read the metal chrome plate attached to the side of the open doorway. First Floor.

He was surprised that the plate was shining and clean. He walked inside and started mounting the old bare wooden staircase. He put a hand on the banister rail and hastily withdrew it. The rail was greasy to the touch.

The twin of the chrome plate outside was attached by the side of a closed door, minus the reference to the floor. He knocked, three hard raps. It was opened quickly and Tweed had another surprise. He was expecting something sleazy and shifty.

`Mr Portman?'

`Mr Tweed? You're prompt. More than most of my clients are. Come in, take a pew. Now, how can I help you along the twisted pathways of life in this vale of sorrows?'

A small, round-faced jolly-looking man in his mid-forties, Mr Samuel Portman. Plump-bodied, like a well-fed pheasant. Tweed wondered why he'd likened him to that fowl, then remembered what he'd dined off the previous evening with Diana. His blue, pin-striped suit wasn't Savile Row, but it was well-pressed and clean. Almost Pickwickian in appearance – without the spectacles. Tweed produced the folder and showed it.