Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

When he'd phoned Vollmer from Hamburg his Altona contact passed him a message from Wolf. 'The Captain will return. Then you can meet him again…'

The Captain was the codeword for Tweed. God knew why Wolf was so confident Tweed would return. But Wolf, Munzel knew, had made a special study of the Englishman, had built up a bulky file recording his appearance, his habits, his likes and dislikes. Some of the data had amazed Munzel when shown the file before crossing into the West. Almost as though Wolf had someone who saw Tweed frequently in London …'

Munzel put the idea out of his mind. It was too dangerous even to contemplate. He put down the mirror, raised a hand to smooth down the long hair over the nape of his neck. Just a few more days…'

`Now, as always, we assume the worst,' Falken announced.

`Why do you say that at this moment?' Newman asked.

Falken had driven him with Gerda to the strangest of places to rest up before they proceeded to Leipzig. They had covered a long distance in the Chaika, some of it in broad daylight. Then Falken had turned off a main elevated highway down a track leading alongside a small canal. They had stopped the car and got out at a lock-keeper's cottage, a square, ugly, brick-built building, one storey high and next to an ancient pair of lock-gates.

Beyond the old heavy wooden door, which Falken opened with a large key, a musty damp smell assailed Newman. They walked straight into the living-room which was sparsely furnished with cheap wooden chairs, a wooden table in the centre and framed pictures on the walls of various canals.

`We must conceal the car at once,' Gerda said. 'It is all right, Mr Thorn,' she remarked, addressing Newman. 'Josef and I will deal with it. Maybe you would light the fire?'

Then they were gone and he heard the car start up. Newman picked up a Leipzig newspaper thrown down on a couch which was losing its stuffing at one end. Dated a week ago he noted as he separated several sheets, screwed them up loosely and stuffed them under the pile of logs and twigs inside a smoke-blackened brick fireplace. He used the stubby lighter made in Karlmarxstadt, the place where he was supposed to have been born, to set light to the paper. He had to use a poker to coax the twigs to burst into flames and lick round the logs, and began a quick exploration.

Below the window the manually-operated lock-gates stood closed. The dark water was fresh, no sign of scum on its surface. There was an old-fashioned kitchen leading off the sitting-room, equipped with an ancient iron range for a cooker. All mod cons were conspicuous by their absence.

Through this window, partially obscured by condensation, he had a clear view across fields of some crop to the elevated highway in the distance. Another door led to a bedroom with a large double bed and a dark oak headboard. The place was depressing, but he noticed signs of recent habitation – the crushed stub of a cigar in an ash-smeared bowl.

He walked back into the sitting-room and Gerda was removing her head-scarf while Falken fiddled with the fire. Her hair was reddish-brown and soft, her blue eyes stared back at him with a hint of challenge. She wore no makeup but was more attractive than he had realized. They both moved very silently – he hadn't heard them return.

`Want to see how we've hidden the car, Mr Thorn? Come to the door…'

At the end of a track a few hundred metres from the cottage a great hump stood, a hump covered with an enormous sheet of canvas. Open at the end facing the highway, the front of a tractor was exposed.

`The Chaika is behind the tractor,' Gerda explained. 'Anyone spotting it from the highway will assume it is a large farm tractor.'

`Clever.'

`Mr Thorn, we have to be careful of everything – from the moment we wake until we sleep. And then only one sleeps – the other stays awake on guard. We can never relax. For this work you have to be strong. Up here.'

She tapped her well-shaped forehead and led the way back into the cottage. She was carrying the windcheater tucked under her arm. Newman gestured towards it.

`You have the Uzi with you.'

`Yes, see.'

She whipped the folded windcheater open and took hold of the automatic weapon, pointing the muzzle at the wall. He reached for the gun and she hesitated.

`You are familiar with the Uzi? It fires at a tremendous rate per second. You have to exert the most sensitive control.' `I've trained with it.'

He balanced the weapon in his hands and she produced three metallic objects he recognized from the pockets of the windcheater. Spare magazines. He emptied the weapon he was holding, then rammed the magazine back into place, held the gun and aimed it at the wall.

`Yes,' she decided, 'you know it. That is good. You might have to use it. But only when there is no other option. We rely on secrecy, on moving about without the Vopos realizing we exist..

`Come here, my friend,' called out Falken who was sitting at the table. 'We have much to do.'

`I will make coffee and some food,' Gerda said, laying the Uzi wrapped inside the windcheater on the floor. She took an ancient cushion from the single arm chair and put it beside the windcheater.

'Isn't that dangerous – leaving the gun on the floor?' Newman asked.

`In an emergency,' she told him, 'it is the last place that intruders would expect to find a weapon.' She produced several packages from the capacious pockets of her green corduroy hunting jacket. 'Coffee,' she repeated, 'but we will have to make do with powdered milk. Liquids are tricky -they can leak.'

`Take the binoculars,' Falken said, handing her the pair he had unlooped from round his neck. 'Watch that road while you see to our stomachs.'

`Aren't field-glasses suspicious things to have if you're stopped?' Newman enquired as he joined Falken, sitting down at the table.

`Why! I am a member of the Bird Sanctuary Conservation Service. What is my job's first requirement? Binoculars – to observe birds and fowl from a distance.'

`Of course.'

`As I said earlier, we must assume the worst. Have you the extra photos of yourself Toll said he would supply?'

`In the sole of my right shoe…'

`Let me have it.'

`What is the worst we are assuming?' Newman asked as he handed him the shoe.

`That Schneider has reported encountering us in the forest last night. He may not have, but we cannot take the risk. If he has, they will be looking for Albert Thorn of the River Police. So! I am a magician.' He grinned engagingly. 'You now become Emil Clasen. Of the Border Police.'

`Border Police?' Newman's tone was incredulous.

`A double bluff. Whatever they expect you to be, it will not be a member of the Border Police. Also there is another reason which I will explain later.'

Falken had a chamois pouch he had unrolled, exposing its contents, a collection of delicate metal instruments. He held in one hand a pair of tweezers, in the other the shoe which he held up to the light. think I see them. Very expertly concealed.'

He inserted the tweezers gently inside a slit in the thick sole of Newman's shoe, withdrew them holding the edges of three small photographs of Newman. He studied the photos.

`What are the tweezers for?' Newman asked.

`Part of my job. Essential equipment – like the field-glasses. I use them for extracting a thorn – any impediment – which may have lodged in the foot, say, of one of my sanctuary birds or fowl. I last used this on a rare goose.'

`And who does this cottage belong to?'

`The lock-keeper. Let us call him Norbert. An old man who is nearly seventy. He was anti-Nazi during the war. Afterwards he was anti-Communist. He says there is no difference. Both have their secret police. Both brain-wash the young, continue the process with youth movements. Both have concentration camps for non-believers. The Russians call it the Gulag. For some men the world is never right. Such a man is Norbert who looks after the lock.'