Colin Forbes: The Janus Man

`He's got a tricky job,'. Tweed pointed out when he could edge in a word. 'That's the sector where you can't tell one German from another – East or West…'

`So, why didn't one of his feelers warn him Fergusson was on to a one-way trip? I'd have known if he'd been heading for the Balkans.'

`Which is your way of saying you don't much like each other.'

`I hate the guts he doesn't have…'

`On that punch-line maybe we'd better end this chat. You'll never better it,' Tweed assured him.

`You watch your back!'

Masterson, his ruddy complexion flushed beneath the coal- black hair, waved a minatory finger at Tweed, gave Monica his quick salute and was gone. Through the door without opening it was Tweed's impression.

`Isn't he marvellous?' Monica cooed, her own face flushed a pinkish tinge.

`I believe that bit about walking the white line with the champagne bottle now,' Tweed told her. `So, we've seen the lot. Any clue as to which one sent Fergusson into the abyss?'

`Nothing I spotted. Did I miss something?'

The door opened again and Masterson reappeared. He closed it and stood staring at Tweed as he spoke.

`I hope you took me seriously. I meant it. I know what I'm talking about. I'm pretty sociable – and that party at Grey's farm…' He stopped. 'Oh, hell, you've had a bellyful of me.'

Monica made a fuss about being busy when Masterson had left the room for the second time. Tweed watched her as she moved files around and then reached for the phone.

`Hold that call,' he said. 'Now, tell me what all that was about. Some party at Grey's farm out on the Wash. What party?'

`It was a couple of years ago. July 14.' She looked embarrassed but Tweed waited, compelling her to go on. 'Grey had a birthday party. Paula acted as hostess – his wife had pushed off and he and Paula were living together…'

`Get to the point. Who were the guests?'

`The four men who are now sector chiefs. Masterson, Dalby and Lindemann. It was Grey's birthday. He asked them all to come for dinner. They happened to be on leave at the same time. So, it seemed an ideal opportunity.'

She stopped and studied Tweed's expression. He looked amused. 'You're thinking I was one of their main topics of conversation?'

`They might have asked you to join them…'

`Why should they? They were all lower down the ladder – men in from the field and in search of relaxation. I'd have put a real damper on their having a free-and-easy time. They need something to get the tension out of their systems. How is it you remember the date so well?'

`July 14? Bastille Day.'

`Of course. And all this time you've kept quiet – thinking I'd be offended?'

`How was I to know how you'd react? It wasn't a piece of information which affected our work. If it had been, I'd have let you know soon enough.'

`I'm sure you would. Now, let me have the tickets for Hamburg, foreign currency, travellers' cheques, etc.' As she took a folder from a locked drawer he threw the question at her.

`During my recent interviews, did you notice any common link?'

`They've all worked in the field. None of them are desk types who haven't a clue as to what it's all about…'

`True. Go on.'

`That's it,' Monica said, her brow crinkled.

`They all have just one European language in common which they all speak fluently. German.'

`Is that significant?'

`How do I know what is significant? It's early days yet.. The phone rang, Monica answered and spoke briefly, then pulled a wry face.

`Company?'

`Yes. Your favourite person. Howard is on his way up now.'

`I really wouldn't have thought this Hamburg affair required your august presence,' Howard pontificated in his most lordly manner. 'Let Hugh Grey handle it – after all, the incident did occur in his sector.'

`The incident, as you call it, involved the death of one of my top men. A second-hand view isn't good enough.'

`I'd hardly call Hugh second-hand. You make him sound like a used car.' Howard chuckled and glanced at Monica expecting a tribute to his wit.

'I'm catching a Lufthansa flight. It's all arranged. And the PM has sanctioned the trip…'

`Oh, my God!' Howard clapped a theatrical hand to his domed forehead. 'Not another of her bloody directives, I trust?'

`Your trust is misplaced.' Tweed sat back in his chair and stared bleakly at his chief. 'And I suspect Fergusson was on to something big – otherwise, why murder him?'

`Don't let's over-dramatize, old boy.' Howard, six foot tall, wearing a new made-to-measure chalk-stripe suit, perched his behind on the arm of an easy chair. 'We don't know that for sure – from what Hugh has just told me…'

`Hugh knows damn-all. I'm keeping the wraps on this one.'

`Hugh's a good chap,' Howard protested. 'And I heard in Paris from Pierre Loriot the quiet streets are empty. The Russian laddies have all gone home – doubtless to listen to Uncle Mikhail and make their number with him.'

`Pierre said that?' Tweed leaned forward, intrigued by Howard's news. The reference to 'quiet streets' was parlance for the Soviet embassies located in discreet areas. 'That was his report,' Tweed pressed. 'What was his opinion?'

`There has to be a difference?' Howard studied his manicured nails, his plump face smug.

`Well, was there? You tell me.'

`I suppose you could say there was a subtle shade of difference. Pierre did say the pregnant silence – his phrase – worried him. Just his opinion though. Pierre isn't happy without something to worry about. Keeps him late at the office – away from that awful wife in Passy. He'd read the telephone directory rather than go home before ten…'

And so would you, matey, Tweed thought, but didn't say so. It was well-known Howard's relations with his rich wife, Cynthia, had become distant. 'Clear out of sight,' was Monica's comment.

If there's nothing else…' Tweed began.

`Think that's all.' Howard stood erect, straightening his tie. `Sorry about Fergusson, and all that. Goes with the territory, of course…'

`Not with my territory,' Tweed shot back as Howard strolled to the door and left the room. He looked at Monica. 'Hamburg next stop…'

July 10 1985. Flight LH 041 arrived at Hamburg dead on time at 1255 hours. Tweed peered from his first-class seat through the window as the machine descended through a grey vapour. The greyness dissolved, Germany spread out a few hundred feet below.

He studied the jigsaw of cultivated fields and plantations of firs and pines. Narrow sandy tracks led inside the woodlands from the outside world. Peninsulas of housing estates poked into the fields, then the countryside was inundated by the urban tide.

More trees as the plane dropped lower. He remembered this approach to Hamburg, one of his favourite German cities. A stranger would never realize he was passing over the city. In the seat behind him Newman was not peering out of the window. His eyes were flickering over the other passengers, searching for anyone taking an interest in Tweed. They landed.

Tweed was the first passenger to walk down the mobile staircase, Newman the third. They had travelled from Heathrow as though they had never met. Tweed was standing by the carousel, waiting for his two cases, when Chief Inspector Otto Kuhlmann of the Federal Police joined him.

`Got a light?' Kuhlmann asked in German, holding his cigar.

`I think I can accommodate you,' Tweed replied in the same language. He lowered his voice as he flicked on the lighter and the German bent forward. 'I have two cases, as you suggested over the phone…'

`Point me to the first one. I'll take that.'

When the first case appeared Kuhlmann leaned forward and heaved it off the moving belt. He then had trouble relighting his cigar with Tweed's lighter. The second case appeared, Tweed grabbed it, accepted the lighter from Kuhlmann and they walked away together from the crowd gathered round the carousel.