Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`Serves you right. You shouldn't have pulled me in here.'

`Vopos. People's Police,' Falken said as Newman stopped the car.

Jackets buttoned to the neck, breeches tucked inside leather jackboots, Sam Browne belts which dangled truncheons, holsters sheathing automatic pistols, Newman noted. He felt chilled to the bone – and not with the night air. A fat policeman swaggered towards them, saw Falken holding the goose and stared.

Falken lowered the window with his left hand. The policeman came close to the window and stared inside. Falken released his grip on the goose's neck.

`Papers!' snapped the policeman.

He reached out a pudgy hand. The goose's neck shot out of the window, its mouth open and pecked viciously. The policeman snatched his hand away, took two steps back. Falken coiled his arm round the neck, withdrew the goose inside the car. He smiled.

`Take them out of my left breast pocket,' he invited. 'You can see I can't risk trying to get them.'

`What the hell is it? Why are you carrying that about this time in the morning?'

`Conservation Service. This is a rare grey lag. Escaped from one of my sanctuaries. You can see the ring on its leg. The Minister was very disturbed when he heard we'd lost it. I thought I knew where I might find it. I got lucky. Go on – my left breast pocket…'

The policeman wandered round the front of the car. Behind his back some of the half-a-dozen police were grinning One chuckled aloud. The fat Vopo turned round, glared at them, hoisted his Sam Browne belt higher and unbuttoned the holster flap. He came up on Newman's side.

`Papers,' he snapped again.

`Border Police. Special assignment unit. And we're in a hurry.' He held the folder in his right hand inside the car. The Vopo extended his left hand cautiously. The goose's neck whipped like a cobra past Newman and pecked the Vopo's hand. He yelped, stared at the hand and tucked it under his right armpit. His plump face was suffused with fury. His right hand dropped to his holster, grasped the butt of the automatic.

`I'll shoot that fucking bird…'

Falken's manner changed as he again coiled his arm round the goose's neck. His voice was commanding, hectoring. `Do that and say goodbye to your pension. The Minister can with equanimity replace you – replacing a grey lag is a different matter. I told you! This fowl – it's not a bird – is a very rare specimen. And I warned you. And you'd better get that hand attended to – it could turn septic.'

`Also,' Newman began, 'you're holding me up.' He checked his watch. 'Almost five minutes so far. Do you think I'd be out this time of night if my mission wasn't urgent? Any more delay and I'll take your name, report you. You've seen my folder, you brainless clot!'

The other policemen stood close by, arms folded, grinning. The fat Vopo hesitated. Newman switched on the ignition and waited, his expression bleak. He looked at his watch again, stared at the Vopo.

`These people have been helping me,' he ranted on. 'They know the district. So I help them. Which delayed me. Any more delay and I miss my rendezvous…'

The Vopo swore to himself, heard the laughter behind him, swung round in a fury. 'Let them through, you bastards. I want nothing more to do with this lot.'

The driver behind the wheel of the central car blocking the highway moved, leaving clear passage. Newman roared on through the gap, watching his rear view mirror. One of the policemen was walking towards the fat Vopo carrying something. A first aid kit, he guessed. His hands were slippery on the wheel and as he drove he wiped each hand on his trouser leg.

`Oh, thank God for that,' Gerda called out from the back. `I am trembling all over. Nice grey lag.'

`Camouflage. I told you,' Falken said. 'How far is it now to Radom's place?'

`About ten kilometres from here. Up a side turning to the right. I'll warn you as we approach it.'

`Step on it,' Falken advised Newman. 'Forget the limit. Risk it. Then if they have second thoughts and come after us we'll be off this highway. We'll get a little sleep at Radom's. Then in the morning it's Leipzig. And there we have to be careful.'

`What the blazes do you think we've had to be so far?' Newman responded and put his foot down.

The road-block they had left behind had been re-established, the three cars forming a barrier across the highway. The fat Vopo's injured hand had been sterilized and bandaged by one of his men.

`There, Gustav, now there is no danger of infection.'

`Thank you,' Gustav growled. 'Now take up your position.'

Gustav was fuming. His left hand looked as though he wore a small white boxing glove. And he was well aware that he was unpopular with his men, that they were secretly laughing at him.

He stood by the radio car, wondering whether he should report the incident. He was very reluctant to do so. That blasted goose had made him look such a fool. He could well imagine how they would react back at headquarters if the story of his mishap reached them. He'd be a laughing stock for weeks.

And he was fed up anyway. Like his men he had been got out of bed to carry out this screwy patrol. All of them were still half-asleep, tired and unenthusiastic as he was. The goose had given them something to joke about. Before they went off duty he'd warn them to keep their mouths shut – otherwise they'd find themselves doing a lot more night duty. He moved away from the radio car. No, he wouldn't send in any report.

`Gustav, another car is coming,' called out the Vopo who had attended to his hand.

From the same direction as the goose car. Gustav felt in his pocket with his right hand. His fingers closed round a wad of forged notes he'd taken off a shopkeeper. He watched the headlights come closer, slowing down. If this was nobody important, he'd plant the notes on him and 'find' them, then arrest the driver. That he would report – which would drive out of his men's heads the goose car incident. Releasing the notes, taking his hand out of his pocket, he adjusted his peaked cap. Gustav, member of the People's Police, protector of the proletariat, knew how to take care of himself.

The Chaika was parked in the side road. Gerda had left Newman and Falken with the vehicle while she walked to the farm to warn Radom they were coming. She approached the heavy five-barred gate which was closed and the only entrance between a high hedge.

The first light of dawn was streaking the eastern sky, shafts of fiery and unseen sun. The honking started before she reached the gate despite the lightness of her tread. More and more honking murdered the quiet. She paused by the gate as the geese kept up their chorus. A stooped, wide-shouldered figure holding a shotgun appeared.

`Ulrich,' she called out, 'it's Gerda. That is you?'

`Who else would it be?' Radom replied in a deep voice. `Come in. The geese are penned up.'

Talken is waiting down the road. With a friend. A friend who has no name. We have a car, a Chaika.'

`Lousy Russian car. Bring them in. Drive the car into the yard close to the house. Hildegarde is up. You need food?'

'I think so. I will fetch them…'

The gate was open when Newman drove the car inside. In the dark a stooping figure closed the gate as soon as he had taken it into the yard. Gerda guided him to an old single-storey farmhouse with a roof angled like a ski-slide. Radom came up to the car, said something to Gerda so rapidly in German that Newman couldn't get the gist.

`Follow him. You have to drive round the back.'

Newman crawled after the stooped figure, hobbling along at a surprising pace. He passed an ancient and monster-sized farm tractor with a high seat. Radom led them round the back of the long farmhouse, along a track across a field and into a hollow surrounded with trees.