Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`Looks OK to me,' Newman said, handing back the folder as he checked his watch, steel-plated, made in East Germany. `I am in a hurry. Special assignment. Drugs…'

`Drugs? You did say drugs?'

`Heroin.'

He saw the two men exchange a quick glance. I've said the wrong thing, he thought. He stood quite still as the folder was handed back. He pushed it a bit further.

`I have a rendezvous to keep. My informant won't wait.' `Who is the girl?' the tall one asked, his expression giving nothing away.

`Gerda. That's enough identification. She's the go-between. She knows the informant. I don't. The man behind the wheel is the fastest driver in the Democratic Republic. That I need. I also need to make up for lost time.'

`Martin, move the car for Mr Clasen,' the tall man ordered.

`One more thing,' Newman called out after he'd got back into the Chaika, closed the door. 'If you see a blue Lada driven by a man wearing a Russian fur hat, don't stop him.'

`A fur hat? In this weather?'

`Status symbol, I suppose.'

`Stupid, strutting Russkies,' the tall man sneered.

Falken drove on. Newman neither waved to nor glanced at the two Intelligence men as they left. He still maintained the same placid confident pose he'd assumed while talking to them. They rounded a bend and Falken spoke with a hint of amusement.

`A very different performance from that you put on for the late unlamented Schneider.'

`You don't shout at East German Intelligence. Something funny about that conversation. I seemed to say exactly the right thing. Drugs seems to be a kind of password.'

`Just so long as they're not mulling it over back there and deciding there was something funny about us.'

`You see, Martin,' the Intelligence officer was saying to his driver as they approached the highway, 'there is substance to the rumour about the movement of heroin on a large scale. That Border Police chap is involved in it, I'm sure.'

`Maybe it's better for us if we forget we ever met him.' `Met who?'

The rumours were rife at Intelligence headquarters in Leipzig among senior officers. Discussed in whispers behind closed doors. Gorbachev had overlooked one thing. The operation had no code-name. This had aroused curiosity. Markus Wolf himself knew the Russians were up to something they were concealing.

He kept his own counsel. Never asked one question. He had guessed this was the real purpose of Lysenko's temporary residence in Leipzig. Let them get on with whatever they were playing at. They'd make a balls of it. Then call on him to get them out of the shit. After all, it had happened before.

They were back on the highway, caught up once more in the roar and exhaust fumes from the trailer trucks. Falken drove just inside the speed limit, looking all round as they approached the road complex. No sign of patrol cars. He swung off down a slip road, then turned into a lay-by and switched off the engine.

The traffic thundered overhead. They were parked under-neath the intersection of two massive concrete bridges. Surrounded by the concrete supports holding up the whole edifice. Newman closed the window and the decibels of the traffic roar were reduced.

`There is the camper,' Falken said, pointing to his right. `Looks conspicuous,' Newman commented.

The large vehicle, perched on its high chassis, had an empty look. Net curtains were drawn over the windows. Double doors at the rear. A step to make for easy entry. Parked on waste ground, beaten earth with a track leading to it. Overhead one of the bridges sloped down across its roof, leaving a space of maybe twelve feet.

`It's permitted,' Falken said. 'Camping is one of the main ways of taking a holiday in the DDR. And this is the right time of the year. Now, some instructions for you. So listen carefully. At some stage I leave you with Gerda, as I have said. Until you are safely in the West, do not touch alcohol. The laws against drinking and driving are most strict. You are seen leaving a bar, you have had nothing to drink, the Vopos see you. You may be arrested. At best, they will fine you on the spot. Never have a bottle in any vehicle you travel in. You have not touched it. The bottle is sealed. But if they find it, again – you may be arrested. Above all, obey Gerda…'

`For God's sake,' Gerda called from the back, 'stop lecturing him. He's saved us twice. First, Schneider in the fog when he'd just crossed the border. Then the Intelligence men. He knows what he is doing…'

`You are right,' Falken conceded. He smiled at Newman. `I've wondered at times who is the boss of this outfit. I don't like the waiting. I admit it.'

`How much longer?'

`Piper should be here at noon. We give her eight minutes to be late, then we go…'

`Without my talking to her? After I have come all this way!' `There are security rules we never break.'

`And we wait here?'

`For a short while longer, yes.'

Newman tightened his mouth, decided to argue no more. Falken was obviously feeling the strain. Little wonder. He looked at the camper again. It had been freshly painted, the net curtains were clean, the chrome gleaming. It was the location which was so depressing.

Rank weeds surrounded it, clumps of something which could be sorrel. In the distance, beyond it, a track pitted with clumps of grass ran ruler-straight along a deep gulch below the fields on either side. He asked Falken what it was.

`One of our escape routes. An old railway track, disused for years. They took away the rails. The sleepers are now no more than powder. Driving along that in the camper you cannot be seen from the fields alongside it. Now, we will go and inspect. I go first, you wait here. Get behind the wheel. Just in case.'

`In case of what?'

`In case someone is waiting for us inside the camper. When I wave my arm, you come.'

He opened the door and the thunder of heavy traffic invaded the car again, beating against Newman's ear-drums. How the hell he was going to hear a word Karen Piper said he had no idea. He slid behind the wheel. Without looking round he sensed Gerda's tension as they watched Falken wander casually across to the camper.

He walked all round the vehicle, rapped on the window of the driver's cab, waited, hands on his hips. Inside the Chaika the temperature was rising rapidly. It was going to be a record day for heat. Newman took out his handkerchief, wiped the back of his neck, his forehead, the palms of his hands. Thank God they had all had a pee before they left the country road.

`It's all right!' Gerda said.

Falken had unlocked the door, climbed inside the camper. Now he was back at the door, waving to them. Newman glanced at his watch. Five minutes to noon. He climbed out and Gerda called to him.

`Take this for me, please, Emil.'

It was the cloth-covered basket of food and coffee and mineral water Hildegarde Radom had prepared for them. He realized Gerda needed both hands to carry the Uzi concealed inside the windcheater. He locked the Chaika after she had jumped down and started running to the camper. The traffic roar seemed worse as he followed her; over the fields a heat haze shimmered and made him feel hotter, more tired. He'd have to get himself into an alert mental state for questioning the Piper woman. He foresaw it would be no easy interview.

The interior of the camper was more spacious than he'd expected. Two couches which could be used as beds ran down each wall. Falken was erecting a fold-out table between them while Gerda stood on guard by the window facing the Chaika. Newman stood by Gerda, wondering why he felt he had walked into a trap.

`You sit here when you interview Piper,' Falken said, patting the end of one of the couches. 'Then you can see the clock up there on the wall which will be behind her. Watch that clock.'

`There's a time limit?'