Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`Gunter, you stupid sod, you've started a fire. Better get down there and put it out. There have been enough warnings on TV…'

Newman knew he had seconds to decide. Was someone still looking down over the parapet? He pointed to the clump for Gerda's benefit. Moving carefully, watching where he put his feet, he peered out from under the arch, looking up, sideways. No one. He put his foot firmly on the burning grass, pressed down, held his foot there, removed it, slid back under the arch. He waited, sweat streaming down his forehead.

`Hey, Gunter! Don't bother. It's gone out. Just watch it in future…'

A clap of thunder like the boom of a siege gun muffled the rest of his sentence. It was suddenly very dark. Large spots of rain began falling. The cloudburst came without warning. Rain hammered down into the gulch, turned to hail. Doors slammed above them. Hailstones the size of large peas came down. They heard them pounding the roofs of the two cars parked on the bridge. Then solid sheets of rain. Newman retreated further away from the arch, alongside the camper. The sound of car engines starting up, driving off.

`Gerda, I want a word with Falken. Do you mind staying for a few minutes. It needs someone outside to hear another car coming.'

`Go talk with Falken.'

Newman climbed into the cab, walked into the living quarters. He sat opposite Falken, told him quickly what had happened. Through the rear windows he would see the rain falling, blotting out his view down the gulch after a few yards.

`Falken, a word about this Dr Berlin business. All right, he's a fake. The Piper woman convinced me. But what is he really up to? Why take all this trouble to establish him in the West? I have a friend in the British SIS. High up. And he needs to know all you can give me.'

`We think he's Balkan, the code-name for the controller of the vast Soviet spy network in the Federal Republic. When I say Soviet, I mean by proxy. Markus Wolf is his immediate controller, but the Russians pull the strings.'

`And how on earth do you know all this?'

The scepticism was obvious in Newman's tone. Falken hesitated, eased his leg into a more comfortable position along the couch. Beyond the rear windows the rain had become a solid wall of water pounding down.

`My friend simply won't believe you,' Newman pressed. 'Not without background details. Would you? In his place?'

`No. This is highly confidential. Somewhere in the DDR I know a senior officer in Intelligence. He wants to clear out to the West when his father dies. The father is eighty-nine. He'll need my help to cross the border. He's building up his credit balance with me by passing on information. He heard about Balkan. By accident. Is that enough for your friend? It has to be.'

`That will do nicely…'

`I was going to tell you about Balkan later – just before I left you with Gerda. But not my source.' Falken smiled. `You reporters are very persuasive chaps. You have to be, I suppose.'

`And when do I start the journey along the escape route? Soon, I hope. For your sake as well as mine. You can do without having me on your back. I reckon our luck is due to run out pretty soon now…'

He stopped speaking as Gerda pushed open the door separating the cab from the living area. She squelched in her shoes. Taking them off, she took out a fresh pair from a cupboard, used a cloth to partially dry her feet before putting them on.

`You'd better come and see what's happening, Emil. I think we have trouble.'

Falken heaved himself up on one elbow, opened the flap of one of the cupboards above the couch. Newman asked him what he was looking for.

`Walking stick. I'm coming with you…'

Newman found the stick, a heavy briar with a curved handle. Falken took it from him, planted his legs on the floor and stood up. He grinned as he tested his damaged ankle.

`That's better. Now Gerda has bandaged the ankle I have support. Let's see what's wrong.'

Newman followed Gerda beyond the flap door, holding it open for Falken, and stared through the windscreen. The gulch had turned into a river, inundating the track. Water sluiced down the banks, the level was rising as they watched it. Weeds torn away by the force of the deluge floated on the surface. The curtain of rain reduced visibility to only a few yards.

`Is this camper amphibious?' Newman asked grimly.

`I wonder whether we can make it,' Falken mused aloud. `The camper has a high chassis. Even so. The drains, the soakaways have got blocked over the years.'

`I say we start now,' Newman said. 'It can only get worse.'

`We were just going to eat,' Gerda protested. 'I'm hungry.'

`Always eat, sleep and pee when you can. The first two will have to wait. I suggest we deal with the third while we're still under the arch..

`There's an elsan lavatory at the back,' Gerda reminded him.

`We may want to leave no trace that we've occupied this vehicle,' Falken said as he opened a door. 'No, Emil, don't help me. I must learn to get as mobile as I can. Gerda, get out the other side of the camper.'

Newman stood alongside Falken as they relieved themselves. The German went on talking, his stick hooked over one arm. The noise of the rain was like flails beating the ground. Both men stood on a stone ledge projecting from the stonework, just above the water level.

`You drive, of course,' Falken said. `Gerda can feed you – so we accomplish two tasks at the same time. The danger is the water will flood the engine…'

`I know. I've had to cope with that before.' He glanced beyond the arch. 'The one advantage is we're hardly likely to be seen while this lasts.'

`Especially from the air.'

`The air?'

`A traffic helicopter. One of Wolf's machines. They'll all be grounded. This rain may save us.'

Newman drove out from under the arch cautiously. He'd had to switch the ignition on six times before the engine started. Not a good omen. The windscreen wipers gave him no vision. They'd lost the battle with the downpour before they started swishing.

He drove slowly beyond the bridge, just able to see the banks on either side, steering a course midway between them. It was pure hell. Then he felt the track descending down an incline.

Jesus! They were moving into deeper water. The rain hammered the roof above the cab. Rivulets of water poured down the windscreen. He bumped over something unyielding. Another of those bloody sleepers. Just so long as he didn't hit another rock. The speedometer registered 10 kph. The engine felt sluggish. He leaned forward, hardly able to believe his eyes. Ahead of the camper a wave was travelling over the surface away from him, a wave built up by the high bumper of the vehicle. God, no wonder the engine was protesting. Gerda sat in the passenger seat beside him, holding a sandwich made of rye bread and cheese. He was ferociously hungry. He shook his head. 'Not now, thanks. I need both hands for the wheel.'

`So, I feed you, like a bear at the zoo. Bite off what you'd like.'

She held the sandwich close to his mouth. He took a bite and chewed. Between eating four large sandwiches he risked taking one hand off the wheel, took the cardboard cup of hot coffee and drank. Sensibly, she only half-filled the cup each time. The world became a different place.

Falken stood behind them, leaning against the door with one shoulder, supporting himself with the stick. He kept checking his watch, leaning forward, looking for landmarks. He watched the odometer. The rain slashed down as heavily as ever. Newman glanced out of the side window. The camper seemed to be floating. They had reached a level stretch. The engine started coughing. It was flooding. Here we go, he thought.

His knuckles were white with gripping the wheel. Then he felt the angle of the track changing, climbing. He kept to the same speed, resisting the temptation to press his foot down a little. The engine was still coughing. Hold out, just a few more yards. Please!