Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

He drove on, following her directions. Falken was sprawled along one of the couch seats in the living area. They came to an intersection just as the lights turned against them. Newman braked. There was the slam of a door behind them.

`What was that?' Newman enquired.

'Falken has just left. Look, there he is…'

The tall German was hobbling along the pavement past the camper with the aid of his stick. He continued for a few metres and stopped. Two men in civilian clothes had blocked his path, were talking to him.

`Oh, my God,' Newman said. 'Plain clothes police.' `I think so, yes,' Gerda replied, watching.

Falken had produced his folder, making a performance of balancing himself on his stick. Now he was waving his arms, flapping his hands like a bird. The two men started grinning. After examining the folder it was handed back to him. Falken went on conversing with them.

`He's diverting their attention from us,' Gerda said. Newman sensed the strain in her voice. `I think he was talking about the grey lag when he flapped his arms. He's waiting for us to drive on.'

Falken had glanced briefly over his shoulder as he gesticulated. Newman fumed. Why didn't the bloody light change? It seemed obstinately stuck on red. The longer Falken had to talk the greater the danger one of the two policemen would ask the wrong question.

`When the lights change don't speed up,' Gerda warned, sensing his frustration. 'Falken will cope…'

The lights changed. As instructed, Newman turned left slowly. In his wing mirror he saw Falken hobbling away, the two plain clothes men strolling in the opposite direction. Oddly, Newman felt lost. Falken, the friend he had shared the past few days with, had gone out of his life as swiftly as he had entered it. Again Gerda sensed his reaction.

`No goodbyes. Just till the next time. Concentrate on your driving. We're in Leipzig. And it's crawling with the wolf-pack.' `Wolf-pack?'

`Markus Wolf's men. I've seen them all over the place. You keep straight ahead here…'

Newman swallowed. He had a lump in his throat. For Falken. Ridiculous sentimentality. Keep your eye on the road. Gerda placed a hand gently on his wrist. She had very small hands.

`Emil, listen carefully. We shall soon leave the camper and kill some time in a cafe. You are going out tonight. A very tough young man called Stahl will drive you overnight to Rostock, the Baltic port. You will travel inside a big armoured truck carrying arms to Cuba. We think they are bound for Nicaragua. It will not be comfortable – you will be sealed inside the truck for many hours.'

`Who is this Stahl?'

`You should know – in case the truck is stopped, but that is most unlikely. He is a Party member..

`You have to be joking, I hope.'

`He is a Party member,' she repeated. 'Which is why he has been entrusted with the task of driving, this vital consignment. We knew him when he was a youth. Very intelligent. He hated the system, wanted to escape to the West. Falken persuaded him to go the route – do all the right things in the hope he would be selected as a Party member. It worked. Aboard that truck he will take you into the dock area. From there you travel by sea to the West.'

`Aboard what kind of ship? Bound for where?'

`I have no idea. One important thing not to forget – when you talk with him. He knows only Falken and myself. He must not know about Radom. We use the cell system – taking a leaf out of the Soviets' book. Turn left here, follow the one-way system.'

It seemed to Newman they were driving in a large circle as they moved into the suburbs. They passed shopping parades. Many had signs, Volks-this, Volks-that. The people's-this, the people's-that. All State-controlled. One shop window was full of colour TV sets.

The pedestrians were well-dressed, looked well-nourished. A great contrast to his stay in East Berlin as foreign correspondent several years before. One thing had not changed compared with the West. The men and women had a stolid appearance. No one seemed to be enjoying themselves. They trudged along with their plastic shopping bags, drab as their surroundings. A grey, dull and dreary atmosphere – even by the light of the setting sun.

`Drive in to this camp site,' Gerda instructed. 'Park it under those trees over there – away from the other campers. Then wait while I pay the fee.'

He turned in off the highway along an asphalt track, swung off the track over rough grass. He had hardly stopped when Gerda opened the door, dropped to the ground and disappeared.

The suburbs had ended abruptly. The camp-site was on the edge of open country. Fields of grass stretched away into the distance. Very few people were about. He checked his watch. 8.30 p.m. Soon it would be dark. Where would they link up with Stahl?

Newman had to wait fifteen minutes before Gerda returned and she was carrying a large string bag in either hand full of cans of food, a loaf of bread and cartons of fruit juice. He looked round quickly. Still no one about. He opened the door, took the bags off her and she climbed into the cab.

`Let's be quick,' she said. Tut away all this stuff inside the cupboards above the washing-up sink. Ell lay the table for two.' `We're going to eat here?'

`We're leaving here as fast as we can. But if the police do find this camper they'll think we're coming back. With the table laid for a meal and food in the cupboards..

He remembered Falken's instruction. Obey Gerda… While she laid the table he put away the contents of the bags. She went on explaining.

`And someone on the camp site may have seen us. Just before we go I'll pull back one of the curtains. Anyone peering inside will see this table laid. Everything has to look quite normal.'

`We do need to eat soon,' Newman told her. 'If we can.'

`And we're going to. But we must get away from here. Emil, you do have your shaving things?'

He patted the pocket of his raincoat where he carried the small hold-all containing shaving equipment, soap and a comb. She opened the cupboards he had stacked, took out a small bottle of mineral water and a collapsible plastic cup.

`Put these in your other pocket. The water is for drinking and shaving. You'll be sealed inside the truck for hours. It is important you have shaved by tomorrow morning. The police may think you are a drug addict unless you look normal. Now, we leave.'

Newman noticed how tidy the camp site was. No paper bags thrown down on the short-cropped grass, no mess of used cans and bottles. Near the exit on to the road they passed a family, a couple with two small children, returning. Gerda said 'Good night', and then they walked along the pavement.

It gave Newman an odd feeling of nakedness to leave the camper. They had travelled inside their cocoon for only a few hours but it had sheltered them from a hostile world. Now, as they walked side by side towards a built-up area he felt terribly exposed.

`Where were all the people on the camp site?' he asked.

`Out doing what we're going to do. Getting something to eat. They're on holiday. Often the woman cooks lunch, but to give her a break the husband takes her out for the evening meal.'

`We have the time? I'm thinking of meeting Stahl…'

`I've made the time – I want to get some hot food inside you before you board the truck. And we meet him after dark – out in the country. You'll see. We're going in here.'

They had reached a modem shopping parade of two-storey buildings. The shops were closed but a restaurant standing on its own was open. Gerda, clutching her windcheater, carefully wrapped round the Uzi, led the way inside.

It was an old place, looked as though it had been there since before the Second World War. The walls were lined with dark oak panelling, the ceiling supported with heavy oak beams. Gerda ensconced them in a booth alongside one wall so they sat facing each other with the heavy table between them.