Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

A waiter wearing a green apron took their order. He hardly glanced at Newman as Gerda ordered for both of them. Newman had beer to drink, a heavy dark beer in a large tankard. Gerda sipped a glass of white wine. Newman felt a sense of strain – Falken had slipped out of his life in a matter of seconds and soon it would be, 'Goodbye, Gerda…' He wasn't looking forward to that.

`This place seems pretty old,' he remarked.

Gerda watched him as she replied, ran a hand through her chestnut-coloured hair. 'I heard Leipzig and the suburbs were badly bombed during the war. This place survived. One of those flukes.'

They talked quietly, but there were few other customers and no one close. I don't know a damned thing about her, Newman was thinking, and I can't ask. If I'm caught, put under pressure, I mustn't be able to give them anything which would identify her.

They dined off fish, well-cooked by a dry method, and kartoffel, the soft tasty German potato, and a plate of rye bread. Newman devoured the enormous portion and Gerda watched with approval.

`They give you plenty here,' he remarked.

`I don't think you heard – but I ordered a double portion. I want you full up before your trip.'

`How much longer have we got?'

`We've time for coffee. The mocha is good here. Then we must leave.'

She had checked her watch. Outside it was dark now and street lamps threw a pallid glow over the deserted street. They drank their coffee in silence, Gerda watching Newman again. He felt much better, and much worse – he really would have liked to get to know this girl much more closely.

`What about that machine pistol?' he whispered after he had paid the bill.

`I'm dumping it when I can. It would have been dangerous to leave it inside the camper.'

Her words were prophetic. As they walked back past the camp site on the opposite side of the road they saw a patrol car parked at the entrance. Vopos, flashing torches, were moving among the campers. They walked on, careful not to hurry.

`We cycle to the highway where we meet Stahl,' Gerda told him, again checking her watch. 'And we are in good time.'

`Where do we find cycles?'

`You will soon see.'

She took his arm and they walked like a couple who had known each other for a long time. Half a mile beyond the camp site an area of allotments spread out to one side of the road. She led him down a cinder pathway, stopped by one of the small huts which presumably was for storing tools – spades, rakes and other equipment.

He held the windcheater masking the Uzi while she took out a key from her handbag, inserted it in a large padlock and turned it. She disappeared inside, reappeared wheeling out a cycle, propped it against the shed, vanished again and brought out the second machine.

There was a chill in the air now. She took the windcheater from Newman, extracted the Uzi and rammed it inside her saddle bag. Putting on the windcheater, she watched Newman adjusting the height of his saddle, testing the brakes. He looked at her.

`Ready when you are…'

`I'll just close the padlock, then I'd better lead the way.' She pushed her cycle along the cinder track, only mounting her machine when they reached the road. She turned right, away from the suburb and the camp site and he pulled alongside her, then told her to stop.

`What's the matter?'

`Lights. Falken said the police would stop cyclists without lights.'

`You're so right. I must be losing my grip.'

They switched on their lights at front and rear and resumed cycling. There was no other traffic on the road and they had to cycle warily – after no rain for weeks the storm had made the road surface greasy. Beyond the grass verges on either side were deep ditches and beyond them open fields with, here and there, islands of tree clumps blurred in the gloom. Overhead the sky was a sea of clouds and the chilly breeze was raw as they cycled together.

`Now I want us to stop for a minute,' Gerda said.

They had been careful to use the toilets at the restaurant so Newman was puzzled for a moment. He watched while she took her handbag out of the saddle bag, took out a handkerchief, hauled out the Uzi and wiped it clean of fingerprints. Then she stepped on to the grass verge, using her handkerchief as a glove and threw the machine pistol into the ditch. It sank out of sight with a splash followed by a brief gurgle. They cycled on.

Shortly after she had dumped the weapon they reached an intersection where the country road they'd cycled along met a main highway. Gerda turned left on to the highway and pulled over on to the verge about a hundred metres from the intersection.

`We meet Stahl here. He'll come from that direction.'

She pointed the way they had come, checked her watch, took a small pair of field glasses out of her handbag. Leaning the cycle against her thighs, she raised the binoculars to her eyes and focused them, looking back down the highway.

`What's the idea?' Newman asked.

`Night glasses. I know the registration number of the truck Stahl will be driving. I have a small torch. I have to signal before he gets here. I want to be sure it's the right vehicle before I start flashing a torch about.'

`You really are well organized.' Newman hesitated. 'Is this where we say Goodbye?'

'No – till we meet again…'

'I'd like to thank you for all…' he began.

She placed an index finger over his mouth. 'It's the other way round. Why don't we just say it was good knowing one another? That we make a good team. And if a car or the wrong truck comes along we're conspicuous – so we pretend to be lovers.'

`We'd better practise then.'

He laid both cycles on the verge, took her in his arms, one hand behind the nape of her neck and kissed her full on the lips. She stiffened for a few seconds, then wrapped her arms round him and pressed her breasts against his chest. She kissed him ravenously, her whole body merged against his.

`Oh, damnit,' he said, looking over her right shoulder.

She released him, breathing heavily, turned to look in the same direction, the field glasses dangling from their strap round her wrist. In the distance two headlights like great eyes were coming down the highway. She pressed the lenses to her eyes. Newman kept his fingers crossed. This couldn't be Stahl. Not yet.

`It's him,' she said.

Newman glanced all round. No other traffic in sight. Behind the headlights the huge truck lumbered closer. Gerda flashed her torch on and off. Two short flashes, one long one. The truck passed the intersection, slowed, pulled up alongside them. A big job. An eight-wheeler. The cab attached – part of – the vehicle. A Mercedes. The driver kept his engine running, peered out of the window and Gerda called up to him. Something Newman didn't catch. A heavily-built young man with thick brown hair descended to the roadway and Gerda made swift introductions.

`Stahl, this is Emil Clasen…'

`Come with me,' Stahl said to Newman, then noticed the cycles lying on the verge. 'You'll only need one of these now,' he said to Gerda. He picked up Newman's machine, hoisted it above his head and hurled it clear across the ditch. It landed deep inside the field of rye, disappeared. 'Back of the truck,' he said to Newman. 'Hurry…'

Using a deadlock key, he opened one of the two rear doors, handed Newman a torch he'd hauled out of his trouser pocket and pointed inside the dark cavern. Newman turned to say something to Gerda but Stahl took his arm in a strong grip and urged him up inside the truck. Gerda thrust the field-glasses into his hand. 'Take these. They might be useful.'

`Seat for you at the far end,' Stahl called up. 'Use that torch – or break a kneecap. We'll talk later. We're too near Leipzig here. The porthole windows in these doors are one-way armoured glass…'