Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`I'm convinced now some very big Russian operation is planned, will soon be activated. That's why everything went all quiet – not only on the western front but right across Europe. Janus is up to his neck in whatever the operation might be.'

`So it could be very dangerous. Thank God you're taking the heavy mob with you.'

`I agree.' There was a look of eager anticipation in Tweed's expression. 'And when that climax comes I intend to be there.'

At the wheel of his black Porsche Harry Masterson was driving through the night as though all the fiends of hell were at his heels. Vienna was already far behind. He had crossed the border into West Germany at Salzburg – and there he had joined the autobahn.

Salzburg… Munich… Bypass Augsburg… Bypass Ulm… Bypass Stuttgart… Karlsruhe… Mannheim… Frankfurt… then due north via Hanover to his ultimate destination. Hamburg.

He was already approaching Mannheim. Driving non-stop all night he'd be in Hamburg by morning. In the high-speed lane he overtook great eight-wheel trucks lumbering through the night, belching great exhausts of diesel fumes.

In the glow from the dashboard his black hair gleamed. His chin was unshaven, a thick dark stubble which was the beginnings of a beard. A Mercedes drew alongside him. He glanced to his left. The driver, a blonde-haired girl, gave him a superior look as she flashed ahead. He signalled that he was turning back into the fast lane.

His foot pressed down hard on the accelerator, way over the speed limit. He moved like the wind, overtaking the Merc at the moment it was also about to pull out to pass a truck. As he passed her he glanced at the girl. She looked furious. He grinned, then her headlights were fading into the distance as he kept up the pace. Macho Masterson. No one overtook him. Certainly not some blonde tart who undoubtedly put it about if the mood took her.

It had started the moment he had arrived at headquarters in Vienna. Pat Lancing, his deputy, had the message. Strictly for Masterson only. A phone number. And one word. Candlestick.

He'd closed the door of his private office, dialled the number. His top agent working under cover behind The Curtain. The Candlestick Man. They called him that because he was thin as a celery stalk, very stiff and erect. Based in East Germany.

Which was poaching on Hugh Grey's territory. The DDR was his penetration zone. Harry didn't give a toss. Just get the info. The phone conversation had been brief. Urgent – would Harry meet him outside the Opera House in thirty minutes? Harry had said yes, slammed down the phone, left the building, climbed inside the Audi held for his use.

He'd driven slowly along the Opern Ring, spotted Candlestick, pulled into the kerb and Candle had dived into the front passenger seat almost before Harry opened the door. While he listened, Harry drove round the whole Ring system at a sedate pace.

I've just come out of the DDR,' Candle had said. 'I think I'm being followed..

`Great. That's all I need.'

Candle had hardly heard him as he rabbited on in German. `I came from Leipzig through Czecho, crossed the border at Gmund. I thought you should know quickly…'

`Know what?'

Candle was wearing a rumpled brown raincoat and a cap. He'd never looked anything much, which was part of the secret of his success. He didn't look clever enough to worry about. His face looked more bony than ever, his thin nose longer, his spaniel eyes more mournful.

`That Dr Berlin has just returned to the Federal Republic – from London.'

`How the hell do you know that?'

Harry's technique was always the same dealing with agents who worked for money. Aggressive manner, short bursts of invective. Put them on the defensive. Make them feel important and they'd ask for more money.

`I got it from a contact in Markus Wolf's headquarters in Leipzig…'

`Wolf works out of East Berlin. Every schoolboy knows that.' `He has a secret HQ in Leipzig. My contact is on his staff.

He listened in on a conversation from someone in East Berlin.' `And who was this person in East Berlin talking to?'

`Markus Wolf himself. They use the code-name Balkan for Dr Berlin…'

`Balkan? Dr Berlin? What is this goulash you call information?'

`My informant knows about the code-name. He is high up in Wolf's organization. An Intelligence officer, if you must know.' `I need to know everything if I'm to believe anything.'

`It took all the money you gave me to obtain this – the fact that Dr Berlin is someone in London…'

`All the money?' Masterson sounded incredulous. 'That should have lasted you for months. It was a small fortune.'

`What I've given you is worth a small fortune,' Candle insisted. 'Someone in London,' he repeated.

'Sounds like a bloody fairytale to me,' Masterson snapped. `Check it with London. But be careful – Dr Berlin could be someone high up. My informant said he was…'

`So, give me a name.'

`Oh, he didn't know that..

`Sweet Jesus! You throw my money around like confetti. You don't expect more, I hope?'

`If I'm to go back there, find out more, I need funds.'

`Take this.'

Masterson opened the glove compartment, handed Candle an envelope stuffed with deutschmarks. He drove on while Candle carefully counted the amount. He slipped it inside his pocket, looking more mournful than ever.

`It's not what I expected..

`It's all you're getting. Anything else? No. Right. Where do I drop you?'

`In front of the Opera House. I'm staying at the Astoria – it's only a short walk from there. I don't want to he on the streets a moment longer than I can help. I was followed.'

`You said that before. Shake them, for God's sake. I'll be seeing you.'

He'd dropped Candle back in front of the Opera House, driven on to his office, told Lancing to take control until he got back. His Porsche was parked in a secret garage some distance from headquarters – no one on his staff knew it existed.

Masterson recalled all these recent events as he sped along the autobahn through the night. He had to reach Hamburg by morning. The information Candle had given was disturbing – to him personally. He could have flown, but he needed mobility.

Hugh Grey flew direct to Frankfurt International, took a cab from the airport to his headquarters – housed in a concrete slab of a building near the Intercontinental Hotel where he frequently entertained visiting members of the Bundestag from Bonn.

`Keeping my finger on the pulse,' was one of his favourite phrases.

He spent the rest of the day reading carefully typed reports prepared by what he called his 2-ic. If it was down in writing no one could later say he'd misunderstood them. Grey was notorious for his use of files.

It was late evening when he called in his deputy, Norman Powell, told him to take charge again. 'I have to check on something which has just cropped up,' he explained. 'And – taken by and large – you've done quite well. Keep up the good work…'

Grey had chosen Powell for the job for two reasons. First, he was good at admin. Second, a plodding man, Powell posed no threat to his own job. Grey had a leisurely dinner by himself at the Intercontinental's Rotisserie, ordering only a half-bottle of Chablis.

After the meal he collected the office Volvo from a nearby underground garage and drove north out of Frankfurt, moving quickly on to the autobahn. He didn't realize it, but Masterson was coming up behind him, still driving like a maniac between Mannheim and Frankfurt. Grey drove carefully, keeping within the speed limit. His destination – Hamburg.

Guy Dalby, characteristically, moved faster than any of his colleagues. He could have flown from Gatwick direct to Belp, the small airport outside Bern. Instead he flew to Geneva. He'd phoned his deputy before leaving London and Joel Kent was waiting for him at Cointrin Airport.