Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`Drive on, for God's sake,' he snapped at Stahl.

The vehicle lumbered forward, picked up speed. In his wing mirror Newman saw the gate closing behind them. They were inside the fortified zone.

About three kilometres beyond the guard post they were pass-a ing through a wooded area as the dawn light grew stronger. Newman told Stahl to pull over as they came up to a lay-by.

'Why?'

`So I can get a quick shave. I have a feeling Captain Anders is a man impressed by personal appearances. And you'd better shave, too. You can borrow my kit afterwards…'

`I've got my own stuff.'

`Use it then.'

Newman unwrapped the hold-all containing his shaving materials, propped a small mirror against the windscreen, turned on the overhead light and made the best job he could of it. He'd forced his companion to follow suit hoping it would lift his morale. He'd sensed Stahl had been badly shaken by the episode at the guard gate.

Freshly-shaven, they drove off out of the wooded area. Soon Newman could make out against the pale glow of the lightening sky the silhouettes of great mobile cranes, the type of cranes you see alongside a dock area.

And there was more traffic about. Wheeled and on foot. Workers trudging along for early shifts, trucks coming out from the port area laden with cargo. Huge standards of timber. Brought in from Sweden. Tankers – undoubtedly laden with oil from the Soviet Union.

A strange glow hung over the docks. The Martian-like cranes stood out against the glow of fluorescent lights mingled with the growing dawn. Then it began to rain, a heavy downpour. Stahl switched on the wipers and Newman's view bleared as rivulets streamed down the windscreen. Still clasping the Skorpion, he slipped into a doze, unable to keep his eyelids open.

He was woken by Stahl shaking his arm. He blinked, realized he felt much fresher, more alert. It was still raining heavily, pounding on the cab's roof with a steady staccato. Ahead were the dock gates.

`I'll leave the talking to you,' Stahl said.

No talking was called for. The gates opened inward. A man in oilskins beckoned the truck to proceed. 'Leipzig must have phoned through our registration number,' said Stahl and drove on. The truck bumped over rails set in concrete. It was daylight, if that description could be applied to the grey murk which shrouded the docks.

`The rain could help you,' Stahl commented. 'Everyone will be keeping their heads down.'

He'd recovered his nerve. They passed a giant mobile crane standing on rails. Newman lowered his window a little, peered up. At the top of the crane a light was on inside the cabin. The smell peculiar to ports all over the world drifted in through the window – a compound of resin, oil, tar and the salt air coming off the Baltic.

`Leave the Skorpion with me,' Stahl continued. He reached under his seat with one hand, pulling out a bundle which he handed Newman. 'Oilskins, you'll need them. I have to take the truck immediately to the Wroclaw for loading of the guns.

I'll send Captain Anders to see you. Then you're on your own.

There's a small but where you can shelter.'

`How quickly will he come? The longer I hang around the greater the risk..

`No idea. Up to him. You can't hurry Anders.'

`Thank you for getting me so far,' Newman said as he struggled into the oilskin. It had a hood which he pulled over his head.

The truck rumbled past great storage sheds, their roofs gleaming in the rain. Seamen dressed in oilskins and rubber boots hurried across the truck's headlight beams which Stahl still had on. The vehicle was crawling. A huddle of ships, moored prow to stern, their funnels poking up into the murk, told Newman he was close to the wharves. Stahl confirmed the thought.

`There's the but where I'm leaving you. Just wait. You left nothing back in the truck?'

`Not a thing. I was careful. A screwed-up piece of greaseproof paper in the urine bucket. That's it.'

`You get off here. Good luck. You'll need it.

With this encouraging farewell Newman stepped down off the stationary truck, slammed the door shut as the rain hit him, and the truck was moving out of sight round a corner. He'd no doubt Stahl was glad to see the last of him. He pushed open the door of the single-storey shanty-like structure, listened and stepped inside, leaving the door half-open.

Half an hour later, still standing – there was nowhere to sit – he was joined by a German seaman who rushed in out of the downpour. He produced a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Newman, who shook his head, and lit it for himself.

`Waiting to catch a ship, mate?' the German asked. `I hope so.'

He wanted to get rid of the man. Anders might arrive at any moment. The seaman went on puffing at his cigarette, stamping his feet. His boots squelched water.

`Not as bad as it looks,' the German commented. 'Heard the met forecast. Out there beyond Warnemunde the East Sea's as smooth as a millpond. No wind. Overcast all day. I'd better be off. My bosun's a bastard..

Anders arrived half an hour later. A short stocky man with broad shoulders, he wore a navy blue duffel jacket and a peaked cap. He took off the cap and shook water from it out of the door. In his late fifties, Newman estimated. A weatherbeaten square face, a jaw like the prow of an icebreaker, piercing blue eyes. He stood there like a rock, hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket.

`I'm Anders. Who are you?'

`Emil Clasen. I need passage aboard the Wroclaw. I want to get out to the West. Anywhere convenient to you will do.'

`I'm not taking you.'

It was like a blow in the face to Newman. He'd come so far. To be pipped at the post now, abandoned inside the DDR. Newman stared back at the Pole. He had to say the right thing first time. There'd be no second chance. What the hell was the right thing?

Then he remembered. Stahl had said Anders didn't like the Germans. Stahl had said that he – Newman – passed for a German. He took a deep breath. He had to gamble everything on one throw, pray that his assessment of the Pole was correct.

`I'm not a German, you know. I'm English.'

`I look stupid?'

`I said I was English and I am. I desperately need passage out of here to the West.'

He'd said these words in his own language. Anders studied his clothes, looked back at his face. His expression showed extreme doubt.

`They have language laboratories in Moscow to teach you to speak perfect English,' he replied in German. `So, you say you're English? I haven't much time to waste on you. Where were you born?'

`Hampstead, London.'

`I know that place. A solid wall of houses. Kilometres away from open country…'

`No it isn't. There's Hampstead Heath where you can walk along endless paths between grass and trees.'

`You know where King's Lynn is?'

`Norfolk, East Anglia.'

`It's on the coast. I've docked there. What river is it on?' `The Ouse. And it isn't on the coast. It's several miles inland – up the Ouse. Very flat country.'

`What's your job?' Anders demanded.

`Newspaper reporter. Foreign correspondent. I came over the border a few days ago after a story. Illegally.'

`You're a bloody crazy idiot, that's for sure.'

That was when Newman realized he'd been accepted. He kept the relief out of his expression. Anders shrugged. Looking outside, he peered into the rain, then spoke in his brusque manner.

`I got everything ready – in case I decided to take you. We go aboard slowly. No one will question you – not when you're with me. I have a reputation. For tearing people's balls off if they try to interfere with me. I've prepared a cable kicker on deck. You travel inside that. You stay there till I come for you. I'll put something heavy on the top after you get inside. That will discourage anyone from looking inside. We're not sailing for some time. You'll just have to put up with it. Come on. No point in hanging about. And I'm the only man aboard who will know you're on the Wroclaw. Just keep quiet inside that locker.'