Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

Newman began hauling in the rope which had dropped into the sea. A loose rope was dangerous – just the thing which could get tangled up with the ship's screws. He worked fast, coiling the rope. Then began the nerve-wracking search for the paddle, the one thing he'd missed when examining everything inside the locker. He couldn't locate it. Anders must have arranged some signal with a crewman on the bridge – he'd had no time to return to it. The crewman had contacted the chief engineer. In a frighteningly short period of time the Wroclaw's engines came to life, throbbing with increasing power. Where the devil was the bloody paddle?

He found it seconds before the Wroclaw's hull began sliding past him, bringing the screws at the stern closer every moment. It was strapped to the starboard side of the dinghy. He pulled it free, took a firm grip on the handle and pushed against the hull with all his strength. The dinghy drifted a few feet away. Not far enough. He paddled furiously, dipping into the water, now choppy from the forward movement of the freighter. The dinghy bobbed, fell, bobbed, fell again over the waves. He seemed to be as close to the freighter as before.

Now he could see – hear above the beat of the engines – the churning wash of the great screws slicing through the water, a powerful gushing sound as the Baltic was threshed into a foaming wake. The undertow! If he wasn't clear of the vessel, the undertow swept up by the revolving screws would sweep him back, take him straight into the mincing machine Anders had warned him against, chopping him to pieces.

He thought of the blonde girls who'd been savaged by some maniac in Travemunde, the horror Kuhlmann had described. They'd been scratched compared with what would happen to him if those screws sucked him in.

The hull continued to slide past. He forced his weary arms to continue paddling. With fearful slowness the dinghy seemed to drift away from the Wroclaw. With fearful speed the stern came closer, the thrashing roar of the screws grew louder. He glanced over his shoulder.

The stern was abreast of him. The maelstrom curdled round the dinghy. He could feel the insidious pull of the undertow, dragging the dinghy to destruction. He paddled madly in the frothing sea. The dinghy rocked furiously, almost tipping him overboard. Water slopped inside it. He could no longer tell what was happening. He looked quickly over his shoulder again, stared.

The stern of the Wroclaw was receding. The water was less choppy. The ship sailed on, turning due north for the Fehmarn Belt, the stretch of the Baltic dividing Denmark from West Germany. Newman stopped paddling. He collapsed, leant forward, utterly exhausted.

His first landmark was the flashing light at the top of the Hotel Maritim in Travemunde Strand. The sea was still lake calm and he sped towards it at full speed.

`Thank God,' he said to himself. 'I'll make the western channel.'

Which was rather important. The eastern channel on the other side of Priwall Island was inside the DDR. He'd waited awhile to gather the strength to start up the outboard. It had responded to the third pull. He was soaked to the skin. He'd used the enamel jug – after emptying it – to bale out the dinghy.

He felt he'd been away five years as the lights on shore came closer. It was after midnight. There was no other seaborne traffic. He had the Baltic to himself as he guided the dinghy up the channel, past the Maritim, past the old tall brick-built edifice which had served as a lighthouse before they transferred the lamp to the summit of the multi-storey hotel.

Back from the dead. That was his thought as he cruised deep inside the channel. He saw the Sudwind moored to its landing stage and hardly gave it a thought. He was cold, miserable, relieved at the same time. All he wanted was a hot bath and a change of clothes.

Afterwards, he could never work out why, but he guided the dinghy to a certain landing-stage, his speed now reduced to a modest pace. After midnight, but there were lights aboard the sloop. He cut the engine and the dinghy drifted the last few yards under its own momentum.

Ann Grayle came out on deck, holding a glass, wearing white slacks and a blouse. The sky had cleared on his way in and it was a balmy night. She stood very erect, staring down at him.

`Good God! It's Bob Newman. You look wet through. Come on board and we'll sort you out. Ben!' she called. 'Put on the kettle. Hot coffee.' She stared again at Newman. 'What you reporters will do just for a story…'

Lysenko made the call to Moscow the following morning. Again he used the phone in his apartment so he wouldn't be overheard by Markus Wolf. Gorbachev came on the line immediately.

`The cargo was safely transhipped yesterday evening. Balkan arrived back from London just in time to take it over…'

`No codewords over the phone,' Gorbachev reprimanded him. 'I heard you use two. Watch it.'

Lysenko swore inwardly. The General Secretary was referring to his slip in naming London. He'd better be more careful.

`There will be a delay of two or three weeks,' he continued. `That is, before it moves on to its ultimate destination. For the time being the cargo is safely under cover.'

`Any news of Tweed?' Gorbachev enquired.

`Arrival imminent…'

`That problem must be solved. Quickly. Keep me informed.'

The connection was broken. Lysenko slammed down the receiver, rubbed the stubble of his unshaven jaw, stared at the rumpled bedclothes. Helene, the German girl he'd met, had been good – very good. Make the most of it while you're away from the wife, he told himself. But bedtime romps and vodka didn't seem to go together too well any more. Maybe he was getting too old for it; hence that stupid slip on the phone. As he ambled to the bathroom he decided he'd give it up – not Helene, just mixing her with vodka.

Tweed disembarked from Flight LH 041 with Diana at Hamburg. Ahead of him Pete Nield was going through Passport Control. Behind him Harry Butler strolled, carrying his suitcase, his eyes studying the other passengers. Who, he was asking himself, was Tweed's glamorous blonde companion?

The foxy devil hadn't mentioned her. And from what Butler had observed during the flight they knew each other pretty well. Still, it was good cover – a couple attracted less attention than a single man alighting from an aircraft on his own.

Outside the exit hall Nield was getting inside a taxi when Tweed emerged with Diana. A man wearing a shabby raincoat and standing by a bookstall, pretending to look at a paperback, watched them. Martin Vollmer shoved the book back on to the rack of the revolver and hurried after them.

Butler, who never missed a trick, had just come out of the Customs and saw Vollmer's reaction. He followed him. Tweed was helping Diana into the rear of a cab, got inside himself and told the driver, 'Four Seasons Hotel, please…'

Butler watched Vollmer take the next waiting cab. Inside it the German gave his directions. 'Follow that cab. Don't lose it. That man owes me money.'

`And he'll go on owing. They always do. Anything you say.'

The convoy proceeded along the boulevard-like highway leading to the city. Nield first. Then Tweed and Diana. Behind them followed Vollmer's cab. And two vehicles behind Vollmer, Butler brought up the rear. His instructions to his driver had been explicit as he handed him a ten-deutschmark note.

`That's your tip,' he said in German. 'The fare's separate. That cab the thin man in the brown raincoat got inside. Tab him. I want to find out where he's going.'

Inside the city the convoy crossed the highway bridge which divides the two lakes-with the Binnenalster on the left. On the far side it turned down the Neuer Jungfernstieg, moving down the western shore of the lake. The fussy little water buses were scuttering across the smooth surface. The sky had a few clouds which seemed to hang motionless in a sea of blue as the sun blazed down.