The Janus Man (12 page)

`Maybe you're nearer the truth than you realize,' Newman told her grimly.

`Munzel has reported contact with Tweed,' Wolf told Lysenko as they wandered through the stark streets between the concrete blocks of rebuilt Leipzig. That means he is close to making his move to liquidate him.'

`How recent is the report?'

`Within the past few hours. His contact with Tweed was late this morning at one of the marinas at Travemünde.'

`How does Munzel safely make such a report?' Lysenko demanded. 'I emphasize "safely".'

`We have perfected our communications systems over the years.' Wolf was irked by this constant questioning of his organization. 'Specifically, in this case, Munzel phoned a West Berlin number from Travemünde. A lawyer who specializes in handling any legal problems between families in West Germany with relatives in the East. Bonn trusts him implicitly.'

`So you say. So far the message from Munzel has reached West Berlin. What then?'

`The lawyer has his office within five minutes' walk of Checkpoint Charlie. After receiving the call from Munzel he carries the message in his head and crosses into East Berlin. From there he uses a direct line to me here in Leipzig.'

`I suppose it is foolproof,' Lysenko said grudgingly.

`You'll just have to. take my word that it is. Munzel says he has no doubt he can accomplish his mission within days. At the first opportunity, and those were his very words.'

`So, we are in the hands of The Cripple...'

`He succeeded in Hamburg brilliantly. Fergusson and Palewska were dealt with. Both executions have been accepted as accidents, as I told you earlier.'

`The sooner the better. The General Secretary will be calling for a progress report any moment. I can feel it in my bones.' `So, you will be able to report mission accomplished.'

`The question is,' Tweed said to Newman as they finished their dinner at the Jensen, 'who is telling the truth? Ann Grayle, who calls Diana promiscuous — or Diana herself, who says the Grayle woman is a bitch?'

`Does it matter?' asked Newman.

The restaurant was quiet at 10.30 p.m. and night had fallen outside. They had stayed late at Travemünde, crossing by the ferry to Priwall Island. Diana had pointed out the mansion where Dr Berlin lived. The high wrought-iron gates had been closed with few signs of activity in the grounds beyond.

Two rough-looking individuals had stood close to the gates, gazing at them as they passed. 'A couple of the security guards,' Diana had explained. 'Dr Berlin has a fetish about his privacy.'

They had walked on down the Mecklenburger-strasse — ruler-straight as Diana had described it. Various residences on their right, interspersed with the occasional café. To their left the forest spread away towards the channel with a network of footpaths running through it. It was very peaceful, the only sound the distant siren of a ship. They approached a section with six police cars parked by the forest.

`Is this the spot?' Newman asked.

`Yes, this is where Helena Andersen was murdered,' Diana said and shivered.

The police had cordoned off a large area with ropes strung from poles. Newman caught a glimpse through the trees of a line of policemen advancing slowly, beating the undergrowth.

`It's horrid. Let's go back,' Diana had suggested at this point.

Newman finished his coffee. 'Did you get anything from your recce of Priwall Island?'

`Nothing that helps. We'll see what happens at the party tomorrow. And now I do have an idea. You know that area behind the hotel we walked round the other day. I fancy a breath of fresh air...'

`I'll come with you. And I can see you have something special in mind.'

`I'm going out alone — for a stroll past the church.' `Not on...'

`Wait. You follow at a discreet distance. Keep out of sight. We need someone we can question — hand over to Kuhlmann if necessary.'

`It's dangerous. That area in the old town is a labyrinth.' `We must try something, flush them out. I'm leaving now.' Tweed paused on the steps leading down into the street.

People still sat at the tables, drinking, chatting, joking. It was a warm night, the air humid and oppressive. He wiped moisture from his forehead, walked out and turned left along the An der Obertrave, the street running alongside the river on the far side.

Despite the heat, Tweed wore his shabby, lightweight Burberry raincoat. His right hand felt the rubber-cased cosh inside his pocket once given to him by a friend in Special Branch. Normally Tweed would never have dreamt of carrying a weapon, but he had the feeling this trip was dangerous. He was still being led on a rope paid out to him length by length.

He passed the medieval salt warehouses on the opposite bank, their steep gables silhouetted against the Prussian blue of the night sky. Then he turned left again up a side street leading to the church. Lübeck climbed the side of a hill from the Trave river, the ascent was steep, the street little more than a wide cobbled alleyway and quite deserted. Now he had left the river a sudden sinister silence pressed down. No more voices from the holidaymakers. It was as though a door had closed on the outside world.

Tweed trudged slowly up the uneven pavement and for a moment he thought he was entirely alone. Then he heard the sound behind him. Faint at first, it gradually grew louder, coming closer.

Tap... tap...
tap
...!

He paused, took out his handkerchief, mopped his brow, glanced over his shoulder. It was only a blind man. The tapping sound was the tip of his white stick following the edge of , the ancient stone kerb. He passed under the blurred glow of a lamp at the entrance to one of the alleys leading off the street.

A bulky figure, trilby hat jammed low over his forehead, a pair of wrap-around, tinted glasses concealing his eyes and the upper part of his face. A bulky figure which walked with a stoop, his suit old and baggy.

Tweed resumed his walk up the incline. His hearing was acute and something was bothering him. The tapping of the stick was more like a series of quick thuds. As though instead of a rubber tip the end of the stick was heavily weighted...'

Only
a blind man. Tweed swore inwardly at his own stupidity. The man following him steadily up the deserted street was a cripple. The Cripple had at long last made his appearance — the man Harry Masterson had warned him against.

Tweed felt the palms of his hands grow moist. His mouth tightened. He resisted the temptation to hurry up to the top of the street. At least his ruse had worked. But, oh God, this was the first time he had walked alone since landing at Hamburg Airport. It gave a terrifying insight into the closeness with which he had been watched by the opposition. And Lübeck was so near the border.

Get a grip on yourself. Your people in the field live like this all the time. Never free from fear. You've worked in the field yourself for years. What the hell is wrong with you? Too much time spent behind a cosy desk back at Park Crescent?

Suddenly he felt cold. The expression on his face had not changed but the nervousness was gone. He wiped his right hand dry inside his Burberry pocket. Then he conducted a difficult manoeuvre, still walking. Concealing most of the cosh inside his hand, he whipped off the Burberry and folded it loosely over his arm. Like a cloak.

He had reached the top of the street, a T-junction. He turned into an equally dark street called Kolk, just below the tower of the church which loomed above a vertical wall. Kolk was a short street. Leading into the maze of the old town. Tweed paused outside the entrance to a bar. Over the entrance was the legend
Alt Lübeck
. A small bar furnished with dark wood, stools by the counter, dim lighting. He dismissed the temptation to seek sanctuary and walked on.

Tap... tap...
tap
! Very close now. The blind man had turned the corner into Kolk, had increased the length of his stride, was very close now. Then the tapping stopped. Tweed turned round. The huge silhouette in the shadows had hoisted the loaded stick, was bringing it down in a wide arc.

`
He stumbled in the dark, missed the edge of the kerb, caught his skull against the stone paving, smashed it like an eggshell. There was drink on his breath
...'

The wording of the police report recording his death flashed across Tweed's brain. He pressed himself against the wall, protecting his back, timed it carefully, grabbed at the descending stick with his right hand, felt the stinging pain. He grasped the stick with both hands.

His attacker held on, shoved forward with the end of the stick, aiming it at Tweed's belly. Tweed's powerful wrists took the strain, and they wrestled for the weapon. Tweed knew he was at a disadvantage. His attacker had a strong grip on the handle of the stick. It was only a matter of seconds before Tweed lost his grip, then the second attack would come, a flailing blow again aimed at his skull.

Newman hit the attacker from behind with a Rugby tackle, the full force of his rush knocking the assailant sprawling in the cobbled street. Newman sprawled with him. His opponent bent his right leg at the knee, rammed his foot forward. Newman felt the steel-tipped boot hit his jaw. He was stunned.

Tweed was handicapped by Newman's sprawled body. He was stepping over it when the killer leapt to his feet, using one gloved hand to give himself extra impetus. He tore off down the street and vanished. A police car's siren sounded, came round the corner, jammed on its brakes as its headlights beamed on Newman.

`Where is he?' Kuhlmann roared.

The Federal policeman had jumped out of the front passenger seat. He addressed the question to Tweed who was standing while Newman still lay in the street.

`That direction...' Tweed pointed. 'Heaven knows where after that. It's like Hampton Court Maze...'

`Description?' Kuhlmann half-turned to the uniformed driver. 'Give me that mike.' Tweed noticed the radio car had a very high aerial.

`Six foot tall,' he said quickly. 'About a hundred and eighty pounds. Trilby pulled low over head. Shabby dark suit. Tinted wrap-round glasses — discarded by now, I'm sure...'

`And blond hair,' Newman added, climbing slowly to his feet.

`Could you see his hair?' Kuhlmann queried. 'With the hat?' `Blond hair,' Newman persisted.

Kuhlmann spoke rapidly into the microphone, spelling out the description. 'Blond hair,' he ended. 'Probably — that is, the hair colour. Seal off the island now,' he continued in staccato tone. 'Close all the bridges. Road-blocks. Check all cars...'

`And motor-bikes,' Tweed added. 'I thought I heard one start up.'

Kuhlmann included motor-bikes, handed back the mike, then he lit a cigar before he rasped, 'What do you think you were up to, Tweed? Walking the streets — at night, too, for God's sake — by yourself.

'He wasn't by himself,' Newman contradicted. 'I was following him. And we nearly got him..

`And he nearly got Tweed...'

`Are you all right?' Tweed asked Newman.

`Bruised shoulder. The most minor memento I could have expected.' He bent down and picked up the weighted stick.

`I'll take that.' Kuhlmann held out his hand. 'And careful how you handle it. Fingerprints...'

`Don't waste your time,' Tweed advised. 'He wore gloves.' `You had a pretty rough few minutes,' Newman said to Tweed as he brushed dust off his jacket.

`Oh, I don't know. A bit of excitement gets the adrenalin stirring.' He looked at Kuhlmann. 'How did you happen to be in this area?'

`I persuaded the state police to watch you. Unfortunately they waited for me to drive from the local police station to the patrol car which had you under surveillance...'

`You want to know where you might find the owner of that walking stick?' Newman suggested.

`What do you think?'

`Hotel Movenpick. Name of Kurt Franck. No guarantee that he's your man. We never got a good look at his face...'

I'm on my way. Call you later at the Jensen …'

Balkan was on the move. 11.30 p.m. on the beach at Travemünde Strand. He stared straight ahead, like a sleep-walker. His feet made a slushing sound as they trudged through the sand. Lights glowed in the distant multi-storey Maritim Hotel. Most holidaymakers were indoors, drinking in the bars, dining late.

There was only one other person on the long beach. A blonde girl, clad in a two-piece bathing costume, soaking up the peace, the last warmth of the day. Iris Hansen had a date with her new German boy friend. They'd arranged to meet on the beach at midnight and then go dancing.

Iris, her long blonde hair trailing like a waterfall down her nude back, lay stretched out on a towel, leaning on one elbow.

She listened to the gentle lapping of the Baltic on the edge of the shore. Dreamy. A long way off the sound of laughter, the drumming beat of pop music. All night long. That was what he'd promised. They'd dance all night long.

She'd spent three weeks in Travemünde, three glorious baking weeks. To hell with Copenhagen. This was the life. Better than she'd ever hoped for. She just wanted it to go on and on. She heard the slushing sound of feet treading the sand, looked up.

`Oh, it's you. Hello, there...'

He stood over her, one foot on either side of her prone body. She raised an eyebrow, then dropped her eyes. Why not here? Now the only sounds were the lapping water, distant laughter and music. She looked up and her eyes widened in horror. Oh, God. No!

He held the broad-bladed knife in his right hand. Held it high above his head. She opened her mouth to scream and he planted a naked foot over her mouth, stifling the scream. Then the blade descended in a wide arc. It entered just above her breasts. And ripped down. And down. And down …'

`Kuhlmann here...'

Listening to the phone in his bedroom, Tweed detected a note of disappointment. He sat down in his dressing gown and identified himself.

`Your Kurt Franck wasn't at the Movenpick,' Kuhlmann informed him. 'Yes, he's registered here. He came into the bar for a quick drink just before he left. Time 20.00 hours. Half an hour before you walked out of the Jensen. No go...'

`Why not?' Tweed asked.