through the computer. But he was playing for time. 'Someone else you might put through that computer of yours,' he suggested. 'A blond giant – over six foot tall. Ziggy told me he was the man who brought those petrol drums. No name, so I don't know where you'd start…'
`With a fuller description.'
`I asked Ziggy for that myself. The blond wore a woolly sailor's cap, large tinted glasses and a silk scarf pulled up over his chin. Oh, yes, he had a large nose…'
`That's one hell of a description. Tell me everything else Ziggy said about this blond.'
Tweed told him. Kuhlmann took out a well-used notebook, wrote a few words in it, put it back in his pocket and stood up.
`You'll be staying in Hamburg – both of you?'
`Is that a request?'
`A question…'
`We shall be staying in North Germany for the moment. More than that I can't be sure of…'
`Stay here long enough and one of you could end up having a very nasty accident…'
`What is it with Kuhlmann?' Newman asked when they were alone. 'Two major crimes – if he's right – have been committed in Hamburg. Surely the Hamburg state police should be handling the case? And he looked very pleased about something when he left.'
`Normally the Federal Police wouldn't get within a mile of it,' Tweed agreed. 'But from something he said at the morgue he's pally with the local police chief. That helps the Federals a lot in Germany. Also, I suspect he hasn't told us all he knows. And that look of satisfaction stems, I'm sure, from the arrival on the scene of that blond giant who visited Ziggy. He thought he smelt of East Germany – I'm sure Kuhlmann has the same idea. That would bring in Wiesbaden overnight. And Otto is one of the best men they have. He's supposed to have the ear of the Chancellor – an open sesame to anywhere in the Federal Republic…'
`Before Kuhlmann marched into the dining-room, I was going to ask you, is Hugh Grey as big an idiot as he seems.'
`No. It's a pose which has fooled a lot of people. He finds it useful. Abroad he's a foreigner's idea of a typical Englishman – so they underestimate him. At home, when he's playing politics with Howard, his old boy network act goes down well.'
`A regular stinker, as they used to say. Now what do we turn to next? Visit Martin Vollmer at Altona, that contact Ziggy phoned you about early this morning?'
`I think we'll give Vollmer a miss. I want to get out of Hamburg today, poke around on our own for a bit. This is a dense area…'
`Dense?'
`Office jargon for a zone crammed with enemy agents. The Old Guard used to call it a full pack – they played a lot of cards. I suggest we pack our bags, pay the bill quietly and catch the 11.15 Copenhagen Express for Lubeck.'
`The Hotel Jensen?'
`Exactly. And the mysterious Dr Berlin.'
Nine
By train from Hamburg Hauptbahnhof it was a forty-minute run non-stop to Lubeck. In his anxiety to leave the city, Tweed had arranged it so they arrived at the Hauptbahnhof fifteen minutes before the express came in.
They bought single tickets, crossed the high bridge over the tracks and descended the staircase to the platform. To pass the time, Tweed paced up and down the platform with Newman. On the open bridge above them Martin Vollmer stood watching them.
A thin-faced man with pale eyes and small feet, he waited until they had boarded the express – until the express started moving north. He then ran to the nearest phone booth and dialled a number.
In his bedroom at the Hotel Movenpick in Lubeck Erwin Munzel, alias Kurt Franck for registration purposes, again sat by the phone. He snatched up the receiver on the second ring.
`Franck speaking…'
`Martin here. From Hamburg. Aboard the 11.15. Copenhagen Express. Bound for Liibeck. Arrives 12.05. Accompanied by companion. Tweed is coming…'
Munzel slammed down the phone without a word of thanks. Hotel telephones were tricky – you never knew when a bored switchboard operator was listening in.
He had arrived in good time back in Lubeck. After paying his final call on Ziggy Palewska he had caught the 7 a.m. express from Hamburg. The train's ultimate destination was far distant Oslo – via Copenhagen and the Elsinore train ferry which transported it across the arm of the Baltic to Sweden.
Accompanied by companion. That had been a cryptic warning – Tweed was not travelling alone. Well, that was OK. He'd be at Lubeck Hauptbahnhof to take a good look at this companion. He extracted a picture of Tweed from the inner lining of his executive brief-case, a glossy head-and-shoulders print. 'I'll know you, my friend,' Munzel said to himself, replaced the photo and stretched out on the bed. From the Movenpick it was no more than a five- minute walk down the road to the station.
Inside the phone booth Vollmer dialled another number. While he waited for his connection he took out the ticket he had purchased for Puttgarden. He crushed the unused ticket and dropped it. He had stood behind Tweed at the ticket window to hear his destination.
`Dr Berlin's residence,' a throaty voice said. He was through to the mansion in the Mecklenburger-strasse on Priwall Island. `Martin speaking. Tweed is coming..
`Await further instructions.'
The connection was broken before Vollmer could respond. Bighead, Vollmer said aloud and slammed down the phone. Back to Altona. To await further instructions. From Balkan. The man he had never seen.
Aboard the Copenhagen Express they had a first-class compartment to themselves. They sat in corner window seats, facing each other. The express thundered north across the North German plain, through neatly cultivated fields of ripening wheat. The land stretched away under a clear blue sky. It was going to be another lovely summer's day.
`This must be the most dangerous problem you've ever faced,' Newman remarked as he lit a cigarette. 'One of your four sector chiefs is a rotten apple.'
`I'm afraid so, Bob. That is the only fact I have to go on so far…'
`Any suspicions? Grey, Dalby, Lindemann, Masterson?'
`None at all. They have all been vetted up to their eyebrows. They come out pure as driven snow. It's rather depressing.'
`And you still think General Vasili Lysenko is behind it?'
`I don't think. I know. I can sense his fine Russian hand. All the hallmarks of the supreme professional…'
`How do you propose to go about it – smoking out Lysenko's tame hyena?'
`I suggest you concentrate on finding out everything you can about Dr Berlin. The philanthropic guardian of refugees intrigues me. The fact that he lives on the border. You know the history of Priwall Island?'
`No,' said Newman.
`Once in Lubeck I met a British ex-tank commander who served under Monty. He told me a memorable story. At the end of the war he was at the head of his armoured unit – in the very first tank to reach Travemunde and be ferried across to Priwall Island. He was racing the Russians to seize the whole strategic island – which controls the seaward entrances to Lubeck on its east and west coasts. He was exactly half-way across that island when he saw a Soviet tank approaching from the other direction. The Red Army tank commander held up his hand to halt our chap. The British tank commander did the same thing – held up his hand to stop the Red Army in its rush to seize Lubeck itself, even take over Denmark if they could. And that was where the border was drawn. At the precise point where those two tank commanders met…'
`So that's why Priwall Island is cut in half – with the Soviet minefield belt extending across its middle?'
