`Exactly. At least the western channel to Travemunde is under Western control. So passenger ships from Sweden and Finland can cross the Baltic and berth there. It's one of the weirdest spots on earth. And that, I remember reading, is where Dr Berlin has his residence,' Tweed remarked.
`The odd thing is he only spends part of his time there. He's like a grasshopper. I remember some of the old Kenya hands used that very word. Hops all over the world, they said. But no one knew where..
`Then you'd better find out. I think we are coming in to the outskirts of Lubeck. I wonder what it holds for us?'
The taxi ride from the Hauptbahnhof to the Hotel Jensen was only a few minutes. They could have walked it. Approaching the bridge crossing the river on to the island Lubeck sits on, they passed a curious pair of medieval towers, leaning precariously and topped with witches' hat turrets.
`The famous Holstentor,' Tweed remarked. Lubeck's trademark. That and marzipan…'
They met the blonde-haired woman as they carried their cases inside the Jensen. In her early forties, Newman estimated, she was tall, slim and had a pointed chin and startling blue eyes which stared straight at him.
He stood aside to let her pass and she smiled, still staring, then disappeared into the outside world. Newman looked back at her and the man behind the reception counter grinned.
`You know her, sir?' he asked in English.
`Unfortunately, no. She's staying here?'
`Oh, yes. A guest each year during the summer season. That is Diana Chadwick. A very popular lady…'
`With any normal man, I should imagine…'
`I shouldn't say it, perhaps.' The man paused and smiled again. 'Very popular with most men, yes. But not always so popular with the members of her own sex. They fear the competition, I sometimes think.'
`Diana Chadwick,' Newman repeated while Tweed filled in his own form. 'I've heard that name somewhere…'
`She used to be a famous society beauty in Africa many years ago.' He smiled a third time. 'Not too many years, I hasten to say…'
`Not Kenya by any chance?' Newman asked.
'I think possibly it was Kenya. Go to Travemunde, ask some of the British boating crowd there. She spends a lot of her time with them. Thank you, sir,' he said to Tweed, and pushed the pad towards Newman for him to register.
General Lysenko had insisted they moved their centre of operations to a fifth-floor office in the seven-storey concrete block of a building in Leipzig. He stood by the window now while Markus Wolf arranged his files brought up from the basement.
`I felt like a bloody mole trapped underground in that basement,' he snapped. 'We're likely to be here sometime, I take it.'
`Munzel can move very quickly,' Wolf replied in his slow deliberate voice. 'Witness how he dealt with the British agent, Fergusson, and that piece of garbage, Palewska. On the other hand, with a man like Tweed he will take his time. Patience is so often the key to success, I find.'
The Intelligence chief glanced at Lysenko to see if he had got the message. No, he hadn't, he decided. He explained at greater length.
`First, Munzel has made his second report via the Eichholz watch-tower. He has signalled the arrival of Tweed at the Hotel Jensen in Lubeck. We spun out a string for Tweed to follow – and he is following it. Second, Munzel will want to study his target, get to know his habits, his way of going about things.
Only when he has a complete picture of Tweed will he strike.
And in any case, Balkan will soon arrive in Lubeck. Our eagles are gathering…'
`There is a time limit.'
`No, General, there is no time limit.' Wolf's graven image of a face became bleaker. 'From my informant inside the Berliner Tor in Hamburg I hear both the deaths of Fergusson and Palewska are regarded as accidents. That shows Munzel's great competence. It is only this pest of a Federal policeman, Kuhlmann, from Wiesbaden, who is unconvinced. A clever man, Otto Kuhlmann…'
'He may have to be eliminated…'
`God forbid!' Wolf was appalled. 'An intimate of Chancellor Kohl himself? I understood from you the General Secretary warned there must be no incidents – only accidents.'
'And yet,' Lysenko sneered, turning away from the window, 'you tell me Munzel is an expert on accidents…'
'Bonn would never believe Kuhlmann had an accident. More than that, Kuhlmann would smell Munzel as coming from the DDR a mile off. Fortunately he has no suspicions in that direction.'
'And why is Munzel known as The Cripple? He's as fit as a Nazi storm-trooper. Looks a bit like one.'
`Because he often adopts the guise of a cripple on a mission. Who suspects an apparently blind man? Or a man in a self- propelled wheelchair? It is some such technique he will use when he eventually deals with Tweed. Now, if you don't mind, I'll continue arranging my files…'
`Ah, the files. Yes, do be sure they are in order,' Lysenko urged in a sarcastic tone.
For the next week Tweed seemed to Newman to have lost his sense of direction and purpose. They wandered round the island of Lubeck in the sunshine and the heat which had become torrid. Lubeck was full of holidaymakers, which worried Newman. Too many crowds.
Mostly Germans, they sat at pavement cafes, drinking and chatting. The Jensen was a small, well-run establishment and Tweed's window overlooked the twin towers of the Holstentor across the river. Across the road from the hotel pleasure boats moored and picked up passengers for river cruises. It was a lazy, relaxed atmosphere.
Tweed spent some time talking with the Jensen's manager, a man who liked the English and was both shrewd and knowledgeable about conditions on both sides of the border. Newman got to know the blonde woman, Diana Chadwick, who wore her hair short and reminded him of pictures he'd seen of girls in the '30s before the war.
`You simply must come to Travemunde,' she said to him over a drink outside the Jensen as they sat at a pavement table. 'There is the most divine crowd there. Boaty people and tremendous fun. You'll get an idea of what life used to be – when every day we enjoyed ourselves. None of your creepy machines – computers or whatever they're called…'
`They are called computers…'
`And if you live in England now they have you all listed in one of their beastly machines. No privacy any more. Just like a police state, I say. Credit cards and all that. Came from America, of course. Everything awful comes from America. I hate the place.'
`You have been there, then?'
'Once. New York. Those dreadful canyons. Why go to Arizona – or wherever the Grand Canyon is? New York is full of them. I did have the most marvellous time, actually. Everyone asked me to lots of parties. But I felt I was an exhibit. 'Look, we have a Brit. girl. Isn't she quaint? Love to hear her talk – so different from us.' ' She finished her Bloody Mary and said yes, she'd love just one more. 'So different from us,' she repeated. 'Thank God, I thought. Who'd want to be like you?' She smiled and studied her companion. 'Bet you think I'm the most awful snob. Which I am, of course…'
'You mentioned Travemunde,' Newman reminded her. 'Isn't that where Dr Berlin lives?'
'Only part of the year. He's away at the moment. Expected to join the fun any time…'
'Where is he then?'
`God knows. He goes off without telling a soul where. But he has his refugee work. He's bonkers over that. Can't understand why. People must cope on their own. I've always had to…'
'Where were you born?' Newman lifted his glass to her.
Diana Chadwick had slim, well-shaped legs, a small waist and a good figure, not over-full. She wore an attractive summer dress with polka dot design, a high neck and a pussy bow. Very feminine. Her bone structure was well-defined, a straight nose above a firm mouth suggesting character, a trait reinforced by the pointed chin.
Her most striking feature was her sapphire blue eyes which held a hint of wickedness which also showed when she smiled and stared direct at Newman. He thought he could listen to her soft voice all night long. Above all
