not new – only just heard about it. So he could be already with you. A formidable competitor.'
`I agree.' Tweed felt his facial muscles stiffen. 'Suppose I should say goodnight, Vienna…'
`Wiedersehen.'
`What's the matter?' Newman asked as they strolled out of the station into the glare of the midday sun. 'You look as though you've seen a ghost. Bad news?'
`Some people would say the worst. Ever heard of a man from East Germany known as The Cripple?'
`I have now. Who is he – or she?'
`He. Their most professional assassin. Believed to be responsible for the murder of at least seven of our agents. He specializes in making his killings look like accidents. We have no description and no photo of him. Harry Masterson said he came over the border at Gmund in Upper Austria recently and is headed this way. May already be here…'
`That's a hell of a long way round to get to Lubeck. He had to cross part of Austria and the whole of Germany.'
`Which was clever. If you want to escape across the Iron Curtain this is not the place to do it. The border is too heavily guarded. You'd find it much easier to slip over the Austrian frontier. The same applies if they want to send a man into the West. We may have very unpleasant company on our doorstep.'
`At least Masterson has warned us…'
`And that was a funny thing. He was supposed to be calling from Vienna. I'd have sworn it was a local call – made from somewhere nearby…'
`Probably a freak line…'
`Probably.'
They caught the 15.33 express from Lubeck bound for Copenhagen which would land them at Puttgarden at 17.11. The train was fairly empty and Tweed gazed out of the window with interest as the train forged north. More flatlands, but now few signs of habitation. Wild-looking countryside with fields of crops when they left Lubeck behind after a glimpse of the blue Baltic.
`You could lose yourself up here and they'd never find you,' Newman remarked.
`It gets wilder when we cross over to the German island of Fehmarn,' Tweed said. The track crosses Fehmarn Sound on to the island over a bridge. Puttgarden, the ferry terminal for Denmark, is at the very tip of the island. I think we're coming up to it now.'
The express slowed, rumbled slowly over a long bridge. Newman peered out and below the intensely blue Baltic was choppy. The brilliant sunlight glittered like mercury off the wave crests. It moved on to the island and Newman saw the point of Tweed's remark.
High dense grasses waved in the breeze and there was no sign of human habitation as far as the eye could see. An atmosphere of desolate loneliness hung over the island which – even in the sunlight – pressed down on the landscape.
The express lost speed again and soon it was crawling along-side the platform of Puttgarden station. Not a hint of a town or even a village. Just the endless platform.
As they descended to the platform Newman glanced to his left, to the north. In the distance, beyond the locomotive, what, looked like an immense shed yawned, a dark cavern. Above the entrance was hoisted a huge metal shield-like cover. He was looking at the waiting train ferry, open and ready to receive the express.
`I can't see Lindemann,' Newman observed.
`Patience. We'll walk up and down the platform… `
Who are those people?'
Newman pointed to a small group who had left the train and were standing by the road outside. About a dozen passengers, no more.
`They're waiting for the local bus to Burg. That's a nowhere place,' Tweed commented. 'Only a handful of houses and shops – but the largest hamlet on Fehmarn. Ah, who have we here?'
Newman hardly recognized Erich Lindemann as he alighted from the express. He wore a Norfolk jacket, corduroy slacks, a deerstalker hat and, perched on the bridge of his nose, a pair of crescent-shaped glasses. Shrewd grey eyes stared at Newman over the top of the lenses. His whole appearance was changed and he looked the very image of The Professor.
`You've come up on the same train as us – from Lubeck?' Newman asked, puzzled.
`That is how it would appear to anyone observing us.' Lindemann smiled wryly. 'As soon as the express train arrived I boarded it at the front, walked half-way through the train until I found you, then I got off. Shall we stroll up and down – I'm catching this express back to Copenhagen and it leaves at 17.25. That gives us less than ten minutes.' He turned to Tweed. 'In view of the news I bring I am glad you have Newman with you. Keep him by your side at all times…'
`What news?' Tweed asked. He raised a hand to his hair which was blowing all over the place. The air was fresh with a salty tang and a powerful breeze came in off the Baltic.
`For months I have been trying to discover the identity of the man who controls the army of enemy agents infesting West Germany. All of them East Germans, of course. Yes,' he continued in his precise way as they walked, 'I know that is strictly speaking the job of Hugh Grey, but our territories overlap. All these ferries crossing the Baltic – here and at Lubeck.
`What have you found out?' Tweed enquired.
`His code-name. Balkan. I know it isn't much. But I have also heard Balkan has arrived in Lubeck very recently. I thought you should be warned.'
`Where does this information come from, Erich?'
`I can't identify my informant, of course. Let us say I made a quick flight to Oslo recently. An interesting city – and of course just north in the mountains is the great NATO base.'
`I see…' Tweed was silent for a short while. He was pretty sure he knew what Lindemann was saying. Norway. In the far north there was a curious area close to the Barents Sea where a section of the Norwegian frontier ran next to Soviet Russia. It would take a brilliant agent to cross from Russia – but Lindemann was a brilliant sector chief.
`This Balkan,' Tweed continued, 'have you even the hint of a clue as to where he comes from?'
`Not the trace of a hint. I am told that only Lysenko himself is privy to his real identity. That gives you some idea of the power Balkan wields. Life and death, according to my informant. There is one other thing. He has been in place, holding that position, for a long time – probably many years…'
`Strange we've never heard of him before…'
`No, that's understandable. One other tiny item.' Lindemann was pacing slowly between Newman and Tweed. 'Lysenko changes the code-name at intervals. But he has been called Balkan for some time. I was also told he is very mobile.' He checked his watch. 'And that, Tweed, I am afraid is it. I'd better board my train in a minute…'
`Thank you for coming, Erich. And for the information. I sense we now have movement by the opposition…'
`Don't forget my offer,' Lindemann said as he opened the door of an empty compartment. 'If things get overheated down here, phone me and I'll meet you in Copenhagen off the express. Don't fly. Oh, it's possible Balkan is based in Oslo.'
The door slammed shut before Tweed could react. They decided to go for a walk along the country road since their train back to Liibeck wasn't due. Newman glanced back at the express which was still standing in the station and then a bend in the road hid it from view.
'Lindemann is all brainpower,' Newman remarked as they bent their heads against the wind.
`And a man of many parts. You'd never dream that when he was a few years younger his main relaxation was amateur theatricals. He could have made his living on the stage, I heard…'
`I didn't recognize him immediately when he came out of that compartment. He's still pretty good at disguising his appearance. I was also intrigued by the few snippets he's picked up about this Balkan. It's a thin comparison, I know, but he reminded me of someone else we've heard about recently…'
`Are we thinking on the same lines?' Tweed wondered aloud.
`Dr Berlin…'
`Exactly. Why?'
