`No. Being a reporter, you have a photographic memory. I was impressed with the way you remembered all relevant details first time. You have the papers for the job. And, like Falken, you've a job which calls for widespread movement. But again, not inside the border areas.' Toll switched on the interior car light for a few moments and glanced at Newman. 'You look amazingly different.'
`Where did you learn to tint hair?'
Newman had been surprised at the skill Toll had shown inside a remote farmhouse south of Lubeck. He had shampooed his hair a darker shade, had used a small brush to deal with Newman's thick eyebrows. This had made the greatest change. His eyebrows now appeared even thicker, which gave him a grim, scowling look. He had asked why Toll had not used dye.
`Takes too long, can easily look artificial. Tinting is more effective, more realistic. Just don't wash your hair,' Toll had warned. 'And if it rains keep your hat on. How are the eyes?'
Inside the farmhouse Toll had produced a wooden case lined with green baize and divided into many compartments holding a variety of coloured contact lenses. Eventually, Newman had found a pair which fitted reasonably comfortably. His eyes, normally blue, were now brown. This also increased the impression of aggressiveness in his appearance.
`OK. But I wouldn't like to wear them too long.'
`Three days in and then you're out. And that was part of the extra training I insisted on at Pullach, along with other things. To learn to tint hair myself. That way only I know about you – I don't like extra technicians sharing the knowledge.'
This was one aspect of Toll which Newman found reassuring. His lone wolf character, his insistence on controlling an operation entirely by himself. It cut down the risk of leaks.
`Coming in to Goslar now,' Toll remarked as he slowed down.
An ancient town, dramatic in the night. By the street lights the silhouettes of old half-timbered buildings, many sporting turrets at the corners, loomed. Like something out of a Hans Andersen fairytale. Romantic and sinister at the same time. The streets were deserted and in the distance Newman could faintly make out evergreen forest – great stands of firs rising up shoulder to shoulder. They were moving into the Harz mountains.
`Getting closer,' said Toll, who seemed to find it necessary to keep up a flow of conversation. 'Come midnight you cross over. How are the clothes?'
Back at the farmhouse Newman had changed into a complete set of fresh clothes, down to his underwear. There had been a selection of sizes, all from East Germany. Over his suit he wore a lightweight raincoat. Inside his wallet – also from the German Democratic Republic – was a large sum of DDR currency.
`Comfortable,' Newman said as they left Goslar behind and the car began climbing. 'Latest weather report?'
`A considerable drop in temperature in the Harz. Could be a mist. That will help – provided it arrives after you've made contact with Falken..
`And if it comes earlier?'
`That's unlikely.'
Which means, Newman interpreted, he hopes to God it doesn't. They had left behind all signs of human habitation as they went on climbing between dark walls of solid fir forest. He could smell the aroma of pine coming in through the window and then the headlights played over a large copse of pine trees. Toll switched off the headlights, slowed even more, relying on only sidelights.
`Very close now,' he said. 'Don't forget the photos of yourself concealed in the soles of your shoes.'
`I asked you before – why do I need them?'
`And I told you,' Toll snapped. 'I don't know. Falken asked for them. Bloody well ask him when you meet.'
The temperature was dropping. Traces of condensation appeared on the windscreen and Toll switched on the wipers. The only sounds now were the purr of the engine, the whip-whap of the wipers. They hadn't passed another vehicle in over half an hour but the curving road had an excellent surface.
`How did you obtain my photos?' Newman asked. 'Like passport pictures. Blurred to hell…'
`Taken secretly by yours truly when you sat at one of the tables in front of the Jensen. I looked a little different myself when I snapped you. The blurring is deliberate. They were taken before we altered your appearance. I foresaw problems if the likeness was too good. I developed and printed myself. Another bit of training I requested at Pullach. Half those idiots back there are bloody amateurs. All senior personnel should be able to do what I can.'
It wasn't said in an arrogant way, Newman noted. A simple remark expressing a conviction. Again Toll's stock rose. His one weakness seemed to be impetuosity. This mad rush to the border. At such short notice. But maybe it had advantages. The least possible time for a mistake, a leak, a warning to the East.
`We walk the rest of the way,' Toll said. 'You won't mind? You won't have to.'
Newman sensed the suppressed tension in Toll as he stopped the car, turned off the sidelights and got out. He locked the doors and they moved uphill on foot. A heavy, menacing silence fell, the forest closed on them. Their rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the road. They moved like ghosts through the night. Newman checked his watch. The illuminated hands registered five minutes to midnight.
Inside the empty compartment of the train slowing to enter the Hauptbahnhof at Hamburg Kurt Franck checked his own watch. Almost midnight. He felt down the inside of his left sock. The broad-bladed hunting knife was safely tucked inside the sheath strapped to his leg. It was the only weapon he always carried.
The train stopped and he jumped on to the platform. Walking rapidly he climbed the staircase, checking over his shoulder. He half-ran over the bridge and hauled open the door of the phone booth. He wasted half a minute detaching the backpack so the door would close properly. Then he started dialling Martin Vollmer's number. His report would be rushed through to Markus Wolf. Including his fresh sighting of Robert Newman at the Movenpick.
Twenty-Two
Tweed sat facing Diana in a booth inside his favourite restaurant near Walton Street, South Ken. The service was discreet and efficient, the atmosphere intimate, the food among the best in London.
Tweed had once heard the proprietor remark in his upper crust voice, 'I set out to found a place where discriminating customers would appreciate good food at modest prices.. A bit poncey, but he'd achieved his object.
`Who are these people we are going to visit?' Diana asked. `And this pheasant is delicious.'
`They do it rather well here. Who are we going to visit? Four different men, one of whom may be involved in a serious kidnapping case. I've explained the type of insurance General and Cumbria specialize in.'
'But why do you want me with you?'
`Because I have faith in feminine intuition. I know these people well. You'll look at them with a fresh eye. I want your impressions of them.'
`Sounds rather exciting…'
`We'll have to be careful,' Tweed warned.
I'll be frightfully careful. I suppose I do know a bit about men by now,' she said reflectively and sipped her Chablis. `Who am I supposed to be?'
A shrewd question, Tweed thought. 'I was just coming to that,' he said. 'You are an old friend of mine, over here on a visit from New York. Can you fake that? None of the four concerned have been to the States. They spend most of their business hours in Europe.'
`I have been to New York once, as I told you at Travemunde, but it was a long time ago. Can I fake it? I know I can. I'll just babble on, speaking a lot and really saying nothing. Haven't you noticed? Most people do that. It's rather like a game – I think I'm going to enjoy this. Who do we meet first?'
`Tomorrow we travel down into the country to meet Harry Masterson.' He looked up from his pheasant as he spoke the name to see her reaction. She stared back at him over the rim of her glass, her pale blue eyes steady behind her long lashes. 'He lives in Sussex in a typical old thatched cottage.'
