`He's married?' she enquired.
`Divorced. He likes women and is very lively. Says the most outrageous things to see how you react..
`Sounds fun. I'll play up to him a bit. Maybe he'll talk to me about himself. That type often does. Their favourite subject.'
`You're a cynic,' he teased.
`Just a realist. I'll tell you afterwards what I think of him. Doesn't sound like a villain.'
`This villain is dangerous because he's so clever at concealing his real character.'
`I'll get under his skin,' she said confidently. 'It will be lovely travelling round with you, Tweed. That crowd back at the marina can be such a crashing bore.' She raised her glass again. `Here's to my spotting the odd man out…'
Tweed escorted Diana back to Newman's flat, refused her invitation to join her in a nightcap, used the waiting cab to take him on to Park Crescent. Monica was waiting for him when he entered his office.
`I kept on phoning Peter Toll at Pullach as you suggested,' she informed him. 'Three times at spaced-out intervals to keep up the pressure. He's still away.'
`I don't like it.' Tweed walked across to the wall-map he had put up earlier in the day, a map showing the whole of Northern Europe, including West and East Germany, the Baltic and Scandinavia.
`Harry Butler is still at Heathrow with that German, Walther Prohl, the BND man who looks like Bob Newman,' she reminded him. 'Harry has reported in. First he starved Prohl, who was famished. Gave him only strong black coffee to drink, which made PrOhl edgy. No new data from him. Then Harry had a meal sent in and Prohl devoured everything, mopping up the gravy with his bread. That should have softened him up. Still nothing fresh. Harry says it looks as though he doesn't know anything more. What do you think Toll is up to?'
`Well, he's up to something.' Tweed turned away from studying the border between West Germany and The Zone. 'He sends a man who looks like Newman to Heathrow – which means what he is involved in concerns Newman. Prohl has a return ticket to Hamburg and waits at the airport for the next flight back. Toll, therefore, was trying to convince someone Newman had left the Federal Republic. That someone, I'm pretty sure, is Markus Wolf, who probably has a man inside Hamburg Airport – someone who can check the passenger manifests.'
`I also called Samuel Portman, Paula Grey's private detective. You have an appointment with him tomorrow. His office at ten in the morning. He thinks you're a potential client. Is there something funny about Paula checking on her husband?'
`That,' Tweed told her, 'is what I'm going to find out. Lord, it must be late…'
`Nearly midnight,' Monica replied, glancing at her watch.
There was no wind, no sound, no light. The silence, the black fir forest, the dark sky were oppressive. Only seconds earlier the frontier zone ahead of Newman and Toll had been a blaze of lights from the distant watchtowers, beams of light moving slowly, like sinister eyes probing the forbidden area, searchlights from each individual tower. Toll had handed Newman night-glasses which he had raised to his eyes, focusing them on the watchtower immediately in front of them, seen through an avenue of grass and shrubs cut through the forest.
The watchtower was a concrete vertical column supporting a round cabin at the summit, a cabin with large windows and a shallow roof. The lenses brought the top of the tower so close Newman felt he could reach out and put a hand inside the open window.
Three men inside. One standing by a swivel-mounted machine-gun. A second operating his searchlight. The third fiddling with something which looked like a console equipped with switches. A beam swept slowly along the thirty-foot high wire fence which rose up about ten yards back from where they stood. At this point a gate was let into the fence.
`You go through the gate,' Toll whispered.
`I know.'
Newman, his hands clammy round the binoculars, studied the lie of the land beyond the gate. Tufts of grass. Stunted shrubs of gorse. Not cleared in the same ruthless way he had seen at other parts of the seven hundred-mile Iron Curtain stretching from the Baltic to Hungary, far to the south.
He heard a metallic clink. Toll had extracted his bunch of skeleton keys from his coat pocket. God knew how long it would take him to unlock that gate. Five minutes was the expected duration of the blackout to be organized by the crew in the tower he was gazing at, a blackout caused by deliberate shorting of the electricity.
`Best night for a month for crossing,' Toll hissed. 'No moon. Heavy overcast forecast. No wind. You'd hear trouble a kilometre off.'
`You said it before,' Newman whispered back.
And he had. Toll was repeating himself Sign of nerves. He had good reason. God knew how many regulations he was breaking – a senior BND officer coming right up to the frontier.
Newman felt he should be grateful. All he could think of was the route he had to follow beyond that gate. When the lights went out. With luck the bloody lights wouldn't go out. That would abort the operation.
`Feeling nervous?' Toll asked.
`Just concentrating on the job.'
Newman handed back the glasses and his voice was ice-cold. That worried Toll. If they felt nervous they would have maximum alertness. Overconfident, they always took risks. Something he could do nothing about. Toll quenched his last-minute doubts.
Newman began to feel the cold seeping into him. They were standing behind a copse of trees, peering round the thick trunk of one giant fir sheering above them. No sign of mist. That was one thing to be thankful for. No mist, please. Not until I'm across – over the dummy minefield. If it was still a dummy. Markus Wolf had a habit of changing the defences without warning.
`Any minute now,' Toll said.
`They're late.'
Newman had checked his watch. Five minutes past midnight. What had gone wrong? His right hand felt the shaving kit inside the pocket of his raincoat. Minimum equipment. Ordinary razor, packet of East German blades – like the razor. Small brush. Piece of soap. Also manufactured in the Democratic Republic. Democratic. That was a laugh…'
The lights went out.
Newman temporarily lost his night vision. He'd made the mistake of watching the lights too long. Toll reached out a hand, grasped his arm. He spoke so softly Newman only just caught what he'd said.
`Grab the back of my coat belt…'
They stumbled forwards to the gate, placing their feet carefully. Tufts of grass threatened to bring them down. Newman blinked several times. His night vision began to come back. They were at the gate. Toll raised the handle, prior to trying the first key. The gate opened, moved inward silently on well-oiled hinges. Toll was taken aback. He stood holding the handle, listening, and then he spoke.
`Gate unlocked. Something's wrong..
`Get out of my way. I'm going through.'
It had been over four years ago. His training with the SAS unit. He hadn't thought about it until this moment. Everything came -back in a flood, filling his mind. The sergeant who had drilled him unmercifully.
`Sometimes you'll get lucky. Grab it in both hands. The luck. You'll get one chance only. Don't hesitate. Not for a second. Do it, man…'
Newman had never known his name. He'd come from the Manchester area – judging from the way he spoke. Newman never knew where any of them came from. Bloody nightmare it had been. But a thorough bloody nightmare. 'Just call me Sarge…'
`You won't see it coming. The lucky break. When it comes see it. Grab it. Do it…'
Newman was through the gate and walking straight ahead, crouched low. Behind him Toll closed the gate, decided against trying to lock it, headed back for the parked car, long legs striding over the ground, downhill, fast. Once a man was through you left him to it. He was on his own. Just get well clear of the border – and hope and pray. He was too bloody confident, Toll said to himself and shrugged his shoulders.
Beyond the gate Newman was shit-scared.
The tower loomed up in the night like some alien, a Martian out of H. G. Wells. It was the guidepost. Walk straight ahead, pass the right-hand side of the tower, don't look up, keep moving at a steady pace. That much Toll had known.
