'Wolf, tell me what you think really happened?'
'How do I know? The two reports – one from Franck, the other from Border Control – only came in a few minutes ago.'
'But you seem to link them. This so-called blackout and the mystery about Newman.'
'I phoned Moscow just before you came back on the special line. I held on while they checked Newman on the computer.' Wolf paused. 'He speaks fluent German. I have just issued a nationwide alert. Photos of him will be here by morning.'
Twenty-Three
The blurred glow of the border searchlights penetrated the darkness of the fir forest just enough for Newman to get a glimpse of Josef Falken before they had walked into pitch blackness. Tall and slim, he had a long face terminating in a pointed jaw. There was a hint of humour round the corners of the firm mouth, in his pale blue eyes. He spoke in a light-hearted way as though they were embarking on a leisurely hike in friendly territory.
`You ride a bicycle, so Toll informed me?'
`I can, yes. And after three days I will be crossing back over the same route?'
`Toll always plans ahead. The cycles are less than a kilometre from here. Your German is very good. You could pass for one. In fact, you may have to.'
Again the same buoyant note, an apparent total lack of stress. Newman decided he liked Falken. Then he stopped, reached out his hand and grasped the German's arm. He pointed into the forest to their left away from the narrow path they were following.
`Something – someone – moved up there…'
`Yes, my flank guard. Gerda is watching over us. You only need to know her first name. She is carrying an automatic weapon – and she can use it. First lesson for you, my friend,' Falken continued as they resumed walking along the uphill path winding through the forest. 'First lesson,' he repeated, 'this is wartime. We are the underground fighting an alien regime. We are Soviet-occupied territory – The Zone.'
There was silence for a few minutes as Newman digested this and they climbed higher. And now he knew why the searchlight glow had been a blur – the mist was rolling in, coils of white vapour sliding in between the trees.
To his left Gerda was no more than a faint shadow, flitting noiselessly through the forest along a course parallel to their own. It was not at all what Newman had expected. More like being with a guerrilla group. He shivered as the chill of the mist penetrated his raincoat.
Falken wore a thigh-length leather jacket with large lapels which gave the garment a military cut. Corduroy trousers were tucked inside knee-length leather boots with rubber soles. The dense silence of the mist-bound forest was broken by no sound. Even their footwear made no noise on the moss-covered ground.
`Here are the cycles,' Falken said, turning off the path and reaching under a clump of bracken. 'They gave me your height. I think this one should suit you.'
Toll's thoroughness again, Newman thought as he raised the cycle upright and perched on the saddle. It felt comfortable, just the right size. Falken hauled out a larger machine and looked at Newman.
`Make sure your lights are on – including the rear light. It is the regulation.'
`What about Gerda?'
`There is a third machine under the bracken with a basket for her weapon. She will follow us at a certain interval – in case of trouble I like a surprise rearguard…'
The path had ended at a tarred road and they began cycling alongside each other uphill. Falken pedalled slowly until he was sure Newman could handle his machine competently, then he increased the pace.
Falken cycled with his head bent forward. Newman realized he was listening carefully. He suspected the German had exceptional hearing – a man who looked after bird sanctuaries would be accustomed to picking up sounds other men might miss. They had reached the top of the hill and were cycling along a level stretch of road, the beams of their lights showing only a short way ahead in the oily mist when the headlights of a car parked off the road were switched on, catching them full in the face. A voice shouted the command.
`Halt! Border Police. Stand still. We have guns pointed at you…'
Tweed was still working at Park Crescent. He was an owl and his mind moved at full power late at night. He closed the last of the four files and pushed the stack away.
`Shall I try phoning Peter Toll again?' Monica asked. 'I've tried four times so far.'
Tweed checked his watch. 'One o'clock. That makes it 2 a.m. in Munich. Leave it till the morning…'
`Did you find anything in the files?'
`Nothing. Grey, Masterson, Lindemann and Dalby. Not a thing.' He leaned back in his chair and went on talking, thinking aloud. 'How did it all start? Ian Fergusson was murdered. That was the bait to lure me into Germany. Then Ziggy Palewska is killed. A second body to hold my interest. Lubeck. I'm attacked, probably by Kurt Franck. Misfire, thanks to Newman. The central fact of the whole mystery is only my four sector chiefs knew Fergusson was going to Hamburg. Let's call the odd man out Janus..
`Why Janus?'
`Janus, the god who looks both ways – the man who looks both to East and West. Like January. Undoubtedly Wolfs – and therefore also Lysenko's – chief agent in the West…'
`But there appear to be two chief agents. Balkan also.'
`Balkan is somewhere in Germany for brief, maybe longish, periods. Probably controller of all Wolfs networks in Western Germany. Getting back to Lubeck, we have the strange figure of Dr Berlin. And Diana's shrewd comment – maybe he wants you to see him. Why would he want that?'
`Sounds an arrogant sod,' Monica commented.
`Lubeck still. Two horrible murders of attractive blonde girls. Three, if you add in Frankfurt six months ago.'
`You lack a connection – maybe several.'
'I have that feeling – that I am looking at different pieces of a huge jigsaw. I can't fit them together because I lack more pieces.'
`Maybe Newman has gone off to find some of your missing pieces. We know from my phone call that he checked out of the Jensen.'
'I just hope to God he hasn't crossed the border.' Tweed's gaze switched to the wall map. 'Peter Toll is brilliant but still impetuous.'
`Why use Newman? He has his own people…'
`Because he might need someone new. All four of our sector chiefs report a weird lack of activity by the opposition. Toll will have spotted that. So, he sends in someone fresh. Let's pray I'm wrong.'
`And why, may I ask,' Monica said tentatively, 'are you taking Diana Chadwick with you when you visit the famous four in their warrens?'
`Just to get a second opinion.'
`Oh, really? I don't think we're being frank any more. You have some other motive…'
Tweed stood up behind his desk, stretched his arms, suppressed a yawn. 'You go home now. Me too. I'll find you a cab. I have to visit that detective, Portman, tomorrow – no, today.'
Monica put the cover on her typewriter. 'And what about Harry Butler and that German he's interrogating at Heathrow?'
`We'll leave them there until I can get Toll. Harry can last out an incredible number of hours. Maybe the German can't.'
`I'll try Toll again in the morning.'
`Do that.' Tweed helped her on with her coat. 'I want news of what has happened to Newman.'
Newman stopped, braking his cycle, dropping his feet to the road, standing with legs splayed on either side of his machine. The crisis had come. He was ice-cold. Falken also stopped. Newman threw up one hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the car's headlights, holding the cycle with the other.
`Border Police!' the arrogant voice shouted again. 'Papers! Your papers!'
