`Gerda,' Falken broke in, 'has an Uzi machine-pistol concealed under that folded windcheater in her cycle basket. Can you use the weapon?'
I was once trained to handle it, yes,' Newman replied, and left it at that. 'Now where are we going when we reach the car?'
`To let you interview someone about the real Dr Berlin. You are going to meet a witness…' He stopped speaking as Newman turned to look back the way they had come. 'What is it?'
`I can hear a car coming slowly. It could be Schneider and his sidekick, checking up on us…'
Gerda vanished off the road like a ghost, Pushing her cycle at speed. Newman noticed she had swiftly turned off her lights. Falken chuckled again before he replied, taking the sting out of his remark.
`Mustn't get paranoid, Albert Thorn. They are probably simply returning to their police barracks at Wernigerode. At this game you suspect everything and everyone, I agree. But also remember you will meet many who are merely proceeding on their lawful occasions.'
The slow-moving car's headlights illuminated them from behind, then were dipped. As the vehicle passed them Schneider leaned out of the window, calling to them in a hoarse voice.
`Good hunting, Mr Thorn…'
The car moved faster and was gone, its engine sound muffled almost immediately by the mist. Gerda rejoined them, jumped into her saddle and pedalled behind them.
`I thought there was a trace of irony in Schneider's voice,' Falken commented. 'And he made a point of letting you know he remembered your name…'
`Now who's getting paranoid?'
Falken shook with laughter. For a few seconds his cycle wobbled. Then Gerda overtook them, riding ahead. She gestured for them to halt, jumped nimbly from her machine and pushed it up a narrow track on the right-hand side of the road.
`We have reached the car,' Falken explained as they followed. `It's a Chaika, a Russian car. It gives a certain authority to anyone riding in it. And if you think your recent experiences have been a little tense, they were nothing.'
`What's coming?' Newman asked.
They laid the machines on the ground and helped Gerda who was already using her gloved hands to haul away great clumps of loose undergrowth, exposing the hidden Chaika, swathed with a neutral-coloured blanket over the bonnet to protect the engine against the cold.
They next hid the three cycles, covering them thoroughly with the loose undergrowth. Gerda checked the finished product, walking all round the buried machines before she pronounced that she was satisfied. Under her arm she had tucked the windcheater concealing the stubby-nosed Uzi machine-pistol.
Falken settled himself behind the wheel of the Chaika, his long legs hunched. Newman, at his request, sat beside him and Gerda squeezed herself in behind them. The ignition fired at the sixth attempt.
`What's coming?' Newman repeated. 'Where are we going?'
`To visit the witness you will interview. Concerning gentle and shy Dr Berlin – who does not like his photograph being taken. Our destination, my friend? The centre of Leipzig – only the throw of a stone from the building containing Markus Wolf's headquarters. And at the moment he has a guest, a certain Soviet GRU general – military intelligence. Vasili Lysenko. He must be planning a major operation. Come on! Let's go!'
He swung the Chaika on to the track, turned on to the road and followed the direction Schneider had driven along.
Newman thought the chill of the forest night had increased enormously.
Twenty-Four
London's Soho had not improved, Tweed decided as he walked along the street. But at least he felt safe now. No longer any reason for keeping an eye open for cripples who might be skilled assassins. It was good to be back in peaceful Britain.
But soon, he thought, he would get restless again – restless to return into the field, to Germany. The human mind was a weird instrument. Always next, the spice of variety. Portman Investigations read the metal chrome plate attached to the side of the open doorway. First Floor.
He was surprised that the plate was shining and clean. He walked inside and started mounting the old bare wooden staircase. He put a hand on the banister rail and hastily withdrew it. The rail was greasy to the touch.
The twin of the chrome plate outside was attached by the side of a closed door, minus the reference to the floor. He knocked, three hard raps. It was opened quickly and Tweed had another surprise. He was expecting something sleazy and shifty.
`Mr Portman?'
`Mr Tweed? You're prompt. More than most of my clients are. Come in, take a pew. Now, how can I help you along the twisted pathways of life in this vale of sorrows?'
A small, round-faced jolly-looking man in his mid-forties, Mr Samuel Portman. Plump-bodied, like a well-fed pheasant. Tweed wondered why he'd likened him to that fowl, then remembered what he'd dined off the previous evening with Diana. His blue, pin-striped suit wasn't Savile Row, but it was well-pressed and clean. Almost Pickwickian in appearance – without the spectacles. Tweed produced the folder and showed it.
`Special Branch…'
`Oh, really? Your girl who made the appointment didn't say.'
`We don't believe in the maxim it pays to advertise.' Tweed put the folder back in his pocket, his manner amiable. 'Paula Grey. One of your clients. Hawkswood Farmhouse, Norfolk. Why did she employ you?'
`I couldn't possibly disclose that. Confidential, our investigations. The keystone of our relationship…'
`You've tried, made the right noises, now stop wasting my time.' Tweed's tone had hardened. 'I can always take you back to headquarters. The investigation I'm conducting is very serious, may involve terrorists. Don't worry about Paula, she's no connection. Let's start again. When did you begin checking on Hugh Grey?'
`Well, since you're Special Branch, I suppose I must make an exception. I don't like it, mind you, don't like it at all… `We don't like terrorists. Get on with it, man.'
`Just over two years ago she came to see me. August it was. A very hot day. I couldn't-really understand it. You see… Portman hesitated. `… they weren't married then.'
`I know that. Get to the point.'
`She asked me to follow Hugh Grey, to report on his movements. She said she thought there was another woman. I haven't been able to find a trace of that. He goes abroad a lot. The number of times I've seen him off from Heathrow. Always to Germany. I couldn't follow him. The expense, you see.'
`And each time,' Tweed said casually, 'you found it easy – to follow this Hugh Grey?'
`No.' The little man admitted it reluctantly. 'Paula Brent – as she was before they married – phoned me the day before he was due to go off from Hawkswood. I'd drive out next day, wait for him near a crossroads out of sight, then pick him up. He knew I was on his track. He'd wait till he came to a traffic light near Much Hadham, slow down, then shoot across on the amber. I couldn't risk following through on the red. They might revoke my licence if the police caught me. They don't much like us – the police. And once he followed me here to Soho.'
`Tell me.'
`I lost him. Much Hadham again. Then I was driving through London and I picked him up in my rear view mirror. Couldn't believe it. Where would he pick up that skill? He's something in insurance. He was still with me when I arrived in Soho.'
`So he knows who you are? What you are?'
`Not bloody likely.' Portman perked up. 'I parked the car, then walked into a solicitor pal's office near here.'
`Surely he waited for you?'
`No. You see, I have an arrangement with the solicitor in question. He needs me from time to time. I foresaw I might have this problem one day. The plate outside the solicitor's office reads – I'm making up the other names – Blenkinsop, Mahoney and Portman. He thought I was a solicitor. It must have puzzled him.'
