`I haven't told Martin I was coming to see you. I understand there are rumours about the movement of a large consignment of heroin.'
`Go on,' encouraged Wolf, careful not to comment.
`This member of the Border Police was on special assignment. I checked his identity. He mentioned drugs. I thought you should know.'
`Thank you.' Wolf stared at the officer through his square- shaped glasses with thin horn-rims. 'But so far you have given me nothing unusual. There are a number of Border Police who are on special assignment – searching for drugs rings.'
`It was just as they were driving away that Clasen made his remark. I can quote his exact words. 'If you see a blue Lada driven by a man wearing a Russian fur hat, don't stop him.' '
Wolf pulled a notepad in front of him, produced a pen. 'You said three people. Who were the other two?'
`A girl he called Gerda, late twenties, attractive, wearing a. head scarf. The driver was about forty, tall, lean. I can remember the registration number…'
Wolf scribbled down the details. He put down his pen, folded his arms and looked at the officer.
`Thank you for reporting this, Hecht. Not a word to anyone else. All right? You have shown initiative. I shall not forget.'
He waited until Hecht had gone. Nothing in his expression betrayed the anger he felt. Were the Russians – Lysenko – using one of his own units in some secret operation without informing him? That he would not put up with. It was the reference to the man with the Russian fur hat which had alerted him. He lifted the phone, dialled an internal number.
`Organize a dragnet. Target a Chaika. Here are the details…'
When he'd finished he called back Hecht, recalling a detail he'd overlooked. He took Hecht over to the wall map, asked him to show him exactly where they had stopped the Chaika. Thanking him, he waited until he was alone again, then pressed another pin on to the map.
Falken had opened a window. The three of them stood close to it like frozen statues, listening to the siren growing louder, nearer and nearer. Newman found the tension almost unbearable. It's the heat, he told himself as he felt sweat dribbling under his armpits. Despite the roominess of the camper he felt hemmed in, claustrophobic, was aware of the bridge just above them pressing down. Beyond the window two massive concrete supports reared up, increasing the trapped feeling. Falken looked at his watch.
`We can't wait for her much longer…'
`We'll wait till she comes,' Newman rapped back.
`I decide when we leave…'
`Not on this occasion. This is my ball game – interviewing Piper.'
`When I say we go, we go…'
`Shut up, both of you,' Gerda snapped. 'You're like two squabbling schoolboys. Listen.'
The siren was overhead, passing along the road above them. It faded into the distance. Falken used his handkerchief to wipe beads of sweat off his forehead. He again looked at his watch and Newman could have hit him.
`Here she is!' Gerda called out.
Newman peered through the curtains, scarcely able to credit what he saw. A motor-cyclist, features concealed under a crash helmet, had pulled up close to the Chaika. The rider swung a leg off the machine, kicked the support strut into position, left it standing erect and took off the helmet.
A woman in her late sixties, dark hair tied in an old-fashioned bun at the back, clad in a leather jacket, trousers tucked into leather boots. Falken opened the rear door and she hurried forward, climbing nimbly inside. The German slammed the door shut, ushered her forward. As he had been instructed earlier, Newman was wearing dark glasses. Gerda also wore a pair of tinted spectacles and her head scarf. `No point in her being able to identify you,' Falken had said. 'Then if she should be picked up by the police, questioned, she won't be able to describe you accurately. She knows me anyway…'
Newman sat on the couch, facing the clock on the wall behind where Falken had sat Karen Piper, studying her. A hawk-like nose, sharp eyes, a thin mouth, a firm jaw. Just the type to rise to become a matron. He was aware she, in her turn, was studying him. He opened the conversation.
`You are Karen Piper?'
`Er, yes…'
Newman noted the brief hesitation. Falken's security was total. He had not even given him her real name. Probably at the woman's request. She kept fluffing up her hair where the helmet had pressed it down. Underneath the leather jacket he could see a lace-edged blouse, high at the neck, an enamel brooch with the painting of a lady dressed in clothes of the nineteenth century. Karen Piper had questions of her own, her eyes never leaving his.
`Where are you from? I must know before I speak.'
A throaty voice, harsh and commanding in earlier days. `West Germany…'
`Which part?'
`That I am not telling you…'
`Your profession?'
`Newspaper reporter…'
`Which paper?'
'Der Spiegel.'
`Oh, I see.' For the first time she was impressed. Newman was watching the clock, as was Falken. He jumped in before she could continue her interrogation.
`I'm short of time. So are you. The longer you stay here, the greater the danger. Let's get on with it. What have you to tell me about Dr Berlin?'
`He's dead.'
`No, he isn't. He's living in the Federal Republic. Near the border. On Priwall Island, Travemunde.'
`He died over twenty years ago. Your Dr Berlin is a fake. I can prove it.'
`Please do so,' Newman requested.
`In 1963 I was a sister employed at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases in Leipzig. The date was December 15. I was working on the private wards – reserved for Government bigwigs and the Party members. They brought in their so-called Dr Berlin on a stretcher. His face was completely bandaged…'
You saw this yourself?'
`I was there when they carried him out of the ambulance. I accompanied him to the ward. The doctor in charge wouldn't let me take his temperature. That was what first aroused my suspicions. He was supposed to be suffering from a high fever. Later I saw the temperature chart. It registered four degrees above normal. I was told to keep away from that ward. Another sister was put in charge. The daughter of a Party member.'
Her lips curled at the recollection. She continued staring at Newman as she went on with her story.
`The matron at that time was a fool. She was supposed to organize a roster of three sisters. On duty round the clock. There was a muddle. I was put on duty two days after the patient had arrived. I looked through the watch window. I could hardly believe my eyes. The patient was walking round the ward, smoking a cigarette. He had stubble on his chin, but no beard.'
`That was significant?'
`Ever since I had known him as a youth he had a black beard.'
Newman leaned forward. 'You mean you knew him earlier?'
`Before he left to set up his mission station in Africa. My family was friendly with his. The man I saw through the watch window was not Dr Berlin…'
`Without his beard,' Newman began.
`I knew him before he first grew his beard. When he was clean shaven. The man I saw was not Dr Berlin,' she repeated. `Like him, yes. And he was smoking English cigarettes…'
`How do you know that?'
`When one of the favoured sisters…' Again her lips curled in a sneer. `… brought out the waste bin I offered to empty it. I found English cigarette stubs. And when I saw him walking round the ward I thought he looked English. Anglo-Saxon, certainly. Maybe Scandinavian.'
`Could you please describe him?'
