zigzag reared up where the track ended. No one was peering over the wall yet. Hurry! The camper swayed from side to side, rocking like a ship at sea, putting maximum strain on the springs. Then she felt the vehicle turning slowly, following the curve of the track. She stood very still, holding on to the door handle, gazing at the zigzag. Don't look yet! Please, God, don't let them look yet…'
The camper continued moving round the curve. The zigzag was disappearing. Then it was gone. She let out her breath. Her hand gripped the handle so tightly she had trouble unflexing her fingers. She went back to Falken who again smiled. She could tell he was in considerable pain. She sat beside him, gently pulled down his sock. His ankle was swelling, turning blue.
'I'll get the first aid kit, fix that for you…'
`Later. Get back to Emil. He's doing well but a little moral support will help.'
`Back soon.'
She flopped into the passenger seat, glanced at Newman who was staring ahead where the track ran dead straight inside the gulch for about a kilometre. He hit more of the intact sleepers, the bouncing started worse than ever.
`We're out of sight of the zigzag,' she told him. 'Now no one can see us.'
`I'd like to slow down. I'm shaking this thing to pieces.' `Good idea. Want one of your nasty East German cigarettes? I can get the packet out of your pocket.'
`No thanks. Never smoke when I'm driving. You can drop a lighted cigarette in your lap at the wrong moment, get smoke in your eyes. Only fools and addicts smoke and drive. Tell me, is the roof of this camper well below the level of the gulch?'
`Well below. I told you, we can't be seen now we're round that curve.'
And where are we heading for?'
`Leipzig still. By our own private route. The rail track.' `You've used it before?'
`Once. So I know what lies ahead, where we have to leave it at what used to be a level crossing. That's a distance yet. Then we move back on to the highway into Leipzig.'
`Look,' he protested, 'I'm going the wrong way for the border. We're heading due east.'
`You're thinking of the way you came in – past the watchtower. You don't go out that route…'
`But I was told…'
`Pullach can be naive. Falken's always cursing them. Never once has he passed a guest back across the border the way he came in. You don't get twice lucky in our world. It's my responsibility to put you on a different escape route.'
`Via Czechoslovakia?'
`No.' She hesitated. 'We never tell an outsider too much in advance. You understand?'
`Too bleeding right I do. In case I'm caught. Then, like the Piper woman, I can't tell them much under interrogation.'
`The system works. It's a question of survival. I will tell you that you're going out via the Baltic. But not how. Yet.'
`The Baltic! That's one hell of a way north. Practically across the full depth of the DDR.'
`That's the way it has to be. And now I'd better go and attend to Falken's ankle. Be back soon.' She smiled as he glanced at her. 'You really are doing very well. We trust you more than most we've had sent to us.'
Newman felt relieved and anxious at the same time. Relieved that the camper roof couldn't be seen above the gulch, anxious about this new escape route to the Baltic. He'd never dreamt they'd try to send him out via the extreme north. That meant driving a vast distance before he even came in sight of safety. And he'd had enough experience now to realize the highways were the danger points. Patrol cars, road-blocks, God new what else. He forced his fears out of his mind. Concentrate on the present. He looked ahead and frowned.
Little more than a kilometre away the gulch was spanned by an old hulk of an arched stone bridge. Presumably – as Gerda had said they'd used this route before – the bridge was wide enough for a vehicle. Trains had once passed under it regularly. But the camper was an exceptionally high-roofed vehicle. Had they travelled in a camper last time?
He stopped, left the engine ticking over and made his way back inside the camper. Gerda had just finished bandaging Falken's ankle, was pulling up his sock gently. They both looked up with a surprised expression.
`What is it?' Falken asked sharply.
`An old road bridge ahead. Were you in a camper when you used this route before? I'm thinking of roof clearance.'
`No. We travelled in a car. And this was a narrow gauge railway, smaller coaches than the average.'
`We'll have to hope we get through. And, since I've stopped I'm going to climb the gulch bank, take a look- see…'
`I'll come with you,' Gerda said.
They used the rear door, stepping down into ankle-deep weeds sprouting from the old track. Together they scrambled up the steep side of the gulch, pushing their way through thistles and grasses. Here and there an outcrop of limestone protruded, embedded deeply into the embankment. They slowed down as they neared the top. Cautiously they raised their heads above the level of the rye growing to the verge of where the embankment fell away. Looped round her neck Gerda had brought with her binoculars Falken used in his conservation work. He kept a pair in the camper.
`Oh, my God, no!' she cried.
`See what you mean,' Newman replied tersely.
Away across the rye field the ground sloped up to a hill. A road leading to the bridge ran along the mid- slopes. And two patrol cars were moving along it, heading for the bridge.
Gerda raised the binoculars to her eyes, focused them. She groaned. Newman reached out with his hand and gently pulled the binoculars downwards over her breasts.
`The sun could flash off the lenses, alert them.'
There are four men in each car. That's most unusual. They must be looking for someone…'
`Us, probably. We'd better move. Mind your feet on those rocks. We don't want two people with damaged ankles on this trip.'
They scrambled their way down through the mess of thistles and reached the bottom together. Gerda almost tripped but Newman grabbed her arm, steadied her. They ran back inside the camper and Newman slammed the door shut. Falken looked up and raised his eyebrows.
`Trouble?'
`Plenty,' Newman told him. 'Two patrol cars heading for the bridge, crammed to the gunwales with Vopos. Eight to be exact. I have to race them to that bridge, hope we can shelter underneath it. Hold on tight. They're bound to see us if we're in the open when they cross it…'
He ran back to the cab, thanking God he'd left the engine running. Gerda followed, sagging into the passenger seat as Newman released the brake. Again he rammed his foot down. The vehicle leapt forward, felt like a plane lifting off, crashing up and down over solid sleepers. Gerda, her facial muscles taut, stared ahead through the windscreen. She left him for a moment, returned holding the Uzi.
`There are eight of them, you said,' he warned. 'They'll be armed. Our only hope is to hide…'
`If we get there in time,' she reminded him, staring again fixedly through the windscreen.
And if the damned camper will go under that bridge, Newman thought. And if the bridge is wide enough to conceal us so neither end of this bloody great thing doesn't stick out in full view.
The camper jounced, wobbled, rocked as Newman kept his foot down hard on the accelerator. The arched bridge seemed an incredibly long way off. It crawled towards them. Beyond the bridge the sky was black as battalions of storm clouds massed. The heat inside the cab was appalling. They were partitioned off from the main part of the camper by a flimsy door, presumably to give privacy when people slept while the camper was driven through the night.
Newman's hands were sticky on the wheel. The left front tyre hit an obstacle. The wheel slipped out of his grip. He fought to control it as the camper swerved towards the embankment. Just in time he swung it back on course. He wiped each hand separately on his trousers as Gerda glanced at him.
`One of those bloody rocks. Must have rolled down on to the track. I could do without a repeat performance.'
