highway, drive fast. Inside the speed limit, but fast. We're behind schedule. For you. Gerda simply has to get you to the rendezvous for the last stage of your journey.'
`Last stage? Sounds like a bloody long one.'
`It is. And it could be the worst – the very worst. You won't be able to relax for a second. No sleep for you all night. Think you can stand it?'
`I have a choice?' Newman enquired.
`None at all.'
Thirty-Nine
The traffic jam on the main highway leading into Leipzig went on for ever. The camper was stationary. Concrete multi-storey apartment blocks of a Leipzig suburb rose on either side. Newman rested his arms on the wheel, trying to control his impatience.
The next vehicle ahead was a Volvo. Behind him a big diesel truck shut out the view. He was glad it wasn't the other way round. At least he could see what was happening ahead, could watch the Vopos trying to sort out the mess, waving on cars in the opposite direction. Single-line traffic. That is all I need, Newman thought as Falken hobbled into the cab, sagging into the passenger seat.
`We are very late,' Falken observed.
`You have a rendezvous with someone?'
`No, but you and Gerda have. With someone who cannot wait. I'll be glad when you're on your way. We don't care who gets Dr Berlin – as long as someone does. I've lost valuable men because of that swine.'
`Any other information I can pass on for you?'
`Yes. That is what I came to see you about. Tell Peter Toll at Pullach Markus Wolf has broken the code for our radio transmissions. That is why they have ceased. Tell him switch to the Weimar system. Weimar the town. He'll know what to do.'
`I feel hemmed in here – more so than back at the zigzag. What happens if I'm challenged?'
`You bluff your way through. You've done it before…'
`And supposing I don't pull it off? Where do we go?'
`You have to carry off a bluff. Look around you – there is nowhere to run, to hide. It's that damned storm. It must have flooded stretches of the road. Now, listen to me. You have to get out to pass on the information inside your head. You think only of yourself. In Leipzig, if Gerda gets into trouble and you can slip away, you do so. No heroics. We have expended too much effort to have you caught.'
`You mean I just leave her in the lurch?'
`You leave her to cope on her own. She will expect it. That is an order. And now I will get back inside, lie down on the couch on this side with a travelling rug thrown carelessly over my legs. Gerda is huddled up behind you. Three become one.'
`I don't follow that…'
'We were stopped at the road-block just before we reached the Radom farm. The patrol saw two men and a girl. We were stopped again by those two Intelligence men on the country road. They also saw two men and a girl. Either may have reported us to Leipzig. Now we try to look just like one man on his own. If they come up to us they're likely to arrive on the driver's side – at your window. Do the best you can.' Falken paused as he prepared to lift himself up. 'And if Pullach really wants to help us, they will send you to join us as a member of Group Five.'
Newman was left alone. He pursed his lips. Falken had just paid him the highest compliment. He had little time to dwell on the subject. A Vopo, very fat with a beer belly, was walking down the line of stationary traffic, glancing at each vehicle.
Let me have men about me that are fat. The quotation flashed into Newman's mind. Shakespeare. Julius Caesar? He wasn't sure. He lowered the window. The portly Vopo hitched up his Sam Browne belt, peered in Newman's window.
`And where are you off to?'
`Supposed to be a holiday. I don't know whether she'll come now. Camping out in this weather?'
`If she likes you enough, Comrade. Make her like you enough.' The Vopo's jowls shook with amusement. 'You'll keep her warm enough inside there. Just the two of you?'
`Why would I need her mother?'
The jowls shook again. Newman thought he was probably the first driver who had not grumbled at the hold- up.
`How long before we start moving?' Newman asked. 'You have a difficult job, I know. But if I'm late her mother will get back before we leave.'
`We can't have that, can we?'
The Vopo walked back the way he had come to the traffic control point. He disappeared but within two minutes the traffic flowing in the opposite direction stopped. The traffic ahead of the camper began moving forward. As he passed the control point Newman waved thank you to the fat Vopo who personally waved him on, giving a significant wink. All boys together…'
Which one of you is Janus? Tweed asked himself the question as he looked round the four sector chiefs on either side of the conference table at Park Crescent.
Harry Masterson, his chin showing traces of another five o'clock shadow, drummed his fingers quietly on the polished surface. Hugh Grey, seated on Tweed's right, had his usual eager-beaver look, ready for anything. Erich Lindemann to the left, waited, pad and four coloured pencils arranged neatly in front of him. Guy Dalby sat perfectly still, his eyes never leaving Tweed, who cleared his throat.
`Gentlemen, I've summoned you to this rather early morning meeting to save time. You can all return to your respective European headquarters at the first opportunity. By now your people may have come up with some theories about the lack of opposition activity. It worries me. It signals some major operation. But what? I hope you find out quickly. I have a feeling we're short of time.'
`And what will you be doing?' Dalby asked in his brusque, businesslike manner. 'Where can we contact you?'
`I return to Hamburg.' Tweed paused, his eyes scanning the four men, searching for the smallest reaction. 'I fly back there within the next forty-eight hours…'
`Maybe some protection this time? Discreetly, of course,' Grey suggested.
`No!' Tweed was emphatic. 'I go alone. I work better that way. As to contact,' he addressed Dalby, 'call Monica. Talk to her as though you're talking to me. I'll be keeping her posted.'
Masterson grinned, smoothed down his jet black hair with one hand. 'Can't keep away from the field, can you? Itchy feet – that's your problem.'
`I especially expect results from the Balkan sector,' Tweed rapped back. 'That's where the hornet's nest is.' He switched his gaze. 'Any comment, Erich?'
Lindemann was scribbling away on his pad with the red pencil. Which one was that? Tweed was too far away to see. Lindemann laid down the pencil, folded his hands.
`Nothing I can think of.'
Typical, Tweed thought. Dry as dust. No wonder he'd earned the nickname of The Professor. While they all waited he removed his glasses, deliberately took his time cleaning them on his handkerchief. At a side table Monica sat taking notes for the minutes she'd type later. Now she also watched Tweed with a puzzled expression. Not like him to prolong a conference. He regarded most meetings as a waste of time, to he got over with as soon as possible. Pressure, Tweed was thinking. That was what the psychiatrist, Dr Generoso, had said would drive a man leading a double life to panic eventually. He was putting on the pressure now. The silence became oppressive. Someone shuffled their feet. He glanced round the table again.
Grey sat with a smile of anticipation on his pink face. He was expecting another pronouncement. Masterson smoothed his gleaming hair again while Tweed went on polishing his glasses. Dalby sat with his arms folded, quite motionless as he stared at his chief. Iron self-control. Lindemann was scribbling on his pad, this time with the green pencil. Did he change the colours for each sector chief? Nutty way of going on. Tweed replaced his glasses, spoke
