`Which British port was it heading for?'
`The report didn't say. Or maybe Karl didn't get that far. I think we ought to get moving soon now. Funny about that brief-case. The Russkies aren't as bright as they'd like the world to think. Thank God. I'm going to have a pee before we start.'
`I'll join you. By the way, can I ask which route we're taking to Rostock?'
`Why not. Magdeburg, Stendal, Tangermunde – then due north through Pritzwalk, the lake district, Gustrow and on to Rostock.'
He made it sound like a morning's outing to Brighton. As they relieved themselves at the edge of the forest Newman's head was spinning with what Stahl had just told him. They were walking to the rear of the truck when he asked his question.
`Do you really think Karl got it right – five hundred kilos?'
`Karl never gets anything wrong.'
It was nearly midnight at Park Crescent. Everyone had left the building long ago – except Tweed, Monica and the two men seated in his office. Which was why Tweed had chosen this late hour.
`I'm taking you with me to Hamburg for protection,' he opened the conversation. 'Normally I wouldn't dream of travelling in this way, as you know.' He paused and threw out his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'But the PM insists. Last time I flew there I took Bob Newman with me – but he's disappeared.'
`Sounds as though the PM knows what she's doing then,' Harry Butler commented.
Tweed studied the two men. Both spoke fluent German, so that made sense. Harry Butler was the taller, more heavily-built of the pair; also the older and more experienced. He had a wary look, a relaxed manner and moved as though treading through a minefield.
Pete Nield was dark-haired, had dark, quick-moving eyes and was a man for a tight corner. Slimmer, he took trouble over his dress and was wearing a smart navy blue business suit with a carnation in his buttonhole.
The two men were a great contrast in personality but together they worked well. There was a famous occasion when they had acted as streetwalkers, tailing a Markus Wolf agent for a whole week before he made the contact they were seeking. During all those long seven days the experienced German agent had never once suspected their presence.
`Any suggestions as to how we go about it?' Tweed asked.
`First,' Butler began in his deliberate tone, 'we'll both be happy to work on this one. Ian Fergusson was killed in Hamburg. Maybe we'll get lucky, meet up with the character who did the job.'
`Weapons,' said Nield. 'We can't take them with us. But can we get some at the other end?'
It was a typical Nield question. Tweed looked dubious, caught Butler's eye, who nodded his agreement with the suggestion.
`I suppose we could obtain you something from Kuhlmann,' Tweed replied.
`Kuhlmann?' Nield said. 'He's a toughie. I met him once. He never wastes a word – or a moment. Is he involved?'
`Yes and no. We. can talk about that later.'
`The method,' Butler questioned, again typically. 'We travel with you on the aircraft? Good. The most effective technique is we travel separately. Pete takes a seat across the gangway from you. I'll be further back. What about arrival in Hamburg?'
`I'm staying for one night at the Four Seasons.' Tweed pulled a wry face. 'Cost us a bomb, but the PM has put no limit on the budget this time. Both of you stay there, too..
`But arrive separately,' Butler said firmly. 'Pete takes the first cab. You take the next one. I follow behind. That way we'll know if we're being followed – if you are being tailed. Could there be a leak? About your flying to Germany?'
Tweed hesitated, caught Monica's eye. `There is a leak, I know that. And what I've just said is totally confidential.'
`Then what I've just outlined is a good plan,' Butler stated. `No chances. Not this time.'
Forty-Two
The truck was moving at high speed through the night as Stahl headed non-stop for Rostock. Newman placed the greaseproof-wrapped package of sandwiches on his seat, then swung the torch beam on to the single wooden box jammed in against the wall behind the enamel bucket.
The padlock through the two ring-bolts was loose. He took it off and raised the heavy lid. By the light of the torch, steadying himself with one hand pressed against the rear of the cab, he stared down at the contents. Row upon row of Skorpion machine pistols neatly stacked. His light reflected off grease on the working parts. And Stahl had said other boxes contained ammo – the magazines for the weapons. He was travelling with a medium-sized armoury, enough to fuel a small war.
He closed the lid, carefully replaced the loose padlock, picked up his sandwiches and sat on the seat, opening the packet. Doorsteps of rye bread with sausage between them. He began to eat ravenously.
He felt a pang of nostalgia when he took from his raincoat pocket the bottle of mineral water Gerda had given him. He unscrewed the top and drank greedily. Unremitting tension made you thirsty. His mind was a muddle of thoughts as the truck thundered on.
Gerda being bundled inside that patrol car, caught at the last minute. Of all the lousy luck. Five hundred kilos of heroin bound for Britain. The Soviets – Gorbachev – would use any filthy method to demoralize their strongest opponent in Europe. What was the name of that Polish freighter? The Wroclaw, that was it.
Newman's nerves were twanging. He had to get out of the DDR. Get back and tell Tweed about Dr Berlin, about the heroin. Two separate and vital pieces of information. He just had to slip out of Rostock. He ate all the sandwiches, dropped the greaseproof paper into the bucket.
The truck was swaying now. Stahl was keeping his foot down.
The motion, the emotional fatigue, sent him into a deep doze. At some place during the night he was woken by the sound of voices. The truck had stopped. He tensed, suddenly alert. Then he heard Stahl making a joke. Of course, he was paying one of the tolls. The truck started moving again.
Newman didn't expect to get any more sleep. He was cramped and aching from sitting in the chair. I'd better walk up and down the corridor, get limbered up, he told himself. Before he could stand up he drifted off again. He was vaguely aware of two more stops, more voices from the direction of the cab, but he ignored them.
He woke suddenly, stiff as a board, checked his watch by the illuminated dial. 4 a.m. Another hour or so. This time he made himself stand up. Switching on the torch, he walked down the corridor to the rear, turned round, paced back, turned again, using one hand to keep his balance by pressing it against the walls of boxes.
He was limbering up now. He scratched his chin, felt the stubble. Somewhere before arriving at Rostock he had to shave. That was something he couldn't achieve while the truck was in motion. He began to feel claustrophobic, hemmed in. Reaching the front, he used his clenched knuckles to tap the wall above the bucket. It felt like solid steel. The window panel slid back suddenly. Stahl called over his shoulder.
`You awake in there, Emil?'
`Fresh as paint. I need a shave…'
`Last stop before Rostock coming up. Five, ten minutes from now. Don't go to sleep.'
The panel closed, shutting off the outside world. Again Newman had caught a glimpse. Still pitch black. Headlights coming towards them. Open country. A big lake over to the right, black water still as ice, lights reflecting in it from lamps alongside a landing-stage. Boats moored in a marina-like area. Reminded him of Lubeck. Diana Chadwick. The upper-crust Ann Grayle and her sloop. Dr Berlin's two power cruisers. What were they called. Sudwind and Nordsee. That was it. He remained standing so he couldn't fall asleep, waiting. For the last stop before Rostock.
The call from Moscow came through to Lysenko just after four in the morning. He took it in the apartment they had allocated him, less than a kilometre from Markus Wolf's Leipzig headquarters.
Lysenko was fuming. He'd had to arrange for a scrambler phone to be installed. Now Wolf had arranged to
