several people stood with luggage, presumably waiting for the airport bus.
Half-way along the fifteen-minute drive into the city past a pleasant suburb with neat houses, trim lawns, trees and shrubs, he tapped on the partition window. The driver slid the glass panel back.
`I've just realized the time,' Lindemann said. 'Drop me instead in the Radhuspladsen.'
He paid off the driver in the bustling Radhuspladsen – the Town Hall Square – and walked the last few metres to his HQ inside an old building. The chrome plate at the entrance to the staircase read Export-Import Services North. Inside his office he placed his case against the wall and sat behind his desk as his deputy, Miss Browne (`with an 'e', please') came in with an armful of files.
An ex-senior Civil Servant, Miss Browne was in her fifties, a tall severe-looking woman with grey hair and the nose of a golden eagle. There were no greetings. He sat back, steepled his hands and listened while she reported.
`Any further news from Nils Omdal about Balkan?' he asked. `Not a word.'
`Then I'll be catching the shuttle to Oslo.'
They called it the shuttle because the fifty-minute non-stop flights from Copenhagen to the Norwegian capital were so frequent. Lindemann picked up his case, glanced at his desk. It was a model of tidiness. The two phones, his slide rule, notepads and pen set neatly lined up.
`A most competent report,' he told Miss Browne, who was now standing. 'Keep the wheels turning while I'm away. Not sure how long.'
`Any means of contacting you?'
`None at all…'
He crossed the Radhuspladsen as though seeking a taxi. He gave the Radhuset, with its steep roof and old tiles, an approving glance. One of the many things he liked about Copenhagen. Only two high-rise buildings anywhere near the city centre – the Royal Hotel and the SAS place you passed on your way in from Kastrup.
He walked on past a cab rank and continued on foot until he crossed the wide Vesterbrogade and hurried inside the main railway station. He was in good time to catch the express – the train bound for Rodby. There it would be shunted aboard the huge ferry for transportation across the Baltic – to Puttgarden, Lubeck and Hamburg.
Forty-Four
Newman was grimly aware this was the most dangerous hurdle – entering the fortified coastal zone. Stahl had stopped the truck in front of the closed wire gate. 'No!' Newman whispered. `Don't switch off the engine.'
The warning lights threw a red glow over the bonnet. The two guards walked towards him as he lowered his window. He studied them as they came towards him, trudging on leaden feet, holding their machine pistols slackly in one hand, their faces haggard with fatigue. They'd been on duty all night, probably due to be relieved shortly. That might just help.
The man closest to the cab was tall and thin, his companion was short and squat. Newman said nothing at all as the thin man stood beneath his window. He simply handed out the document he'd taken from Stahl, his expression bleak as he checked his watch.
`What's this?' the guard demanded, snatching the sheet of paper.
`Read it. You can read, I presume? And we're late. If we miss the ship at Rostock, God help you…'
`Don't talk to me like that..
`I said read it! You can recognize a movement order when you see one, can't you? And you might look at the crest at the top. Then perhaps we can get moving.'
`We've had no notification about this vehicle. I want to see inside it…'
`Absolutely forbidden! Read the bloody thing.'
The squat man had joined his comrade, was peering over his shoulder as the thin one examined it in the headlights. Newman heard the squat man mutter, 'Be careful. That's Intelligence…'
`I still want this truck opened up,' the thin man insisted.
Newman turned down the handle of his door, half-opened it, but he remained inside the cab. The two men looked up at the sound. Newman gestured towards the guard hut.
`I'm not hanging about here any longer. Is there a phone in that thing? I'm calling Markus Wolf. He'll be pleased to be woken up, I'm sure. And I'll need your names. That information he will want. Look at the signature at the bottom.'
`God,' he heard the short guard say, 'it is Wolf's signature. Like I said, be careful..
Newman pressed home his advantage, his tone terse and clipped. 'It also says,' he quoted from memory, 'that this is a sealed consignment which must be permitted free and uninterrupted passage inside the Rostock port area. You…' He paused, 'are interrupting its passage.'
`I've read it.' The thin guard handed the document back to Newman, saw the Skorpion Newman held casually across his lap, carefully pointed away from tke open door. 'What the hell is that for? Who are you?'
Again Newman said nothing. He produced his folder, handed it to the guard, checked his watch again and looked at Stahl with an expression of extreme impatience. The German had begun to sweat, beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead.
`Wipe your forehead,' he whispered. `Use the back of your hand.'
`Border Police,' the thin guard said. 'Special assignment, too. Why didn't you say so earlier?'
`Because,' Newman said with cutting emphasis, 'the movement order is explicit, should have been sufficient. And this gun is to protect the consignment. I have orders to shoot anyone who attempts to look inside this truck. Now, open the bloody gate.'
`We have to check…' the guard began, handing back the folder. 'Let them through,' he told his companion. 'Just doing our duty, Comrade,' he maundered on as the gate swung inward automatically. The three red lights moved with it, which gave a weird effect, and Newman realized for the first time they were attached to it.
`Drive on, for God's sake,' he snapped at Stahl.
The vehicle lumbered forward, picked up speed. In his wing mirror Newman saw the gate closing behind them. They were inside the fortified zone.
About three kilometres beyond the guard post they were pass-a ing through a wooded area as the dawn light grew stronger. Newman told Stahl to pull over as they came up to a lay-by.
'Why?'
`So I can get a quick shave. I have a feeling Captain Anders is a man impressed by personal appearances. And you'd better shave, too. You can borrow my kit afterwards…'
`I've got my own stuff.'
`Use it then.'
Newman unwrapped the hold-all containing his shaving materials, propped a small mirror against the windscreen, turned on the overhead light and made the best job he could of it. He'd forced his companion to follow suit hoping it would lift his morale. He'd sensed Stahl had been badly shaken by the episode at the guard gate.
Freshly-shaven, they drove off out of the wooded area. Soon Newman could make out against the pale glow of the lightening sky the silhouettes of great mobile cranes, the type of cranes you see alongside a dock area.
And there was more traffic about. Wheeled and on foot. Workers trudging along for early shifts, trucks coming out from the port area laden with cargo. Huge standards of timber. Brought in from Sweden. Tankers – undoubtedly laden with oil from the Soviet Union.
A strange glow hung over the docks. The Martian-like cranes stood out against the glow of fluorescent lights mingled with the growing dawn. Then it began to rain, a heavy downpour. Stahl switched on the wipers and Newman's view bleared as rivulets streamed down the windscreen. Still clasping the Skorpion, he slipped into a doze, unable to keep his eyelids open.
He was woken by Stahl shaking his arm. He blinked, realized he felt much fresher, more alert. It was still raining heavily, pounding on the cab's roof with a steady staccato. Ahead were the dock gates.
`I'll leave the talking to you,' Stahl said.
