No talking was called for. The gates opened inward. A man in oilskins beckoned the truck to proceed. 'Leipzig must have phoned through our registration number,' said Stahl and drove on. The truck bumped over rails set in concrete. It was daylight, if that description could be applied to the grey murk which shrouded the docks.
`The rain could help you,' Stahl commented. 'Everyone will be keeping their heads down.'
He'd recovered his nerve. They passed a giant mobile crane standing on rails. Newman lowered his window a little, peered up. At the top of the crane a light was on inside the cabin. The smell peculiar to ports all over the world drifted in through the window – a compound of resin, oil, tar and the salt air coming off the Baltic.
`Leave the Skorpion with me,' Stahl continued. He reached under his seat with one hand, pulling out a bundle which he handed Newman. 'Oilskins, you'll need them. I have to take the truck immediately to the Wroclaw for loading of the guns.
I'll send Captain Anders to see you. Then you're on your own.
There's a small but where you can shelter.'
`How quickly will he come? The longer I hang around the greater the risk..
`No idea. Up to him. You can't hurry Anders.'
`Thank you for getting me so far,' Newman said as he struggled into the oilskin. It had a hood which he pulled over his head.
The truck rumbled past great storage sheds, their roofs gleaming in the rain. Seamen dressed in oilskins and rubber boots hurried across the truck's headlight beams which Stahl still had on. The vehicle was crawling. A huddle of ships, moored prow to stern, their funnels poking up into the murk, told Newman he was close to the wharves. Stahl confirmed the thought.
`There's the but where I'm leaving you. Just wait. You left nothing back in the truck?'
`Not a thing. I was careful. A screwed-up piece of greaseproof paper in the urine bucket. That's it.'
`You get off here. Good luck. You'll need it.
With this encouraging farewell Newman stepped down off the stationary truck, slammed the door shut as the rain hit him, and the truck was moving out of sight round a corner. He'd no doubt Stahl was glad to see the last of him. He pushed open the door of the single-storey shanty-like structure, listened and stepped inside, leaving the door half-open.
Half an hour later, still standing – there was nowhere to sit – he was joined by a German seaman who rushed in out of the downpour. He produced a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Newman, who shook his head, and lit it for himself.
`Waiting to catch a ship, mate?' the German asked. `I hope so.'
He wanted to get rid of the man. Anders might arrive at any moment. The seaman went on puffing at his cigarette, stamping his feet. His boots squelched water.
`Not as bad as it looks,' the German commented. 'Heard the met forecast. Out there beyond Warnemunde the East Sea's as smooth as a millpond. No wind. Overcast all day. I'd better be off. My bosun's a bastard..
Anders arrived half an hour later. A short stocky man with broad shoulders, he wore a navy blue duffel jacket and a peaked cap. He took off the cap and shook water from it out of the door. In his late fifties, Newman estimated. A weatherbeaten square face, a jaw like the prow of an icebreaker, piercing blue eyes. He stood there like a rock, hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket.
`I'm Anders. Who are you?'
`Emil Clasen. I need passage aboard the Wroclaw. I want to get out to the West. Anywhere convenient to you will do.'
`I'm not taking you.'
It was like a blow in the face to Newman. He'd come so far. To be pipped at the post now, abandoned inside the DDR. Newman stared back at the Pole. He had to say the right thing first time. There'd be no second chance. What the hell was the right thing?
Then he remembered. Stahl had said Anders didn't like the Germans. Stahl had said that he – Newman – passed for a German. He took a deep breath. He had to gamble everything on one throw, pray that his assessment of the Pole was correct.
`I'm not a German, you know. I'm English.'
`I look stupid?'
`I said I was English and I am. I desperately need passage out of here to the West.'
He'd said these words in his own language. Anders studied his clothes, looked back at his face. His expression showed extreme doubt.
`They have language laboratories in Moscow to teach you to speak perfect English,' he replied in German. `So, you say you're English? I haven't much time to waste on you. Where were you born?'
`Hampstead, London.'
`I know that place. A solid wall of houses. Kilometres away from open country…'
`No it isn't. There's Hampstead Heath where you can walk along endless paths between grass and trees.'
`You know where King's Lynn is?'
`Norfolk, East Anglia.'
`It's on the coast. I've docked there. What river is it on?' `The Ouse. And it isn't on the coast. It's several miles inland – up the Ouse. Very flat country.'
`What's your job?' Anders demanded.
`Newspaper reporter. Foreign correspondent. I came over the border a few days ago after a story. Illegally.'
`You're a bloody crazy idiot, that's for sure.'
That was when Newman realized he'd been accepted. He kept the relief out of his expression. Anders shrugged. Looking outside, he peered into the rain, then spoke in his brusque manner.
`I got everything ready – in case I decided to take you. We go aboard slowly. No one will question you – not when you're with me. I have a reputation. For tearing people's balls off if they try to interfere with me. I've prepared a cable kicker on deck. You travel inside that. You stay there till I come for you. I'll put something heavy on the top after you get inside. That will discourage anyone from looking inside. We're not sailing for some time. You'll just have to put up with it. Come on. No point in hanging about. And I'm the only man aboard who will know you're on the Wroclaw. Just keep quiet inside that locker.'
For Anders, Newman guessed, this was a major speech as he walked with the Pole past another huge storage shed. Inside open doors he saw agricultural machinery, painted a bright orange and arranged in neat rows. The rain had slackened -was now a heavy drizzle. Overhead the clouds were stationary, the colour of molten lead.
Anders moved with a heavy deliberate tread, staring straight ahead, saying nothing. Beyond the shed Newman saw a freighter moored to the dock, its single smoke-stack carrying the Polish emblem. Aft it had a high bridge and the ship was equipped with a small forest of radar and other sophisticated devices.
It struck him it had the appearance of a spy ship. Forward an immense hold was open as loading proceeded. Suspended from a crane inside nets he recognized the long wooden boxes he had travelled with all the way from Leipzig. Stahl's truck, backed to near the edge of the wharf, was being unloaded by men stacking the boxes out in the open. Another team heaved them inside another of the huge carrying nets. The Skorpions for Cuba were going on board.
`Don't slip on the gangplank,' Anders warned.
It was the first remark he'd made since leaving the hut. At the foot of the gangway – it had a hand-rail on either side – stood a burly seaman. He saluted Anders, who merely nodded. The captain then ran up the incline like a two-year-old. Newman followed more cautiously.
He gripped the rail with his right hand and its surface was greasy, as it was underfoot. Anders waited for him, then led the way to the starboard side, out of sight of the loading. He stopped amidships, looked round, saw no one was about, lifted the lid of a huge wooden box screwed down to the deck. The cable locker.
`Get in. Move!' he growled.
Newman swung himself over the side and dropped into the box. He landed on something soft which gave under his weight. Anders reached forward a large hand, pressed him down by the top of his shoulder. The lid was swung closed on its hinges and Newman was crouched in darkness.
