The cruiser was lashed to the side of the Wroclaw. Loading was well under way. But it wasn't the Skorpion boxes they were transhipping to the cruiser. He watched as seamen, organized in a chain, transferred small sacks to the cruiser.
More seamen were now aboard the cruiser, taking the sacks handed down to them from the freighter. Newman couldn't see inside the cruiser, but he had the impression the sacks were being carried below decks. No sign of Anders. No sign of the man in the balaclava helmet. And it was impossible to see the name of the power cruiser. He lowered the lid carefully and sat down again. What the hell was going on?
Newman drank more mineral water, ignored the vodka. He was scared again. One of those seamen might take it into his `head to peer inside the locker. Life was like that. You relaxed, thinking the worst was over — and the worst was to come. It just needed one of those Russian-speaking seamen to find him and he was dead. He shivered with the cold.
The events of recent days passed through his mind like film shots. Crossing the border under the watchtower after he'd left Peter Toll. The first confrontation with Schneider inside the mist-bound forest. Cycling with Falken — with Gerda behind them. The lock-keeper's cottage. Schneider bursting in on them. Gerda shooting him with a short burst from the Uzi... The road-block... Radom's farm... The zigzag... Karen Piper... Hiding inside the camper under the bridge... Driving the camper through the water-filled gulch... His last sight of Falken diverting the Intelligence men... of Gerda bundled into the patrol car. Not now, dear God. Not now.
He switched on the torch and double-checked the chart. A cross showed the position of the Wroclaw — with the vessel's name neatly printed. The position where it was stopped now, presumably. A line showed the south-westerly course he must follow...
He stopped looking at the chart. He could hear the engine of the power cruiser starting up, fading rapidly away. He realized the clumping of feet, the sound of voices, had stopped. He checked his watch. 10.30 p.m.
He hurriedly stowed everything away inside the dinghy —including the enamel jug. He stuffed the folded chart inside his belt. He'd just finished doing these things when the lid was lifted. He tensed, looked up. Anders stared down. It was night.
`Time to go,' Anders said.
`I'm ready...'
`Get out then. This side …'
The starboard side of the deck was deserted. In the dark the freighter's lights glowed, bow and stern and on the bridge. Anders hauled out the dinghy, coiled the rope, lowered the dinghy down the side of, the hull. The heavy outboard touched the calm water first, then the rest of the dinghy settled.
Newman was glad he'd stowed away everything inside the compartments lining the interior. The dinghy bobbed up and down against the hull as Anders held on to the other end of the rope.
`You understood the chart?' he asked.
`Perfectly. And I know Lübeck.
`Listen carefully. I've posted lookouts forward but not aft. You found the paddle? Good. You're going down this rope into the dinghy. I'll hold on until you're inside and then drop
the rope. Coil it inside the dinghy. Wait! You must wait — until the Wroclaw starts moving. There's a risk.' His voice was grim. Tut it's the only way you can leave unseen by a lookout. The moment the ship starts moving push yourself away from it with the paddle. Then paddle like hell away from us — the risk is you'll get caught up in the screws. You'll end up as mincemeat if that happens. The outboard would get you clear in good time — but you can't start that until we are well away. The motor would be heard. If it wasn't, you'd be seen. Do you understand?'
`Perfectly. I'd better go...'
`You say you know Lübeck?'
`Yes...'
`Then you might make it.'
Newman swung himself over the rail, grasped the rope, began the descent. He understood now why Anders had knotted the rope at intervals. He grasped the rope just above each knot. Without the knots he could have slid, endured agonizing rope burn. He used his feet like a mountaineer, bouncing out from the hull with each phase, then planting the flat of his shoes against the hull. It seemed to go on forever. His arms were weak from hours of enforced confinement inside the truck and then cooped up in the locker. He felt at any moment he'd let go. Then he remembered Anders, taking the whole brunt of his weight. The Pole had the strength of a lion. He gritted his teeth, kept moving. If Anders could stick it, so could he.
When he was least expecting it, his feet landed in the dinghy, which rocked all over the sea. He paused, still holding the rope, then gingerly lowered himself inside the dinghy. He looked up for the first time since he'd come over the side. Anders, feeling the rope slacken, was peering down. He dropped the rope, disappeared.
Newman began hauling in the rope which had dropped into the sea. A loose rope was dangerous — just the thing which could get tangled up with the ship's screws. He worked fast, coiling the rope. Then began the nerve-wracking search for the paddle, the one thing he'd missed when examining everything
inside the locker. He couldn't locate it. Anders must have arranged some signal with a crewman on the bridge — he'd had no time to return to it. The crewman had contacted the chief engineer. In a frighteningly short period of time the Wroclaw's engines came to life, throbbing with increasing power. Where the devil was the bloody paddle?
He found it seconds before the Wroclaw's hull began sliding past him, bringing the screws at the stern closer every moment. It was strapped to the starboard side of the dinghy. He pulled it free, took a firm grip on the handle and pushed against the hull with all his strength. The dinghy drifted a few feet away. Not far enough. He paddled furiously, dipping into the water, now choppy from the forward movement of the freighter. The dinghy bobbed, fell, bobbed, fell again over the waves. He seemed to be as close to the freighter as before.
Now he could see — hear above the beat of the engines — the churning wash of the great screws slicing through the water, a powerful gushing sound as the Baltic was threshed into a foaming wake. The undertow! If he wasn't clear of the vessel, the undertow swept up by the revolving screws would sweep him back, take him straight into the mincing machine Anders had warned him against, chopping him to pieces.
He thought of the blonde girls who'd been savaged by some maniac in Travemünde, the horror Kuhlmann had described. They'd been scratched compared with what would happen to him if those screws sucked him in.
The hull continued to slide past. He forced his weary arms to continue paddling. With fearful slowness the dinghy seemed to drift away from the Wroclaw. With fearful speed the stern came closer, the thrashing roar of the screws grew louder. He glanced over his shoulder.
The stern was abreast of him. The maelstrom curdled round the dinghy. He could feel the insidious pull of the undertow, dragging the dinghy to destruction. He paddled madly in the frothing sea. The dinghy rocked furiously, almost tipping him overboard. Water slopped inside it. He could no longer tell what was happening. He looked quickly over his shoulder again, stared.
The stern of the Wroclaw was receding. The water was less choppy. The ship sailed on, turning due north for the Fehmarn Belt, the stretch of the Baltic dividing Denmark from West Germany. Newman stopped paddling. He collapsed, leant forward, utterly exhausted.
Forty-Six
His first landmark was the flashing light at the top of the Hotel Maritim in Travemünde Strand. The sea was still lake calm and he sped towards it at full speed.
`Thank God,' he said to himself. 'I'll make the western channel.'
Which was rather important. The eastern channel on the other side of Priwall Island was inside the DDR. He'd waited awhile to gather the strength to start up the outboard. It had responded to the third pull. He was soaked to the skin. He'd used the enamel jug — after emptying it — to bale out the dinghy.
He felt he'd been away five years as the lights on shore came closer. It was after midnight. There was no other seaborne traffic. He had the Baltic to himself as he guided the dinghy up the channel,
past the Maritim, past the old tall brick-built edifice which had served as a lighthouse before they transferred the lamp to the summit of the multi-storey hotel.
Back from the dead. That was his thought as he cruised deep inside the channel. He saw the Südwind moored to its landing stage and hardly gave it a thought. He was cold, miserable, relieved at the same time. All he wanted was a hot bath and a change of clothes.
Afterwards, he could never work out why, but he guided the dinghy to a certain landing-stage, his speed now reduced to a modest pace. After midnight, but there were lights aboard the sloop. He cut the engine and the dinghy drifted the last few yards under its own momentum.
Ann Grayle came out on deck, holding a glass, wearing white slacks and a blouse. The sky had cleared on his way in and it was a balmy night. She stood very erect, staring down at him.
`Good God! It's Bob Newman. You look wet through. Come on board and we'll sort you out. Ben!' she called. 'Put on the kettle. Hot coffee.' She stared again at Newman. 'What you reporters will do just for a story …'
Lysenko made the call to Moscow the following morning. Again he used the phone in his apartment so he wouldn't be overheard by Markus Wolf. Gorbachev came on the line immediately.
`The cargo was safely transhipped yesterday evening. Balkan arrived back from London just in time to take it over...'
`No codewords over the phone,' Gorbachev reprimanded him. 'I heard you use two. Watch it.'
Lysenko swore inwardly. The General Secretary was referring to his slip in naming London. He'd better be more careful.
`There will be a delay of two or three weeks,' he continued. `That is, before it moves on to its ultimate destination. For the time being the cargo is safely under cover.'
`Any news of Tweed?' Gorbachev enquired.
`Arrival imminent...'
`That problem must be solved. Quickly. Keep me informed.'
The connection was broken. Lysenko slammed down the receiver, rubbed the stubble of his unshaven jaw, stared at the rumpled bedclothes. Helene, the German girl he'd met, had been good — very good. Make the most of it while you're away from the wife, he told himself. But bedtime romps and vodka didn't seem to go together too well any more. Maybe he was getting too old for it; hence that stupid slip on the phone. As he ambled to the bathroom he decided he'd give it up — not Helene, just mixing her with vodka.
Tweed disembarked from Flight LH 041 with Diana at Hamburg. Ahead of him Pete Nield was going through Passport Control. Behind him Harry Butler strolled, carrying his suitcase, his eyes studying the other passengers. Who, he was asking himself, was Tweed's glamorous blonde companion?
The foxy devil hadn't mentioned her. And from what Butler had observed during the flight they knew each other pretty well. Still, it was good cover — a couple attracted less attention than a single man alighting from an aircraft on his own.
Outside the exit hall Nield was getting inside a taxi when Tweed emerged with Diana. A man wearing a shabby raincoat and standing by a bookstall, pretending to look at a paperback, watched them. Martin Vollmer shoved the book back on to the rack of the revolver and hurried after them.
Butler, who never missed a trick, had just come out of the Customs and saw Vollmer's reaction. He followed him. Tweed was helping Diana into the rear of a cab, got inside himself and told the driver, 'Four Seasons Hotel, please...'
Butler watched Vollmer take the next waiting cab. Inside it the German gave his directions. 'Follow that cab. Don't lose it. That man owes me money.'
`And he'll go on owing. They always do. Anything you say.'
The convoy proceeded along the boulevard-like highway leading to the city. Nield first. Then Tweed and Diana. Behind them followed Vollmer's cab. And two vehicles behind Vollmer, Butler brought up the rear. His instructions to his driver had been explicit as he handed him a ten-deutschmark note.
`That's your tip,' he said in German. 'The fare's separate. That cab the thin man in the brown raincoat got inside. Tab him. I want to find out where he's going.'
Inside the city the convoy crossed the highway bridge which divides the two lakes—with the Binnenalster on the left. On the far side it turned down the Neuer Jungfernstieg, moving down the western shore of the lake. The fussy little water buses were scuttering across the smooth surface. The sky had a few clouds which seemed to hang motionless in a sea of blue as the sun blazed down.
Nield was inside the hotel when Tweed's cab pulled up at the entrance. A hundred or so metres back Butler watched as Vollmer's cab slowed to cruising pace. He saw the occupant peer out of the window as Tweed and Diana disappeared inside the hotel. Vollmer's cab then picked up speed and Butler settled back against his seat. Sooner or later he'd track down Brown Raincoat's destination.
At reception Tweed registered both himself and Diana in their real names. The two rooms Monica had reserved were ready and he paused to show her the luxurious reception hall and the dining-room, feeling glad to be back.
`It's a marvellous place,' she enthused. 'Simply divine.'
`Possibly the best hotel in all Germany.' He led her away from the reception counter, lowering his voice. 'I have some phone calls to make. The plane was on time — 12.55. Can you wait a little longer for lunch?'
`I have to unpack. I'll stay in my room until you come for me...'
Tweed had asked for — and been given — the same double room he'd occupied on his previous visit to Hamburg when he had identified the body of Ian Fergusson. Number 412. He tipped the porter who brought up his case and then, alone, stood for a moment gazing out of the window at the view. The foliage was still on the trees below him and beyond stretched the placid waters of the Binnenalster.
It was still holiday time. Crowds stood on the landing stage area at the end of the lake, not so far from where the police had discovered Fergusson's floating body by the lock-gates in the early hours. There was a queue for ice cream cones. He was thinking of poor Ian Fergusson. He shook his head, went to the phone, asked for the room number Nield was occupying, a detail he'd noticed in the hotel register. He asked Nield to come up and see him.
Tweed was standing in the middle of the living-room when Nield entered. The moment he arrived Nield knew something was going to happen. Tweed stood very erect, his voice was crisp, decisive.
`We're leaving here this evening after dinner. We're heading straight for Lübeck by train. After you've had lunch get a cab to the Hauptbahnhof, buy four single first-class tickets for Lübeck.
`That's quick...'
`I'm going to surprise the opposition by moving faster than they'll expect. After you've bought the rail tickets, phone the Hotel Jensen in Lübeck and book three rooms. Myself, Harry and one in the name of Diana Chadwick. Then call the Movenpick in Lübeck and book yourself a room there. You're back-up — out of sight.'
`Anything else?'
`Not at the moment.'
`Then I'd better get downstairs and grab a bite to eat.'
The phone began ringing almost as soon as Nield had left the room. Tweed picked up the receiver.
`Who is it?' he asked cautiously.
`Harry. Harry Butler. I tracked him. It's Altona.
`Get back here as fast as you can.'
In Lübeck Munzel had made his daily call to Vollmer at the usual time. Noon. He'd got the ringing tone from the flat in Altona but no reply. Swearing to himself, he left the station and walked back across the street to the International Hotel. He had no way of knowing that at that moment Vollmer was waiting at Hamburg Airport, checking arrivals from London. His man who normally carried out this assignment had gone down with an attack of gastritis.
Munzel took Lydia Fischer to the Movenpick for lunch. He felt he needed a change of surroundings, of menu. As they talked and ate their grilled sole and chipped potatoes Munzel was unaware he was being watched by Sue Templeton, the American girl friend of Ted Smith — the couple who had shown Kuhlmann where Munzel had thrown his motor-cycle into the river Trave.
`I'd recog
nize that man again if he'd grown a beard,' she had said jokingly to her English boy friend.
Now, as she ate her lunch with Ted, she kept glancing across the room at the blond-bearded man with the long golden hair. She really wasn't sure. She said nothing to Ted, who had only one topic in mind. An hour in bed with Sue to start the afternoon off.
Sue lingered over her coffee for some time when Ted had signed the bill. Then she suddenly grabbed her shoulder bag. `I think I'm going back to that shop where I spotted a dress.' `I'm going upstairs to get into my pyjamas...'
`And you'll still be in them when I get back. See you.'
She followed Munzel and the girl he was with out of the restaurant, still uncertain. Her walk was shorter than she'd expected. She saw them go inside the International, hovered as she checked her lipstick, then walked in after them. She went up to the concierge, gave him her warmest smile.
`That man with the blond beard who just came in with a girl. Is he staying here? He looks exactly like a friend I knew in New York.'
`He is staying here, yes.'
The concierge was discreet. He gave no name. Sue thanked him and went back to the Movenpick. Five minutes later Munzel came out of the lift and walked across to the station. Again he dialled Altona. This time Vollmer answered the phone.
`Tweed has arrived in Hamburg. Had a blonde girl with him. He's staying at the same place as last time — the Four Seasons. Call me tomorrow. Normal time..
Munzel stepped out of the phone booth with a feeling of immense satisfaction. He was quite sure that within the next few days Tweed would turn up in Lübeck. That gave him time to work out how he was going to do it.
Tweed had lunch with Diana in the dining-room, the same room used for breakfast. He preferred the grill room but that was closed. They were both dining off paillard de veau and a selection of fresh vegetables which Diana raved about.
The Janus Man Page 40