`So why come to me?' Tweed asked.
`Because you have your own networks across the whole of Europe. I'd hoped you might hear something. It's the route I want..
Carson said it with unaccustomed vehemence. He drank some of the coffee Monica had brought in earlier.
`It's Holland at the moment, isn't it?'
`That's the gospel according to St John. All my colleagues agree with it. Their eyes — and those of the Customs boys — are glued to Holland.'
`And your view?'
Carson shrugged. 'I just get a funny feeling about this one — that it's different. Never known such activity, anticipation, on the streets. The bastards are practically salivating. It could be that somehow they're bringing in an unprecedented amount — maybe even a hundred kilos. Gambling on getting in the big haul at one throw of the dice. If so, God knows how they hope to do it.'
`Bernard,' Tweed said abruptly, 'I can't help you.' `How come?' Carson looked bewildered.
`Because I'm convinced you know something you haven't told me. You've given me nothing concrete to go on. Forget it.'
Carson stirred uncomfortably in the chair. 'I should have realized you'd sense it. OK. But this is highly confidential... `Tell me. If you're going to.'
`We had a man on the spot in Pakistan, a very good man. He was based at Peshawar. The base the Yanks are using to ship guns and ammo to the Afghan rebels, bless their cotton socks..
`I know where Peshawar is.'
`This is the really confidential bit. Our chap had a contact inside the Soviet Embassy at Islamabad. Bought and paid for. Our chap reported rumours of a large heroin consignment bound for the West. The Soviets must have got on to our man. Pathans were used to carve him up …'
`That's rather horrible. I'm sorry.'
`Goes with the territory. Our man knew that. But some of our back-up people arrived, caught the Pathans in the act.' `What happened to them?'
Carson cocked his right hand like a pistol, made a motion of pulling a trigger. 'Sympathy, the liberal option, doesn't figure in our business. Our chap was still alive — only just. He said one word before he closed his eyes. Sounded like Hansa.'
`You're sure it was Hansa?' Tweed pressed.
`Nearest our people could get to it.' Carson stifled a yawn. `Sorry, I'm twenty-four hours without sleep. Word doesn't mean a damned thing to me.'
`Hansa,' Tweed repeated. 'The Hanseatic League. A federation of major shipping ports banded together to protect their trade interests. Formed in 1241. Founder members Hamburg and Lübeck. Para-military, too. They had armed groups to accompany caravans of goods moving in Europe against roving bandits.'
`History was my worst subject,' said Carson. 'I don't see the connection...'
`Neither do I. Yet.'
Tweed walked over to the new wall map of Western Europe Monica had put up. He took a wooden pointer from a drawer to reach the higher sections. As he spoke, the pointer located the towns.
`Tallinn in Estonia, Stralsund and Rostock in East Germany, then Lübeck, Hamburg and Bremen — to name just a few. There were ninety towns in the League at the height of its power.' He turned away from the map. 'And the funny thing is one of my people also used the same word — Hansa.'
Carson uncrossed his ankles, straightened up, suddenly alert. `So maybe your man could tell us something?'
`He's also dead. Murdered in Hamburg. By the Soviets — or their proxies, the East Germans...'
`Looks as though I came to the right place after all. That is stretching coincidence too far — literally. My man is killed in Peshawar, yours in Hamburg — and in both cases the last word they said was Hansa. It couldn't be...'
`Yes, it could.' Tweed replaced the pointer in the drawer, pushed it shut. 'Bernard, I want you to promise me something.
Not one word about this outside this room. Confidential, you said. Now I'm holding you to it. I want your solemn promise.'
`Reluctantly, yes. But I could check the records...'
`Don't! Take no action. I think I may have underestimated my man who died in Hamburg. Incidentally, if you do lay your hands on a consignment the size of one hundred kilos, what precautions do you take?'
`Every precaution possible. It doesn't always work. With the potential profit that amount could bring in you can't trust anyone. Not even inside the Drug Squad, between you and me.'
`How long ago since your chap in Peshawar was killed?'
`Eight weeks ago. To the day. About four weeks ago we began to get reports of the excitement building up in the streets...'
`So we may not have much time left. I'm up against an unknown deadline.'
Thirty-Five
'Better that the nursing sister who attended Dr Berlin thinks you are a German newspaper reporter,' Falken said as he drove along the highway towards Leipzig. 'You remember her name?'
`Karen Piper.'
`Good. You are still alert...'
`Why shouldn't I be?'
`My friend, you are not the only outsider I have escorted in the DDR. Pullach used to send other people — couriers — who had not been here before. Within twenty-four hours we realized they were suffering from battle fatigue. To put it bluntly, under the pressure of being inside enemy territory, their nerve cracked. They became a menace, a danger to Group Five.'
`How did you handle them?'
`Slipped them back across the border immediately. If possible.'
`And if not possible?'
`Our lives were at stake. We had no alternative. Let us leave it at that.'
My God, Newman thought, they had to shoot them, bury them somewhere. He could feel the tension building up inside his stomach. Tight muscles. A slight queasiness. He concentrated on the road ahead.
The modern four-lane highway extended into the distance through open countryside. To left and right there were fields and woods. The sun shone down out of an almost clear sky, but some miles ahead clouds were building up like a storm gathering. The air was humid, oppressive.
The traffic was heavier than Falken had expected. Huge six-and eight-wheel diesel trucks roared past them, belching fumes. Falken kept well under the speed limit, seemed to be in no hurry. On a main highway the limit was 100 kph. Falken was moving at 60 kph. Hence the convoys of heavy stuff thundering past.
`You're playing it safe,' Newman observed. He nodded towards the speedometer. It was the only sign of tension he showed.
`We're early for the appointment with Karen Piper. Mind you, I shall arrive early — to check out the lie of the land.'
`Who does the talking if we're stopped by a patrol car?'
`I was just coming to that. You do. Border Police. That gives you clout. You use it pretty well.'
`But we're so far from any border here...'
`You wouldn't believe the powers that document in your pocket gives you. Special Assignment Unit. In plain clothes. You can go anywhere in the DDR. And you don't have to explain what you're doing. Unless East German Intelligence stops us. One of Wolf's men. Then anything can happen.'
`I'll bluff our way through. But, just supposing I don't?'
`We shoot our way out. No messing. And this is where I turn off this highway, take a roundabout route along country roads before I head back for the highway closer to Leipzig.'
He glanced in his rear view mirror again. He was an excellent driver. Newman had noticed his eyes constantly flickering to that mirror for a fraction of a second. He signalled, swung off the highway on to a hedge-lined, winding lane.
Newman found his stomach muscles relaxing now they were away from the highway. He'd been screwed up, watching all the time in the wing mirror, through the windscreen, for the approach of a patrol car. There was a limit to the number of times you could bluff your way through a road-block, the Vopos in a patrol car. Falken went on talking in his quiet, easy manner.
`We're meeting the Piper woman in a camper parked underneath a complex of main roads. We call it the zig-zag. A smaller version of that freeway complex in Los Angeles we see on TV — Spaghetti Junction.'
`You see things like that on TV?'
`You'd be surprised how many homes have colour television — and their favourite programmes are those from the West. We're not supposed to watch them, but no one cares any more.'
`Sounds a bit public — this camper rendezvous..
`Chosen with care. It provides plenty of escape routes. Use a place out here and where do you run if the Martians arrive? Piper approved — for the same reason. You'll see.'
`And what happens after I've interviewed her?'
`You head straight for freedom. Under Gerda's control. We've been over that. I won't be coming with you. I have another 'job needing urgent attention. Also a man and a girl attract less notice.' They were climbing a steep hill, the view blocked by the crest. 'If we are stopped,' Falken continued, `you'd better know Gerda is travelling on papers in the name Gerda Nowak. She is a secretary at Markus Wolf's headquarters in Leipzig. Normally he operates out of East Berlin, but he's been at his second base for some time. I think I'll leave you to make up your own story about her — should it ever come to that. A spontaneous explanation is often more convincing.'
They drove over the crest and the road dropped down a steep hill. Driving towards them from the other direction was a green car with two men in the front. The car stopped at the bottom of the hill, on the level, blocking the road.
I must be telepathic,' Falken commented with a bleak look. `Trouble ahead. I can smell it …'
`Intelligence.'
The taller of the two men in civilian clothes flashed a folder by the window Newman had lowered. Newman nodded, grasped the handle, opened the door and alighted as the tall Intelligence officer stepped back. Both men in their forties, clad in grey lightweight raincoats, hatless, poker-faced.
Newman left the door wide open, took several paces to one side, which gave Gerda a clear field of fire with her machine-pistol. He hitched up his slacks, glanced beyond the gateway leading to a field. Half a kilometre away an abandoned stone quarry reared, a rusting bulldozer standing amid the pile of rocks at its base. A good place to hide bodies. God, he was becoming as hard as Falken. A few more weeks inside the DDR and he'd become even harder. He spoke calmly as he reached for his folder, one equal talking to another.
`Border Police. And may I see your folder again? Once I was nearly mugged by a bogus Intelligence officer. Thank you...'
They had the look of hardbitten businessmen, out for the last penny. The taller man had a scar down his right eyebrow. The smaller one shuffled his feet impatiently, giving the impression he was a subordinate who left his colleague to do the talking.
`Looks OK to me,' Newman said, handing back the folder as he checked his watch, steel-plated, made in East Germany. `I am in a hurry. Special assignment. Drugs...'
`Drugs? You did say drugs?'
`Heroin.'
He saw the two men exchange a quick glance. I've said the wrong thing, he thought. He stood quite still as the folder was handed back. He pushed it a bit further.
`I have a rendezvous to keep. My informant won't wait.' `Who is the girl?' the tall one asked, his expression giving nothing away.
`Gerda. That's enough identification. She's the go-between. She knows the informant. I don't. The man behind the wheel is the fastest driver in the Democratic Republic. That I need. I also need to make up for lost time.'
`Martin, move the car for Mr Clasen,' the tall man ordered.
`One more thing,' Newman called out after he'd got back into the Chaika, closed the door. 'If you see a blue Lada driven by a man wearing a Russian fur hat, don't stop him.'
`A fur hat? In this weather?'
`Status symbol, I suppose.'
`Stupid, strutting Russkies,' the tall man sneered.
Falken drove on. Newman neither waved to nor glanced at the two Intelligence men as they left. He still maintained the same placid confident pose he'd assumed while talking to them. They rounded a bend and Falken spoke with a hint of amusement.
`A very different performance from that you put on for the late unlamented Schneider.'
`You don't shout at East German Intelligence. Something funny about that conversation. I seemed to say exactly the right thing. Drugs seems to be a kind of password.'
`Just so long as they're not mulling it over back there and deciding there was something funny about us.'
`You see, Martin,' the Intelligence officer was saying to his driver as they approached the highway, 'there is substance to the rumour about the movement of heroin on a large scale. That Border Police chap is involved in it, I'm sure.'
`Maybe it's better for us if we forget we ever met him.' `Met who?'
The rumours were rife at Intelligence headquarters in Leipzig among senior officers. Discussed in whispers behind closed doors. Gorbachev had overlooked one thing. The operation had no code-name. This had aroused curiosity. Markus Wolf himself knew the Russians were up to something they were concealing.
He kept his own counsel. Never asked one question. He had guessed this was the real purpose of Lysenko's temporary residence in Leipzig. Let them get on with whatever they were playing at. They'd make a balls of it. Then call on him to get them out of the shit. After all, it had happened before.
They were back on the highway, caught up once more in the roar and exhaust fumes from the trailer trucks. Falken drove just inside the speed limit, looking all round as they approached the road complex. No sign of patrol cars. He swung off down a slip road, then turned into a lay-by and switched off the engine.
The traffic thundered overhead. They were parked under-neath the intersection of two massive concrete bridges. Surrounded by the concrete supports holding up the whole edifice. Newman closed the window and the decibels of the traffic roar were reduced.
`There is the camper,' Falken said, pointing to his right. `Looks conspicuous,' Newman commented.
The large vehicle, perched on its high chassis, had an empty look. Net curtains were drawn over the windows. Double doors at the rear. A step to make for easy entry. Parked on waste ground, beaten earth with a track leading to it. Overhead one of the bridges sloped down across its roof, leaving a space of maybe twelve feet.