`Vollmer speaking...'
The voice paused. Munzel had to think of the code word after his recent enjoyable experience with Lydia.
`Sylt is the place I've booked for the holiday,' he said. `Listen. Tweed is coming back. Flying in to Hamburg within the next two days. Call me at noon as usual. You have three days to complete the deal after the customer arrives.' `I don't work to time schedules...'
`You do on this one. Or lose your job.'
Vollmer had gone off the line before Munzel could protest. He lay staring at the ceiling for several minutes. When Lydia came out of the shower he went into the bathroom and took a quick shower himself. He dressed quickly, talking as he did so.
`You wanted to do some shopping on your own. How about doing it now? I have some business calls to make.'
He waited until she had left the room, then packed half his clothes in the suitcase he had recently purchased. Leaving the International, he walked in blazing sunlight past the Movenpick and continued on over the bridge on to the island.
He paused outside the entrance to the Hotel Jensen, peered in, saw there was only a girl on reception — not the manager — and walked in. He booked himself a room in the first name that came into his head. Hugo Schmidt from Osnabrück. Ascending in the lift, he unlocked the door of a room at the back.
It took him only a few minutes to put his clothes inside the wardrobe and a couple of drawers. He left toothbrush, paste and shaving kit in the bathroom. Then he went back down in the lift and walked out of the hotel, the key of the room still inside his pocket.
He was second-guessing Tweed, gambling that if he did turn up in Lübeck he'd go back to the Jensen. The English were conservative, habit-ridden. Now all he had to do was to wait for Vollmer to warn him Tweed was on the way.
Forty
They were in the middle of Leipzig and Gerda sat alongside Newman. He needed her to guide him. He drove slowly along the Gerberstrasse at eight o'clock in the evening. Peering through the windscreen, he twisted his head to look up. An immense modern slab-like building soared into the sky.
`What's that place?' he asked. 'Must be thirty storeys high.'
`The Hotel Merkur. The best place to stay for miles around. It has three restaurants.'
He drove on, following her directions. Falken was sprawled along one of the couch seats in the living area. They came to an intersection just as the lights turned against them. Newman braked. There was the slam of a door behind them.
`What was that?' Newman enquired.
'Falken has just left. Look, there he is...'
The tall German was hobbling along the pavement past the camper with the aid of his stick. He continued for a few metres and stopped. Two men in civilian clothes had blocked his path, were talking to him.
`Oh, my God,' Newman said. 'Plain clothes police.' `I think so, yes,' Gerda replied, watching.
Falken had produced his folder, making a performance of balancing himself on his stick. Now he was waving his arms, flapping his hands like a bird. The two men started grinning. After examining the folder it was handed back to him. Falken went on conversing with them.
`He's diverting their attention from us,' Gerda said. Newman sensed the strain in her voice. `I think he was talking about the grey lag when he flapped his arms. He's waiting for us to drive on.'
Falken had glanced briefly over his shoulder as he gesticulated. Newman fumed. Why didn't the bloody light change? It seemed obstinately stuck on red. The longer Falken had to talk the greater the danger one of the two policemen would ask the wrong question.
`When the lights change don't speed up,' Gerda warned, sensing his frustration. 'Falken will cope...'
The lights changed. As instructed, Newman turned left slowly. In his wing mirror he saw Falken hobbling away, the two plain clothes men strolling in the opposite direction. Oddly, Newman felt lost. Falken, the friend he had shared the past few days with, had gone out of his life as swiftly as he had entered it. Again Gerda sensed his reaction.
`No goodbyes. Just till the next time. Concentrate on your driving. We're in Leipzig. And it's crawling with the wolf-pack.' `Wolf-pack?'
`Markus Wolf's men. I've seen them all over the place. You keep straight ahead here...'
Newman swallowed. He had a lump in his throat. For Falken. Ridiculous sentimentality. Keep your eye on the road. Gerda placed a hand gently on his wrist. She had very small hands.
`Emil, listen carefully. We shall soon leave the camper and kill some time in a café. You are going out tonight. A very tough young man called Stahl will drive you overnight to Rostock, the Baltic port. You will travel inside a big armoured truck carrying arms to Cuba. We think they are bound for Nicaragua. It will not be comfortable — you will be sealed inside the truck for many hours.'
`Who is this Stahl?'
`You should know — in case the truck is stopped, but that is most unlikely. He is a Party member..
`You have to be joking, I hope.'
`He is a Party member,' she repeated. 'Which is why he has been entrusted with the task of driving,this vital consignment. We knew him when he was a youth. Very intelligent. He hated the system, wanted to escape to the West. Falken persuaded him to go the route — do all the right things in the hope he would be selected as a Party member. It worked. Aboard that truck he will take you into the dock area. From there you travel by sea to the West.'
`Aboard what kind of ship? Bound for where?'
`I have no idea. One important thing not to forget — when you talk with him. He knows only Falken and myself. He must not know about Radom. We use the cell system — taking a leaf out of the Soviets' book. Turn left here, follow the one-way system.'
It seemed to Newman they were driving in a large circle as they moved into the suburbs. They passed shopping parades. Many had signs, Volks-this, Volks-that. The people's-this, the people's-that. All State-controlled. One shop window was full of colour TV sets.
The pedestrians were well-dressed, looked well-nourished. A great contrast to his stay in East Berlin as foreign correspondent several years before. One thing had not changed compared with the West. The men and women had a stolid appearance. No one seemed to be enjoying themselves. They trudged along with their plastic shopping bags, drab as their surroundings. A grey, dull and dreary atmosphere — even by the light of the setting sun.
`Drive in to this camp site,' Gerda instructed. 'Park it under those trees over there — away from the other campers. Then wait while I pay the fee.'
He turned in off the highway along an asphalt track, swung off the track over rough grass. He had hardly stopped when Gerda opened the door, dropped to the ground and disappeared.
The suburbs had ended abruptly. The camp-site was on the edge of open country. Fields of grass stretched away into the distance. Very few people were about. He checked his watch. 8.30 p.m. Soon it would be dark. Where would they link up with Stahl?
Newman had to wait fifteen minutes before Gerda returned and she was carrying a large string bag in either hand full of cans of food, a loaf of bread and cartons of fruit juice. He looked round quickly. Still no one about. He opened the door, took the bags off her and she climbed into the cab.
`Let's be quick,' she said. Tut away all this stuff inside the cupboards above the washing-up sink. Ell lay the table for two.' `We're going to eat here?'
`We're leaving here as fast as we can. But if the police do find this camper they'll think we're coming back. With the table laid for a meal and food in the cupboards..
He remembered Falken's instruction.
Obey Gerda
... While she laid the table he put away the contents of the bags. She went on explaining.
`And someone on the camp site may have seen us. Just before we go I'll pull back one of the curtains. Anyone peering inside will see this table laid. Everything has to look quite normal.'
`We do need to eat soon,' Newman told her. 'If we can.'
`And we're going to. But we must get away from here. Emil, you do have your shaving things?'
He patted the pocket of his raincoat where he carried the small hold-all containing shaving equipment, soap and a comb. She opened the cupboards he had stacked, took out a small bottle of mineral water and a collapsible plastic cup.
`Put these in your other pocket. The water is for drinking and shaving. You'll be sealed inside the truck for hours. It is important you have shaved by tomorrow morning. The police may think you are a drug addict unless you look normal. Now, we leave.'
Newman noticed how tidy the camp site was. No paper bags thrown down on the short-cropped grass, no mess of used cans and bottles. Near the exit on to the road they passed a family, a couple with two small children, returning. Gerda said 'Good night', and then they walked along the pavement.
It gave Newman an odd feeling of nakedness to leave the camper. They had travelled inside their cocoon for only a few hours but it had sheltered them from a hostile world. Now, as they walked side by side towards a built-up area he felt terribly exposed.
`Where were all the people on the camp site?' he asked.
`Out doing what we're going to do. Getting something to eat. They're on holiday. Often the woman cooks lunch, but to give her a break the husband takes her out for the evening meal.'
`We have the time? I'm thinking of meeting Stahl...'
`I've made the time — I want to get some hot food inside you before you board the truck. And we meet him after dark — out in the country. You'll see. We're going in here.'
They had reached a modem shopping parade of two-storey buildings. The shops were closed but a restaurant standing on its own was open. Gerda, clutching her windcheater, carefully wrapped round the Uzi, led the way inside.
It was an old place, looked as though it had been there since before the Second World War. The walls were lined with dark oak panelling, the ceiling supported with heavy oak beams. Gerda ensconced them in a booth alongside one wall so they sat facing each other with the heavy table between them.
A waiter wearing a green apron took their order. He hardly glanced at Newman as Gerda ordered for both of them. Newman had beer to drink, a heavy dark beer in a large tankard. Gerda sipped a glass of white wine. Newman felt a sense of strain — Falken had slipped out of his life in a matter of seconds and soon it would be, 'Goodbye, Gerda...' He wasn't looking forward to that.
`This place seems pretty old,' he remarked.
Gerda watched him as she replied, ran a hand through her chestnut-coloured hair. 'I heard Leipzig and the suburbs were badly bombed during the war. This place survived. One of those flukes.'
They talked quietly, but there were few other customers and no one close. I don't know a damned thing about her, Newman was thinking, and I can't ask. If I'm caught, put under pressure, I mustn't be able to give them anything which would identify her.
They dined off fish, well-cooked by a dry method, and
kartoffel
, the soft tasty German potato, and a plate of rye bread. Newman devoured the enormous portion and Gerda watched with approval.
`They give you plenty here,' he remarked.
`I don't think you heard — but I ordered a double portion. I want you full up before your trip.'
`How much longer have we got?'
`We've time for coffee. The mocha is good here. Then we must leave.'
She had checked her watch. Outside it was dark now and street lamps threw a pallid glow over the deserted street. They drank their coffee in silence, Gerda watching Newman again. He felt much better, and much worse — he really would have liked to get to know this girl much more closely.
`What about that machine pistol?' he whispered after he had paid the bill.
`I'm dumping it when I can. It would have been dangerous to leave it inside the camper.'
Her words were prophetic. As they walked back past the camp site on the opposite side of the road they saw a patrol car parked at the entrance. Vopos, flashing torches, were moving among the campers. They walked on, careful not to hurry.
`We cycle to the highway where we meet Stahl,' Gerda told him, again checking her watch. 'And we are in good time.'
`Where do we find cycles?'
`You will soon see.'
She took his arm and they walked like a couple who had known each other for a long time. Half a mile beyond the camp site an area of allotments spread out to one side of the road. She led him down a cinder pathway, stopped by one of the small huts which presumably was for storing tools — spades, rakes and other equipment.
He held the windcheater masking the Uzi while she took out a key from her handbag, inserted it in a large padlock and turned it. She disappeared inside, reappeared wheeling out a cycle, propped it against the shed, vanished again and brought out the second machine.
There was a chill in the air now. She took the windcheater from Newman, extracted the Uzi and rammed it inside her saddle bag. Putting on the windcheater, she watched Newman adjusting the height of his saddle, testing the brakes. He looked at her.
`Ready when you are...'
`I'll just close the padlock, then I'd better lead the way.' She pushed her cycle along the cinder track, only mounting her machine when they reached the road. She turned right, away from the suburb and the camp site and he pulled alongside her, then told her to stop.
`What's the matter?'
`Lights. Falken said the police would stop cyclists without lights.'
`You're so right. I must be losing my grip.'
They switched on their lights at front and rear and resumed cycling. There was no other traffic on the road and they had to cycle warily — after no rain for weeks the storm had made the road surface greasy. Beyond the grass verges on either side were deep ditches and beyond them open fields with, here and there, islands of tree clumps blurred in the gloom. Overhead the sky was a sea of clouds and the chilly breeze was raw as they cycled together.
`Now I want us to stop for a minute,' Gerda said.