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 cafe. 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.
They had been careful to use the toilets at the restaurant so Newman was puzzled for a moment. He watched while she took her handbag out of the saddle bag, took out a handkerchief, hauled out the Uzi and wiped it clean of fingerprints. Then she stepped on to the grass verge, using her handkerchief as a glove and threw the machine pistol into the ditch. It sank out of sight with a splash followed by a brief gurgle. They cycled on.
Shortly after she had dumped the weapon they reached an intersection where the country road they'd cycled along met a main highway. Gerda turned left on to the highway and pulled over on to the verge about a hundred metres from the intersection.
`We meet Stahl here. He'll come from that direction.'
She pointed the way they had come, checked her watch, took a small pair of field glasses out of her handbag. Leaning the cycle against her thighs, she raised the binoculars to her eyes and focused them, looking back down the highway.
`What's the idea?' Newman asked.
`Night glasses. I know the registration number of the truck Stahl will be driving. I have a small torch. I have to signal before he gets here. I want to be sure it's the right vehicle before I start flashing a torch about.'
`You really are well organized.' Newman hesitated. 'Is this where we say Goodbye?'
'No – till we meet again…'
'I'd like to thank you for all…' he began.
She placed an index finger over his mouth. 'It's the other way round. Why don't we just say it was good knowing one another? That we make a good team. And if a car or the wrong truck comes along we're conspicuous – so we pretend to be lovers.'
`We'd better practise then.'
He laid both cycles on the verge, took her in his arms, one hand behind the nape of her neck and kissed her full on the lips. She stiffened for a few seconds, then wrapped her arms round him and pressed her breasts against his chest. She kissed him ravenously, her whole body merged against his.
`Oh, damnit,' he said, looking over her right shoulder.
She released him, breathing heavily, turned to look in the same direction, the field glasses dangling from their strap round her wrist. In the distance two headlights like great eyes were coming down the highway. She pressed the lenses to her eyes. Newman kept his fingers crossed. This couldn't be Stahl. Not yet.
`It's him,' she said.
Newman glanced all round. No other traffic in sight. Behind the headlights the huge truck lumbered closer. Gerda flashed her torch on and off. Two short flashes, one long one. The truck passed the intersection, slowed, pulled up alongside them. A big job. An eight-wheeler. The cab attached – part of – the vehicle. A Mercedes. The driver kept his engine running, peered out of the window and Gerda called up to him. Something Newman didn't catch. A heavily-built young man with thick brown hair descended to the roadway and Gerda made swift introductions.
`Stahl, this is Emil Clasen…'
`Come with me,' Stahl said to Newman, then noticed the cycles lying on the verge. 'You'll only need one of these now,' he said to Gerda. He picked up Newman's machine, hoisted it above his head and hurled it clear across the ditch. It landed deep inside the field of rye, disappeared. 'Back of the truck,' he said to Newman. 'Hurry…'
Using a deadlock key, he opened one of the two rear doors, handed Newman a torch he'd hauled out of his trouser pocket and pointed inside the dark cavern. Newman turned to say something to Gerda but Stahl took his arm in a strong grip and urged him up inside the truck. Gerda thrust the field-glasses into his hand. 'Take these. They might be useful.'
`Seat for you at the far end,' Stahl called up. 'Use that torch – or break a kneecap. We'll talk later. We're too near Leipzig here. The porthole windows in these doors are one-way armoured glass…'
The door slammed shut and Newman was in pitch darkness. He switched on the torch as he heard Stahl locking the door. The porthole windows had circular flaps shutting him off from the outside world. He swivelled one flap upwards, switched off the torch.
Gerda appeared on her machine, cycling back towards Leipzig as Stahl released the air-brakes and the huge truck started lumbering forward. In the brief moment he'd had the torch on he'd seen a hanging strap attached to the wall of the truck. He held on to it with his left hand, watching Gerda's rear red light receding. The truck picked up speed. Then he froze.
A patrol car, travelling very fast, was approaching the intersection. He doubted whether they had seen the truck stop. Moving at that speed they'd have been inside the suburbs. He raised the night-glasses and pressed them against his eyes. The road surface along the highway was good, the truck was so heavy it hardly swayed.
The patrol car swung out of the intersection on to the highway, passed Gerda cycling, stopped, performed an illegal U- turn, drew up alongside Gerda. Two Vopos stepped out, halted her. Then he realized she was showing them her papers. One of the Vopos shook his head, opened the rear door, bundled her inside and followed. The other man climbed behind the wheel. Oh, God! And the bastards had left her cycle lying on the verge. He couldn't do anything. He was trapped inside the truck. The patrol car drove off, turning back towards Leipzig. Newman felt sick as a dog.