LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘There’s got to be an easier way,’ Meyer told him. ‘I know one thing. I need a drink.’ He started up the steps to the office.

      The first passenger, a young man in a leather overcoat, crawled out of the hidden compartment and stood blinking in the light, clutching a bundle. He was followed by a middle-aged man in a shabby brown suit whose suitcase was held together by rope.

      Last of all came a girl in her mid-twenties with a pale face and dark sunken eyes. She wore a man’s trench-coat and a scarf tied peasant-fashion round the head. Vaughan had never seen any of them before. As usual, the truck had been loaded in advance for him.

      He said, ‘You’re in West Berlin now and free to go anywhere you please. At the end of the street outside you’ll find a bridge across the Spree. Follow your nose from there and you’ll come to an underground station. Good night and good luck.’

      He went upstairs to the office. Meyer was sitting at the desk, a bottle of Scotch in one hand, a glass in the other which he emptied in one quick swallow.

      He refilled it and Vaughan took it from him. ‘Why do you always look as if you expect the Gestapo to descend at any moment?’

      ‘Because in my youth there were too many occasions when that was a distinct possibility.’

      There was a tapping at the door. As they both turned the girl entered the office hesitantly. ‘Major Vaughan, could I have a word with you?’

      Her English was almost too perfect, no trace of any accent. Vaughan said, ‘How did you know my name?’

      ‘Herr Schmidt told me when I first met him to arrange the crossing.’

      ‘And where was that?’

      ‘In the restaurant of the old Hotel Adlon. Herr Schmidt’s name was given to me by a friend as a reliable man to arrange these matters.’

      ‘You see?’ Meyer said. ‘Every minute it gets worse. Now this idiot hands your name out to strangers.’

      ‘I need help,’ the girl said. ‘Special help. He thought you might be able to advise me.’

      ‘Your English is really very good,’ Vaughan told her.

      ‘It should be. I was born in Cheltenham. My name is Margaret Campbell. My father is Gregory Campbell, the physicist. You’ve heard of him?’

      Vaughan nodded. ‘Between them, he and Klaus Fuchs handed the Russians just about every atomic secret we had back in nineteen-fifty. Fuchs ended up in the dock at the Old Bailey.’

      ‘While my father and his twelve-year-old daughter found sanctuary in East Germany.’

      ‘I thought you were supposed to live happily ever after,’ Vaughan said. ‘Socialist paradise and all that. Last I heard, your father was Professor of Nuclear Physics at Dresden University.’

      ‘He has cancer of the lung,’ she said simply. ‘A terminal case. A year at the most, Major Vaughan. He wants out.’

      ‘I see. And where would he be now?’

      ‘They gave us a place in the country. A cottage at a village called Neustadt. It’s near Stendal. About fifty miles from the border.’

      ‘Why not try British Intelligence? They might think it worth their while to get him back.’

      ‘I have,’ she said. ‘Through another contact at the University. They’re not interested – not any longer. In my father’s field, you’re very quickly yesterday’s news and he’s been a sick man for a long time now.’

      ‘And Schmidt? Couldn’t he help?’

      ‘He said the risk involved was too great.’

      ‘He’s right. A little border-hopping here in Berlin is one thing, but your father – that’s Indian territory out there.’

      Whatever it was that had kept her going went out of her then. Her shoulders slumped, there was only despair in the dark eyes. She seemed very young and vulnerable in a way that was curiously touching.

      ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’ She turned wearily, then paused. ‘Perhaps you can tell me how to get in touch with Father Sean Conlin.’

      ‘Conlin?’ Vaughan said.

      ‘The League of the Resurrection. The Christian Underground movement. I understood they specialized in helping people who can’t help themselves.’

      He sat staring at her. There was silence for a long moment. Meyer said, ‘So what’s the harm in it?’ Vaughan still didn’t speak and it was Meyer who turned to her. ‘Like Simon said earlier, cross the bridge at the end of the street and straight on, maybe a quarter of a mile, to the underground station. Just before it, there’s a Catholic church – the Immaculate Heart. He’ll be hearing confessions round about now.’

      ‘At four o’clock in the morning?’

      ‘Night workers, whores, people like that. It makes them feel better before going to bed,’ Vaughan said. ‘He’s that kind of man, you see, Miss Campbell. What some people would term a holy fool.’

      She stood there, hands in pockets, a slight frown on her face, then turned and went out without a word.

      Meyer said, ‘A nice girl like that. What she must have gone through. A miracle she got this far.’

      ‘Exactly,’ Vaughan said. ‘And I gave up believing in those long ago.’

      ‘My God,’ Meyer said. ‘Have you always got to look for something under every stone you see? Don’t you trust anybody?’

      ‘Not even me,’ Vaughan said amiably.

      The judas gate banged. Meyer said, ‘So you’re just going to stand there and let a young girl walk all that way on her own and in a district like this?’

      Vaughan sighed, picked up his cap and went out. Meyer listened to the echo of his footsteps below. The door banged again.

      ‘Holy fool.’ He chuckled to himself and poured another glass of Scotch.

      Vaughan could see Margaret Campbell pass through the light of a street lamp thirty or forty yards in front of him. As she crossed the road to the bridge and started across, a man in slouch hat and dark overcoat moved out of the shadows on the far side and barred her way.

      The girl paused uncertainly and he spoke to her and put a hand on her arm. Vaughan took a .38 Smith & Wesson from his inside pocket, cocked it and held it against his right thigh.

      ‘No way to treat a lady,’ he called in German as he mounted the half-dozen steps leading to the bridge.

      The man was already turning very fast, his hand coming up holding a Walther. Vaughan shot him in the right forearm, driving him back against the rail, the Walther jumping into the dark waters below.

      He made no sound, simply gripped his arm tightly, blood oozing between his fingers, lips compressed, a young man with a hard, tough face and high Slavic cheekbones. Vaughan turned him around, rammed him against the handrail and searched him quickly.

      ‘What did he say to you?’ he asked Margaret Campbell.

      Her voice shook a little as she replied. ‘He wanted to see my papers. He said he was a policeman.’

      Vaughan had the man’s wallet open now and produced a green identity card. ‘Which, in a manner of speaking he is. SSD. East German State Security Service. Name of Röder, if you’re interested.’

      She seemed genuinely bewildered. ‘But he couldn’t have followed me. Nobody could. I don’t understand.’

      ‘Neither do I. Maybe our little friend here can help us.’

      ‘Go to hell,’ Röder said.

      Vaughan hit him across the face with the barrel of the Smith & Wesson, splitting flesh,

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