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spluttering and hissing, and its beam went sweeping across the carefully smoothed soft earth ahead of them.
    Now neither Max nor Bernard could hope that they'd get right through undetected.
    Bernard went flat on the ground but Max was a tough old veteran and he went running on into the darkness behind the searchlight beam, confident that the region round the beam was darkest to the eyes of the guards.
    The Grenzpolizei up in the tower were caught by surprise. They were both young conscripts, sent here from the far side of the country and recommended for this special job after their good service in the Free German Youth. There had been an alert, two in fact. Their sergeant had read the teleprinter message aloud to them to be sure they understood. But alerts were commonplace. None of the Grepos took them too seriously. Since the boys had arrived here six months ago, there had been nine emergencies and every one of them had turned out to be birds or rabbits tripping the wires. No one tried to get through nowadays: no one with any sense.
    On the Western side of the Wall, Frank's reception team – Tom Cutts and 'Gabby' Green – had come up very close by that time. They weren't directly in Frank's employ, they were specialists. Despite being in their middle thirties, they were, according to their papers, junior officers of the Signal Corps. With them was a genuine soldier, Sergeant Powell, who was a radar technician. His job was to make sure nothing went wrong with their equipment, although, as he'd told them quite frankly, if something did go wrong with it, it was unlikely that he'd be able to repair it there in the slit trench. It would have to go back to the workshop, and then probably to the manufacturer.
    These 'freebooters' had been dug in there a long time, dressed in their camouflaged battle-smocks, faces darkened with paint, brown knitted hats pulled down over the tops of their ears. Helmets were too heavy, and, if you dropped them, dangerously noisy. It was a curious fact that they were safer dressed as soldiers than as civilians. Those Grepos over there were cautious about shooting soldiers; and soldiers on both sides of the Wall were garbed almost identically.
    They didn't speak very often: every sound carried a long way at night and they'd worked together often enough to know what had to be done. They'd manhandled the little radar set forward and got the antenna into a favourable position ahead of them as soon as darkness came the previous evening, and then spent all night with the set, watching the movements of the vehicles and the guards. Both men were wearing headphones over their knitted hats, and Gabby, whose taciturn disposition had earned him his nickname, had his eye to the big Hawklite image-intensifying scope.
    'Yes,' he said suddenly, the rubber-sided microphone clamped tight to his mouth. 'One! No: two of them. One running… the other on the ground. Jesus!'
    The searchlight had come on by that time, but it provided no help for anyone trying to see what was happening.
    'And there go the infra-red lights too. My, my, they are getting serious,' said Gabby calmly. 'Can we jam?' Tom had already tuned the jammer to the required wavelength, but it was a lower-power machine that would only affect the small sets. 'I'll have to go forward. I can't get it from here.'
    Tom said nothing. They'd both hoped that it wouldn't be necessary for either of them to cross into DDR territory. Over the last year they'd had a couple of close shaves, and their opposite numbers – the two-man team who were responsible for the stretch of Wall to the north – had both been killed after one of them stepped on a mine that had been 'accidentally' left on the West side of the Wall when DDR repair parties had finished work.
    Tom Cutts's misgivings would have been confirmed had he had a chance to see into the Russian Electronic Warfare Support Vehicle that was parked out of sight behind the dog kennels. Inside its darkened interior a