Neumann hesitated for a moment, a tiny delay which he tried to cover by reaching for his cigarette.
“We did everything by the book.”
“And what book was that? The one written by the Stasi? The same one written by our Soviet friends, the Chekists? If everything was done by the book then why wasn’t the informant given protection at the hospital?”
Another indecisive movement betrayed Neumann’s uncertainty. “The handling officer wasn’t informed of the IKM’s transferral to the hospital in West Berlin.”
At last, a break in his stonewalling. I wondered whether Neumann was preparing the ground to deflect the blame that was coming his way.
“Why not?” I demanded, leaning forward in my chair and taking a cigarette from his packet.
“The decision to transfer the IKM was made by the hospital. It has become common in serious cases such as this one—the patient benefits from procedures and equipment that are currently unavailable in the GDR. The hospital informed Police Headquarters in Keibelstrasse, but the night duty officer didn’t think to forward the message on to us until the next morning.”
He chucked the box of matches over to me—underarm, no force or malice in the throw. I caught them, and lit up my cigarette.
“And the protection detail at the clinic here?” I asked after taking the first puff.
“Two uniformed officers were detailed to protect the IKM while in Friedrichshain. They were from Station 51—Friedenstrasse. They informed their duty officer on return to the police station, but he didn’t think to pass the information on to us.”
As I thought: arse-covering. Point the finger anywhere that wasn’t K1 in Lichtenberg. I didn’t want to let Neumann get away with it that easily.
“So, Captain Neumann, let’s see if I’ve got this straight. You have at least one IKM engaged in an extremely volatile operation. You’re careless enough to let him get severely beaten, then without your knowledge he is taken out of the country and murdered in West Berlin. Is that a fair interpretation of events?”
“The West Berlin police are at present investigating the case. It would be a mistake to make assumptions about the nature of the death. We are co-operating with the West Berlin police in this matter-”
“Perhaps, comrade, you’d do better to start co-operating with me.” I stood up and leaned over the desk. “And for a start you can send me a copy of all files relating to this IKM.” I walked over to the door, turning back as I opened it. “Have Lieutenant Steinlein bring over the paperwork—I shall expect him by the end of the day.”
Karo
Schimmel and I managed to get everyone in the house together for a meeting. I told them about what had happened yesterday, how Martin and I had narrowly avoided a beating, or worse.
“We’ve been ignoring this problem for too long. The fash are back in Friedrichshain—not just coming by at night to catch a few stragglers. They were at Frankfurter Tor the other day handing out their hate-propaganda! And now this, what happened to me yesterday. God! We’ve got to take this seriously!”
“Yeah, Karo, I don’t disagree, but we’ve all got our own projects on the go—like you’ve got your Brown Coal Coalition and the stuff with global warming and your facilitation course. I’m doing my refugee support. We’re all doing our bit. None of us have got time to go hunting Nazis.”
Martin
Things were looking busy when I got back to RS2. Grit was at her desk in the front office, hammering away at an electric typewriter, the carriage pinging and growling back at the end of each line. Through the open office doors I could see and hear that everyone was on the phone. Erika’s door was nearest, and I stood on the threshold to her office, listening in to her phone call.
“Yep, urgent. You got it. Thanks, appreciated.” She hung up.
“What’s going on?”
“After you left we decided that we should follow up whatever contacts we have in the police, see if we could come up with anything about the leaks.”
“What? Just phone up people and ask them to tell us which cops like a bit of a gossip?” When Neumann got to hear about this he’d be even more pissed off than he already was.
“Come on, Martin, give us some credit! We’re being a bit more subtle than that: asking how many IKMs are on the go across the Republic, how they’re handled. General sort of stuff.”
I ran my fingers through my hair then shook my head. These testosterone contests with cops never did me any good.
“Sorry. But look, I’m back, maybe I should let you all know about my meeting with K1. My office in ten?”
Erika nodded, and I told Klaus and Laura the same thing. Nik had already made himself at home in my chair and was using the telephone. I held up ten fingers, then motioned towards the kettle. He nodded before going back to his one-sided conversation.
I spooned some coffee into the big glass pot and got five cups out of the cupboard. I pushed a pile of paperwork to one side and ignored the domino effect this had on the rest of my desk.
The kettle started steaming, so I pulled the plug out and poured water into the pot. Everyone was in the room by now. Laura had a sheet of paper with lots of notes on it, the others just sat there and started to slurp their coffees.
I told them about my visit to Neumann, and summarised: “He didn’t really tell me anything, but I got the distinct impression that there was something wrong—I don’t mean losing an IKM—I mean, like he was out of his depth or something-”
“Oh.” A sort of popping noise came from Erika’s direction. “I’ve got a friend who works in Kripo Central Co-ordination at Police HQ. When I asked about IKMs she said that officially there aren’t any—the experienced handlers have all been discharged from service because they were too close to the Stasi. Basically, there’s no-one in the police force with any real experience of running informants.”
“What about unofficially? You said officially there were no IKMs. And unofficially?”
“She didn’t say, but it sounds like the Ministry is turning a blind eye to the practice.”
I’d been idly shovelling up all the files and papers that had cascaded off my desk, trying to persuade them to stay in the general area of my in-tray rather than slide back off onto the floor. Nik helpfully moved his elbows to give me more space, and as he did so a yellow envelope came into view.
“Oh, yes, this came for you by ministry courier. Had to sign for it and everything,” he said.
I gave Nik a dirty look, but he didn’t notice. The envelope was sealed and had VS stamped on it. I slid the short message out.
“They want us to send Evelyn in: undercover operation at the Weitlingstrasse premises.” The others looked as astonished as I felt. “Preparations for operational measures to begin with immediate effect, with a view to said measures being implemented at an early date.”
So the old Ministerial Committee, about to be replaced, were having a last shot at getting into the history books.
There was silence while we digested the news, and I took the opportunity to read the message through again. They wanted evidence for the purposes of criminal prosecutions.
“Well that makes it all a bit final, doesn’t it?” I said at last, mostly to break the silence. “Anyone have anything to add?”
Nobody had anything to say, so all in all we weren’t that much further.
Except for one thing.
There was no way we were going to allow the Kripo to handle Evelyn’s operation: they’d either get her killed or lose her.
Karo
I went to see Antifa Bert. I was pissed off with my housemates and wanted to get another perspective.
“Smuggling,” he said after I’d told him about the incident at the East Side yesterday. “So that’s why your friend from RS is suddenly interested in the fash?”
He sat there with his chin on his hand, trying to look like some Greek statue.
“And he’s right about the fash getting more active. We’ve been monitoring this for a whil
e, and we reckon they’re gearing up for something big. The referenda, then the Volkskammer elections. But they might be planning something else entirely, who knows?”
“So what are we going to do about it?” I was pleased that Bert was taking this as seriously as I was.
“What do you mean? We’re already doing loads!” Bert was almost shouting. I’d hurt his pride. Bloody men!
“I know you’ve been doing stuff. But maybe it’s gonna take more than that? We need some new ideas!”
Bert shook his head. “Look you were good the other night, we need more people like you. What we’re doing works.”
But that was the question: was it really working?
“Look Bert—you and the others, you’re doing a good job-”
“Too right we’re doing a good job. If it hadn’t been for us … We’re the ones who pushed the Nazis out of the centre of Berlin. And we have to do more, we need them out of Berlin and out of the country!”
“But they’re coming back! What you’ve been doing worked for a while, but we’re seeing more of them on the streets. More people are getting beaten up—more than have been for years.”
“Yeah, so there needs to be more people doing the job. You coming again on Friday?”
“Don’t you think there’s got to be something else we can do? We’ve got to be strategic about this—take the fight to them.” Bert was shaking his head, but I just carried on. “They’re leafleting in our neighbourhoods, we need to do the same. They’re recruiting young people, we need to get there first. They meet up at the Weitlingstrasse house before they do their hunting, we need to take the fight there—we need to take the fight to them!”
Day 10
Wednesday 23rd March 1994
Erfurt: Several Russian citizens were injured at a club in Altenburg last night. Early reports indicate that skinheads were involved, but a police spokesperson declined to confirm whether there was a racist-fascist motivation behind the attack.
Martin
As soon as the morning meeting was over I headed off to see Dmitri in Karlshorst. As I left, Grit passed me a green A4 envelope.
“This arrived from the Ministry.”
I had a quick look. They were release forms for Evelyn Hagenow. I was to sign them if and when we decided that Evelyn had been sufficiently prepared for her mission. Until I signed and returned those forms, Evelyn would be staying where she was.
Getting off the tram in Karlshorst I walked through the Russian colony—a town within a town—schools, shops, offices and military bases for the Russian forces and their families. The red star and the letters CA were still to be seen everywhere, but since the breakup of the Soviet Union this area was under the administration of the Russian Federation. On flagpoles the red banner with hammer and sickle had been replaced by the Russian tricolour.
Showing my RS pass to a guard standing outside the door I went into the nondescript pre-war building that housed Dmitri’s office. A Russian non-commissioned officer escorted me up the stairs.
“Martin! Come in, come in and we shall drink a toast!” Dmitri and I had first met during a covert operation, and a bond had grown between us. But now we seemed to be meeting up just to push paper at each other, there was none of the adrenaline and excitement of our first covert meetings. Nevertheless Dmitri always seemed pleased to see me. He was a large but gentle man with grey hair and a military bearing. About the same age as me, he was usually either cheerfully grinning or else frowning in concentrated thought. To people who didn’t know him, his most remarkable feature was a black leather eye patch over his left eye, which, despite his frequent grins, gave him a sinister yet rakish look. I think Dmitri rather liked this image, and that was possibly why he used the patch rather than a less conspicuous glass eye. Perhaps it was for the same reason that he rarely gave a straight answer to a straight question, preferring instead to speak in Sibylline riddles.
“You seem a little pre-occupied today, tovarishch,” Dmitri said after we’d looked over a few files.
I considered telling him what was on my mind, about the aborted raid, our concerns about the cops, and that my next appointment was with Evelyn, my own personal nemesis. We shouldn’t be discussing live cases, and none of this had anything to do with the community of states which had once made up the Soviet Union; it was something I should have left at the door.
“Remember the case last year? The woman who headed up the Stasi task force? She’s my next port of call today.”
Dmitri grew grave, the joshing grin of a moment ago no longer in evidence.
“I thought that was out of your hands? No longer your responsibility? Evelyn Hagenow, wasn’t it? Codename Gärtner?” I could see him adding notes to the files he kept in his head. “Where is she now?”
“In Magdalenenstrasse remand prison. I’ve been ordered to brief her for an undercover operation against a fascist group in Lichtenberg. They’re growing in strength, or at the very least they’re becoming bolder. There’s no longer any doubt that they’re a tangible security threat to the future of the Republic.” I closed the file I’d been looking at and let if fall onto Dmitri’s desk. “But we’re in the dark. We need eyes on the ground and we have no-one who can do that kind of thing. The Kripo have been worse than useless. That leaves the ex-Stasi. Evelyn has volunteered.”
“What is it you are trying to discover?”
“K1 had an IKM in place, but he was beaten and murdered a few days ago-”
“K1? You mean Kripo—they had an informant?” Dmitri knew full well that K1 was the shadowy political branch of the police which had once been the link between the Stasi and regular detectives—he was only asking to buy time while he mentally tabulated the information I was giving him.
“Yes, yes. But what we’ve known for a long time is that they have large amounts of propaganda and agitation materials, presumably brought in from the West. We should assume that they’ve been receiving financial assistance too. But none of that’s new. It’s the combination of this material with the recent surge in activity.” Dmitri was still frowning, and I wondered what use he would find for this intelligence. “They’re far more aggressive on the streets, they’re demonstrating regularly, using the current refugee situation to make people scared. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed—the target of these activities are often Russians!”
Dmitri’s one good eye was intently watching me. Hands folded in his lap, he was a picture of relaxed concentration. But he didn’t say anything, just waited for me to continue.
“Is there any intelligence on a link between yours and ours—between the fascists here and Pamyat, Otkasniki, any of the other far-right movements in Russia?”
Dmitri finally responded. He shook his head, then picked up a pencil and started tapping it on a file on his desk. He frowned for a minute or so.
“No, there was nothing flagged as being of interest to the GDR, and there’s nothing I’ve come across. The groups around Shirinovski, the nationalist groups, they’re just that: nationalist. They’re not looking to support other nationalist movements in what was once the Soviet sphere. If anything they see it as being in their interest to undermine similar groups in other countries, not to support them. I think their main focus at the moment is Russian nationalism and anti-Semitism. They’re feeling smug at how successful they’ve been in forcing so many Jews to leave our country, and they don’t care whether they go to Washington, Tel Aviv or Berlin.” He thought for a moment longer, tapping the pencil again, then carried on. “No, I don’t see a connection there, but I think you’re right to be suspicious of the West. You can’t expect West Germany to give up so easily—they’ve wanted to take over East Germany for nearly fifty years—they’ll still be doing everything they can to catch the prize.”
“So what do you think? Will they be working underground, using the BND intelligence service? Or maybe agitating at a political level?”
“Oh, Martin, you know the answer as well as I do! You’re just fishing for informat
ion.” He dropped the pencil and spread his hands over the desk, palms down, a shrug lifting his shoulders, “and you know I’d be the first to give it to you if I had anything at all. But I’m dry. They know where my sympathies lie, and so they keep me dry.” Another shrug, the hands gathered back together in prayer. “All I can do is speculate, same as you.”
Dmitri picked up the pencil again, playing with it for a moment before getting out a pack of black Russian cigarettes. He offered me one but I shook my head.
“If I were to speculate,” he rolled the cigarette between his fingers, the loose paper creasing up as it met his thumbs. “I would say that anyone looking into this matter needs to take great care, yes, to be careful.”
He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it from a desk lighter, drawing in, then breathing out a cloud of dark smoke. “You mention politics,” he drew on his cigarette again, speaking as he exhaled. “Have you considered your fifth column: the political parties. So long as you have parties then those involved will be representing a party and not the people. And while you have cross-border party affiliations the Western politicians will be telling their colleagues over here how to think, how to vote-”
“But we can’t restrict free political association!”
“No, no, but I like the way your central government and parliament is losing power day by day; I watch with great interest your preparations for a referendum on devolving more power to the Round Tables.” Dmitri drew on his acrid cigarette, exhaling again before continuing. “But the Round Tables offer the politically ambitious much less room for manoeuvre, so the parties resist decentralisation. Power gathers power, as they say in Moscow.” Again Dmitri spread his hands out over the desk, like the wings of a dove, a peace offering. “And remember how well the West-parties played that particular role when they tried to derail the events of 1989 and 1990?”
Thoughts Are Free Page 12