by Mark Dawson
“LEXIKON called and said that he had been exposed. He was told to report to Kreuzberg for debriefing and possible exfiltration. Colonel Geipel was to conduct the debrief himself.”
“And?”
“And they were attacked. LEXIKON, Stabsfähnrich Grossman and Stabsfähnrich Vokes were found in the apartment. All shot. Unteroffizier Beckman was found unconscious on the ground floor. He said that he saw four men going into the building—one of them attacked him and knocked him out. He didn’t recognise any of them.”
“And Colonel Geipel?”
“He is missing, General.”
Sommer underlined Geipel’s name, repeating the stroke until the nib of the pen sliced through the paper.
“Does anyone else know about this?”
“The Bundespolizei were called.”
“And would they be able to identify the dead men?”
“They are unlikely to have anything on Grossman. LEXIKON, though—I think it is possible.”
“Find out. And tell no one else of this—do you understand, Major? No one.”
“Yes, Colonel,” said Hofmann, and hung up.
Sommer stood, put on his jacket and left his office.
*
Sommer walked down the corridor to the elevators. He called the lift and selected the ground floor. He got out and walked over to the second elevator that would take him down to the basement. It could only be operated by those with the correct key; he took his from his pocket, pushed it into the keyhole and turned it. The door slid open; he got inside and selected the button for the basement. The machinery clanked and whirred and eventually brought him to a dark lower level, lit only by caged bulbs dotted along one side of a long, damp brick wall. On the opposite side was a row of heavy steel doors.
A guard was stationed in an enclave three-quarters of the way along the corridor. The men on duty here smoked and drank thick stewed coffee from steel mugs. The smell of human sweat, cigarette smoke and briny coffee was heavy in the air. Sommer went to the third door and called for the guard to open it. The man put out his cigarette and took a bunch of keys from a steel ring that had been fastened to the wall. He opened the door and stood back.
There was no light from the room; thick darkness lay within. The quality of that blackness never went unnoticed. It was a dense nothingness, save the small area near the door where the nearest bulb extended its feeble glow. Sommer heard footsteps and then a man—young, pale skin, blue eyes—stepped into the half-light.
Sommer looked at the sores on his skin; there were red marks on his arms and neck, abrasions on his ankles and chest. The guard stepped away from the door and went back to the alcove. Sommer noticed that the man’s teeth were yellow, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. He could not look at Sommer and Sommer knew why: he was terrified of him.
With reason.
Sommer smiled.
“Günter,” he said. “How are you enjoying your stay?”
The man said nothing.
“Silence? Really? But our last chat was so interesting.”
He looked away.
“I’m afraid I can’t help myself, Günter—we’re going to need to have another.”
26
Sommer was almost disappointed. Almost. Günter Schmidt was so frightened that there was no need for him to indulge himself in order to get him to speak. Sommer enjoyed his more obdurate prisoners; persuading them to talk was one of his pleasures in life, and something that he was particularly good at. He consoled himself with the knowledge that there would be other opportunities for that. For now, he needed to know what had made Schmidt so interesting to the British.
Schmidt had been in the cell for days, ever since Sommer had intercepted him on his way to the tunnel under the Wall. There had been no human contact save for the meals that were passed through the slit in the door. It had been a deliberate ploy. Sommer knew the power of the imagination, and he wanted Schmidt to have as long as possible to consider the awfulness of the treatment that he might expect once the questioning began. Confounding those expectations could be effective. He brought Schmidt up to his quarters on the top floor. There would be no stainless-steel table, no surgical instruments, no hooks in the ceiling for him to be upended and hung from his ankles. Those would come later, perhaps. Instead, there was a comfortable room, a jug of coffee and polite questions.
Sommer knew it would work.
“I’m sorry to have kept you down there for so long. I hope that won’t be necessary again.”
Schmidt looked at him; he reminded Sommer of a cornered rabbit.
Sommer took the jug and poured coffee into two mugs. “Do you take sugar?”
Schmidt nodded, and Sommer added a heaped spoonful, stirred the brew and slid it over the table. Schmidt put the mug to his lips and sipped the coffee, his eyes on Sommer as if he expected some trick.
Sommer drank from his own mug and then placed it on a coaster. “I’m curious, Günter. The British went to a lot of effort to get you out. They dug a tunnel, sent senior personnel here at considerable risk. Why would they do that? What did you offer them?”
Schmidt swallowed, his larynx bobbing in his throat.
“Please. There’s no need to be frightened. If you have something of value to them, it’s likely to be of value to me, too. I’m a pragmatic man. Perhaps we can work together.”
Sommer smiled, reached down for the plate of biscuits and slid it closer to Schmidt.
“My work,” Schmidt began, then paused, uncertain of how to proceed.
“Go on. Your work?”
“I am an escort.”
“A prostitute?”
Schmidt flinched, as if he found the word distasteful.
“An escort,” Sommer corrected himself. “Of course. Please—go on.”
“A year ago,” he said, “I was at a party in Friedrichshain. There were some men there from the Party. At the end of the night, one of them came up to me and said that he would like to see me again.”
He stopped speaking and took a drink from his mug of coffee. Sommer noticed that his hand was shaking.
“Go on, Günter,” he encouraged him. “You’re doing well.”
“I said yes, and arranged to meet him in Café Warschau the next day. He said that it would be impossible to meet in a public place and suggested that I should come to his apartment. I did and…” He paused again, looking into his coffee. Sommer gave him a moment and, after Schmidt had found the right words, he continued. “We started seeing each other. It wasn’t a professional relationship, not like the others were. I thought we were in love. He said that he loved me, anyway. He looked after me, gave me nice things and told me that he would look after my family, too. And he did. There was enough money for me to move them into a house outside the city. He even gave me the money to buy them a holiday. My mother and father hadn’t been outside Berlin for years. They couldn’t afford it. They went to the Baltic Coast.”
Sommer regarded him shrewdly. Schmidt spoke openly, and there were none of the tell-tale signs that might have indicated duplicity. Sommer was an excellent judge of character, and of veracity, and he believed that Schmidt was telling the truth.
“What happened then?”
“He broke up with me. A month ago. Didn’t tell me why. I went to his apartment and he wasn’t there. I tried to get in but the locks were changed. I went to find him at his office but the guards took me away and beat me. They told me if I came back they would kill me.
I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that I’ve been treated this way. All I wanted to do was to have him tell me what I did to deserve this. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t tell me. I want him to know that what he did was wrong.”
Sommer leaned forward. “This man,” he said. “Who is he?”
Schmidt looked up at him, his face pale and beginning to dampen with perspiration.
“It’s fine, Günter. You’re doing well. But I do need to know.”
“Stanislaus Pabst.”
Sommer was not often lost for words, but now he was struck dumb. Pabst was the head of the Ministry. He was a general in the East German army and a member of the Politburo. He was responsible for the Stasi, and for the maintenance of security in the GDR. He was also the main impediment to Sommer’s own ascent through the party apparatus. Sommer had always tried to be civil with Pabst, but the general had made it known that he didn’t like him and that Sommer would never reach the heights that his talent deserved while he remained in control.
Sommer could see now why the British had gone to such lengths to exfiltrate Schmidt. The damage the young man could do… it was incalculable.
“You told the British about this?” Sommer asked.
“Yes. I went to the consulate and told them what I knew. They told me to come back. I did. I met a man from the government. He said he would bring me into the West. My family, too.”
“And this man’s name?”
“Mackintosh.”
Sommer already knew that Harry Mackintosh was responsible for the operation. Sommer had been tipped off by LEXIKON; the tip was how he had been able to prevent the exfiltration from taking place. The actual nature of the intelligence that Schmidt was selling had never been revealed; Mackintosh had kept that close to the vest, and LEXIKON had not been able to uncover it.
But now Sommer knew.
“Can you prove any of this?”
Günter looked away, too late. Sommer saw through him.
“Please, Günter, I would like to be your friend. But I can only be your friend if there are no secrets between us. Your story is interesting, but without something to substantiate it, well, it is… just a story.”
Günter bit his lip.
“Come, now. I feel you are withholding something from me. Friends don’t do that.”
“I have told you my story,” he said. “That is it.”
“And now you are lying to me.”
“I am not—”
“I have a friend in MI6, Günter. Do you think I don’t know?”
He looked away. “I have photographs.”
Sommer felt a buzz of anticipation run up and down his spine. “You do?”
He nodded. “Of Stanislaus and me.”
“I would dearly like to see them.”
“I can’t,” he said. “They are my guarantee.”
Possibilities spooled through Sommer’s mind and he was unable to prevent the grin that cracked his face. The Russians called it kompromat. Leverage. The British would have wielded it for their own purposes, bending Pabst to their will and damaging the institution that he ran and the Party that depended upon it. Sommer did not care about any of that. If he did, he would have taken Schmidt to Pabst and alerted him to the danger that had been averted. That was still a possibility. Pabst might be grateful. He might reward him for his diligence and tact. But, Sommer knew, he might just as easily have him shot in order to guarantee his silence.
He had a better idea. The kompromat would not be of benefit to the British alone. He could hold onto Schmidt, keep him safe and out of the way, ready to be deployed at a moment of his choosing. Homosexuality had been decriminalised in the East for twenty years, but the suggestion of it would still be enough to bring Pabst down. The stench of it would cling to him. The Party would not approve.
Sommer would consider how and when to use the knowledge, but one thing was certain: Pabst was done, and Sommer could put himself in position to take his place.
He turned back to Günter. “What was your plan? You would wait for Mackintosh to do what he promised and then tell him where to find the photographs?”
Günter nodded.
“That’s very wise. But it is unnecessary now. Tell me where they are, Günter. I will send someone to get them.”
The young man shook his head. He had found strength from somewhere. “You need to help me get over the border.”
Sommer was prepared to be patient; the prize was worth it. “Perhaps,” he lied. “But you need to cooperate with me.”
“Get me into the West and I’ll tell you where to find them. I swear it.”
“No,” Sommer said. “That isn’t going to work. Do I need to remind you where you are? You’re not in a position to make demands. You are being treated with kindness because I want to be your friend. But there are other ways that this can be done. I would not recommend them.”
He sat down opposite Schmidt and stared at him. He smiled his most reassuring smile. “Where can I find the photographs?”
Part V
27
Jimmy followed the directions that Mackintosh had given him and arrived at Uhlandstraße at seven in the morning. Mackintosh had explained that the British government had maintained three offices in Berlin: the political adviser to the British Military Government had offices at the Olympic Stadium; the commercial offices were leased in the International Trade Centre Administration Building on Georgenstraße; the consulate-general was in leased premises here on Uhlandstraße. This office of the consulate-general was just as the older man had described it: a bland building, most likely infill from the sixties that had been constructed out of the wreckage of the war. It was modest, not particularly attractive and compact in size. The consulate took up two floors, and there was office space above it. There were two entrances: one at the front, beneath a Union Jack that fluttered from a flagpole, and a plainer entrance that was reached via the alley that ran between the building and its neighbour.
There was a parking lot on the other side of the main road, and Jimmy parked his car there; he was able to see both entrances while maintaining enough distance from the pedestrians and traffic that passed ahead of him to minimise the chances of anyone seeing him in his car and deciding that he was suspicious.
Jimmy got out of the car and looked over the roof at the other cars. There were only a handful at this early hour, but one of them stood out: a cherry-red Audi Quattro. It was the model with the five-cylinder turbocharged petrol engine. Jimmy thought the paint job and the brick-shape design was ugly—he preferred Porsches when it came to German engineering—although the car looked as if it was reasonably new, if a little garish. Morgan was hardly trying to blend in; Jimmy wondered whether that was the behaviour of someone who had something to hide. Maybe Mackintosh had the wrong man?
The morning was bitterly cold, with a freezing wind that was ushering a procession of leaden clouds in from the East. The snow on the ground had frozen overnight, and as Jimmy looked up at the darkening sky he could see that more would be falling before the day was out. He got back into the Mercedes, turned the key in the ignition and flicked the switch for the heater; the unit was old and it spluttered, emitting a pathetic gasp of warm air.
Jimmy pulled the zip of his leather jacket all the way up to his neck and thought of Isabel: he should have taken her up on her offer to buy him something more substantial.
He took the photograph of Morgan and stood it on the dash, propping it against the windshield.
He settled in to wait.
28
A man came out of the side entrance just after nine. Jimmy looked at the photograph on the dash and compared it to the man; it was Morgan, he was sure of it. Late middle age, a full head of dark hair, a moon-like face and heavy dark glasses.
Most of the consulate staff completed their journeys to work in thick coats with scarfs wound around their faces or with substantial hats pulled down low. Morgan hurried outside with his coat still undone and without a hat. He tried to zip up the coat as he made his way along the alley, lost his concentration and almost skidded over on the frozen ground. He regained his balance and paused for a moment as he fastened the zip. Jimmy put both hands on the wheel, waiting for him to cross the road to him.
Morgan jammed an ushanka onto his head and made his way across the road. He hurried to the Audi and got inside. Jimmy heard the rumble of the engine and watched as the car rolled out. Jimmy put the Mercedes into gear. The Quattro rolled to the east, the engine rumbling. Jimmy followed.
Jimmy didn’t know Berlin, and was quickly lost as he followed the Quattro through the city. Morgan stayed on main roads, but drove a little over the speed limit. Jimmy hung back as far as he could while still staying close enough to keep the Audi in sight. The snow was all around, scraped up and piled onto the pavements by ploughs. Jimmy could feel the compacted ice crunching beneath the tyres. The surface was treacherous, and Jimmy braked early and gently as he approached a set of red lights. The Audi pulled away when the lights went green, and Jimmy followed.
Morgan drove on Lietzenburger Straße, switching onto Schöneberger Ufer and following the curve of the Landwehr Canal. They passed through a commercial district with shops opening for the day, queues of Berliners waiting to scour the shelves for provisions, and continued east into a residential area. There were tall apartment blocks, rows of three-and four-storey buildings that had been carved up into flats. It was cheap and run down, with rubbish spilling from bins, blowing up against drifts of snow. They turned again and the Wall appeared, a massive slab of concrete topped with coils of razor wire. It was twelve feet tall and, when Jimmy looked ahead, he could just see the roof of a watchtower poking up over the top of it.