“Just a minute,” he said brusquely and closed the door. Caroline was still sleeping soundly as he put on slippers and tucked the gun into the sleeve of the dressing gown. Glancing out of the window, he saw that the street was empty, then he opened the door and joined the little man in the corridor.
“It shouldn’t be a big job,” the man said and hurried down the corridor toward the bathroom, with Eberlin following warily.
The bathroom was at the end of the corridor on the right, and on reaching it, the bald-headed man stood aside for Eberlin to enter. It was empty inside, and there was no sound except for the dripping of the shower. The floor was as dry as a bone.
“What exactly was it–” Eberlin began, when he heard the snap of the lock. He turned around in time to see his caller lean against the door and stand looking up at him. There was a pause and then Eberlin quickly backed away and pushed open the doors of the two cubicles.
“It’s all right–we’re quite alone,” the man said in perfect English, lighting a pipe.
“You’re a funny little man, aren’t you?” Eberlin replied. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Henderson actually.”
“How nice for you. Would you unlock the door now so that I can leave?”
“In a minute. I must confess I don’t actually work for the hotel. “You surprise me,” Eberlin snorted and sat perched on the edge of the towel rack and folded his arms.
“Look, Eberlin, I’m sorry to have had to go through all this silly subterfuge, but if you insist on picking up stray tarts, how on earth can we get in touch with you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Henderson. She’s got a friend though that might be your type. I’ll see if we can arrange a double date.” Then he added, “Who’s we?”
“Frazer.”
“Oh really?”
Henderson smiled and strolled up and down the tiled floor, puffing at the pipe.
“What exactly does he want?” Eberlin asked.
“Well,” said Henderson, turning and giving a quick smile, “well, you must realize that he is getting a bit worried about you. I mean, you don’t seem to be doing anything.”
“So he sent you here?”
“More or less. Do you want a cigarette? I have those as well.”
“No thank you. He never told me you were coming.”
“No, well, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. You know how things are at home. I was in Munich actually when I got the wire.”
“Oh yes? You must have been with Gatiss.”
“Yes. Poor old Gatiss. Hates the place, but no one will give him a transfer. I left him drowning his sorrows in a bar.”
“That’s Gatiss for you,” said Eberlin deadpan.
“Yes,” said Henderson with a smile and repeated, “Poor old Gatiss …”
“Drive up this morning?” Eberlin said suddenly, startling the other man.
“What–oh yes. Straight route.”
“That must have been you in the gray Volkswagen following me then.”
“What? Well … yes it was actually. Awfully careless of me to let you notice–”
“Why?”
Henderson gave a quick laugh and rubbed the side of his face. A door banged in the corridor outside and they both waited in silence until someone tried the bathroom door, swore, then returned to his room.
“It’s getting cold in here,” said Eberlin after a while, straightening up and moving toward the mirror. He stood so that he could see Henderson’s nervous face in the reflection beside him.
“Just met that girl today, did you?” inquired Henderson with a nervous laugh.
“Why?”
“Oh–nothing. English, isn’t she?”
“She was driving an English car and wearing English clothes and her name is Anne, so work it out for yourself.”
“Oh yes. Yes. English then. Rather attractive though.”
“Look, Henderson–what exactly do you want?”
“Well I was–that is, Frazer was just wondering what actually were your plans. For the rest of your stay here.”
“Oh–is that all? Well, I’ll tell you, shall I?”
“If you could. We’d be awfully grateful.”
Moving casually away from the mirror, Eberlin seemed to turn his back on Henderson, but, in one sudden action, had swung around and grabbed hold of his lapels, pushing him backward into the shower and ramming the muzzle of the gun deep into the man’s paunch. Mouth open in stunned surprise. Henderson tried at first to struggle, then glanced down and saw the butt of the Browning seemingly disappearing into his navel.
“All right–who sent you here?” Eberlin snapped.
Henderson’s cheeks sagged and he seemed to be thinking once more about struggling, until Eberlin quickly searched his pockets and threw an automatic onto the beveled floor of the shower. The gun spun around noisily on the tiles and slowly slid to rest over the disposal grille.
“What are you doing–Frazer sent me–”
“No, he didn’t,” said Eberlin, pushing the gun farther into the man’s stomach. “There’s no one called Henderson in the files and furthermore I would have been notified if there was or if you were arriving. And for your information, Gatiss left Munich ten days ago. Now tell me who you are. And that gun’s a Tokarev.”
Immediately Henderson’s face froze into a defiant dumbness. Eberlin knew the expression well. Still keeping the gun in the man’s stomach, Eberlin pulled Henderson’s wallet out of his pocket and shook its contents onto the floor. One glance revealed the man’s identity. What an incompetent fool, he thought, and reached over and turned on the hot tap of the shower. The nozzle bubbled, then burst into life and flooded Henderson with hot water. Eberlin stood back, still pointing the gun, and said:
“Was this Rotopkin’s idea, to send a clown like you?”
No answer.
“What did you hope to achieve by this pathetic attempt at subterfuge?” Eberlin continued. “Tell Kuzmich that if he hadn’t been so eager to kill Pavel I wouldn’t be in this damn mess.”
“You’re under a gross misunderstanding,” the man said in Russian but Eberlin cut him off.
“I think they ought to send you back to Oktyabr,” he said. “You need a rest.”
He leaned forward abruptly and thrust the small soaked man sharply upward so that his head hit the nozzle of the shower with a sharp crack. The Russian collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the cubicle.
Eberlin quickly bent down and searched the pockets of the unconscious man, pocketing the Tokarev, and then, leaving the shower running, unlocked the bathroom door, glanced out into the corridor and returned to his room. What does one make of that incident? he thought. And what misunderstanding? The only misunderstanding was that Kuzmich was treating him like an enemy not as a friend. Damn them all.
Caroline was still asleep, but in her slumber had spread-eagled herself across the sheets so that the covers lay crumpled on the floor, and she was occupying the whole bed. Stealthily, Eberlin locked the door and hid the two guns. He took off his dressing gown, then stood staring down at the small, childlike figure below him, her right leg draped over the side of the bed. For a moment he was reluctant to disturb this innocent repose, but craving sleep and, more urgently, comfort, he carefully slid his right arm under her back and then, cradling her with his other arm under her bottom, he picked her up and kissed her on the mouth. Still half-asleep, she murmured contentedly and let her hand stray softly over his body. He lay down on the bed, still clutching her, and she stretched out drowsily on top of him, moving her body against his and hooking her arms under his shoulders.
“Little sad creature,” he whispered in her ear, “little, sad, sad, creature.”
PERIGEE
8
Friedrichstrasse Nein
There have to be some obstacles to heaven,
otherwise the dog could get in.
–ALEXANDER EBERLIN
THERE was a resounding slam and a crack as the metal doors of the S
-Bahn slammed shut, and the train slid out of the overhead station at Zoologischer Garten. Eberlin felt nervous. There were three stations before the S-Bahn crossed the Wall and entered Friedrichstrasse. Crossing overland, over the Tiergarten and the long, wide, ten-lane Strasse des 17 Juni that once cruised through the Brandenberg Gate but was now crippled by a barbed-wire and sandbag dam; past the tall golden Victory pillar and, away to the right, the ostentation of the Berlin Hilton and the precociousness of the Concert Hall, and then rattling in a curve over neglected tracks across the Wall itself–remarkably small and tame at first glance, but nonetheless unnerving–and the train decelerating and stopping in the immense glass arch of the Friedrichstrasse station itself.
Eberlin got out with the other few tourists and curiosity seekers, and stood on the platform a moment taking stock. The blue-coated railway guards checked the compartments, and glancing up Eberlin could see, framed high on the metal catwalks of the roof, the silhouettes of two Vopos, immobile, machine guns resting on their hips. He had known of an East German youth who had tried to escape by clutching onto the roof of a train, and of another who had hid in the engine of a locomotive. Both had died on the journey. One shot from above, here, the other, untouched, unnoticed by the Vopos, entering the safety of the West as a charred, burnt-out body. But that was of no consequence to Eberlin. His journey was the other way, crossing the Wall as a mere tourist. A simple procedure.
Reaching the bottom of the gray stone steps from the platform, Eberlin was guided by signs along a narrow corridor until he reached the Passport Control. There were about two dozen people waiting there in the hot, uncomfortable tunnel, standing quietly, awkwardly, hardly looking at each other. After half an hour, Eberlin had reached the counter, handed over his passport, given particulars of the money he carried, and been told to wait till his number was called. He moved away to a corner and stood smoking, avoiding the glances of the armed soldiers lounging by the door to the street. He waited a further half hour, then an hour until all other passengers had been cleared and others had taken their place, and still he waited anxiously, eyes aching from the strain. Only one other person besides himself had endured the long wait without being called. This was a tall man with round shoulders and prominent teeth which hovered on the front of his mouth as if he were about to spit them out in disgust. He was still standing a few yards from Eberlin, apparently unconcerned. Once the stranger smiled at him, but Eberlin, not caring to enter into pass-the-time banalities, turned away. Finally a door opened near him and a young private in the Volkspolizei approached him.
“Herr Dancer?” Eberlin nodded.
“Wollen Sie ins Zimmer gehen?” smiled the private and gestured toward a door in the corner of the tunnel. Eberlin frowned.
“Was ist los?”
“Bitte,” said the soldier and walked toward the door and waited. Eberlin walked slowly to join him and was led into a small office adjacent to the Passport Control, fitted out only with a desk and three chairs, a telephone and the inevitable framed photo of Ulbricht. The soldier closed the door.
‘Bitte, nehmen Sie platz.”
Eberlin did and lit another cigarette and was left alone. He glanced around the room, but it was impersonal and betrayed nothing of its nature. Crossing to a second door, he tried to overhear conversation from the next room but it was just a murmur. He looked out of the window at a restaurant opposite and a park, and the wide entrance to Friedrichstrasse itself. Fifteen minutes later he heard the door open and turned to find that the young soldier had returned, together with a second soldier who introduced himself with a bow as Stein. He was a tall man with mousy cropped hair and a strong, thin, almost Semitic face. He smiled pleasantly at Eberlin as he sat down at the desk and gestured to him to sit opposite. The passport was placed between them. A cigarette was offered, which Eberlin accepted, noticing that it was American. He remarked on this but received only a brief smile in reply. He felt himself being studied as he lit the cigarette, and wondered if this was mere routine. “Your passport states that you are an accountant, Herr Dancer?”
“That is right. Actually I’ve been promoted since.”
“How so?”
“I’m a supervisor.”
“Ah.”
Stein was turning the pages of the passport carefully, snapping each page with his thumb. At last he closed it and placed it neatly back in the center of the desk.
“Ah,” he repeated. “Why exactly are you visiting East Berlin?”
“Just sightseeing.”
“Sightseeing?”
“Yes. Looking around.”
“Looking around?”
“Well–yes, you see I would like to see the town and … while I am in Berlin I thought I might as well take the opportunity–”
“To visit the Eastern Sector.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How long do you intend to stay here?”
“Oh–just for the day.”
“Just for the day?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
Stein smiled and stared at the ceiling for a moment, then: “Perhaps you wish to see the Pergamum Museum. Things like that?”
“Yes. Things like that….”
“The museum is closed on Mondays.”
“Pity.”
“Yes. What is your name again?”
“Dancer. George Dancer.”
“Ah yes. Dancer. You work in an oil company–is that not right?”
“How did you know that?”
“It’s in your passport.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Is that so?” Stein said blandly.
“Look,” said Eberlin, irritated now, “what is this all about?”
“Just routine matters….”
“Yes–but I notice nobody else has been dragged in here. I’ve been waiting now for two hours–”
“Yes, we apologize about that. But you must realize, Herr–?”
“Dancer.”
“You must realize, Herr Dancer, that we have an immense problem here checking all incoming visitors.”
“I thought it was outgoing visitors you were concerned about.” Stein gave a brief smile and said quietly, “Not always, Herr
Dancer. Not quite always.”
Eberlin turned his head and saw that the private was still there, leaning against the wall, staring at the floor.
“Is that how he’s supposed to stand in front of an officer?” said Eberlin, gesturing toward the soldier, who took no notice.
“It’s not his position we are concerned about, Herr Dancer. It is Dancer, isn’t it?”
“Yes. How many times–”
“Quite. How much money are you carrying on you?”
“I’ve reported that.”
“Tell me again.”
“455DM and six pounds sterling approximately.”
“Rather a lot for a day’s visit.”
“I don’t intend to spend much. In fact, if you keep me here much longer, I won’t have time to spend any.”
“How do you mean?”
“How do I mean what?”
“How do you mean–spend any?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“But you speak excellent German for–what is it–an accountant?”
“We English are not all illiterates.”
“Ah. So I’ve been told. I too have read Shakespeare. Schlegel and Thieck translation of course.”
“Of course. Look, I–”
“Boses Werk muss unterhegen, Rache folgt der Freveltat. Do you know what that means? Evil deeds have got to end in ruin because vengeance follows hard on crime.”
Eberlin shrugged impassively and said: “Schiller also said, Rache tragt keine Frucht.”
“What an intelligent accountant. You amaze me, Herr Dancer–”
“Why am I being delayed here?” “You will soon know. I am waiting–”
The phone on th
e desk rang suddenly. A jarring Hey! that startled Eberlin.
“–for that,” said Stein, and picked up the phone.
Eberlin watched him as the officer listened on the telephone, then finally glanced up at him and put down the receiver. Scooping up the passport, Stein stood up, turned slightly away as if deliberating on something, then stepped forward and dropped the passport carefully in Eberlin’s lap.
“We’re sorry to have kept you so long, and apologize. One passport returned to owner.”
Eberlin looked up puzzled, glanced back at the soldier, then, with a dissatisfied grunt, stuffed the passport into his pocket and stood up.
“Well,” he said, somewhat relieved, “choose someone else next time for your little conversations. Your damned city isn’t that bloody marvelous.”
And staggering under his attempted pose and blandness he strode to the door. Stein’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Not that one, Herr Dancer. The other one.”
Eberlin turned and looked back into the room. Impassively, Stein continued:
“There’s a train to West Berlin in about three minutes. If you take the other door, it will lead you straight to the platform.”
Eberlin hesitated, not quite understanding at first, incapable for a moment of saying anything. Then:
“What the hell do you mean? I wish to go into East Berlin.”
“I’m afraid not,” Stein said. “Permission has been refused.”
“Refused? But I thought you–by whom? Why?”
“That is beside the point. We cannot allow you to enter the DDR. Not now or at any time. If you try to enter illegally, you will be arrested immediately.”
Eberlin swore and shouted back at Stein, but to no avail. The officer calmly collected some papers from the desk and prepared to leave. Suddenly Eberlin grabbed his arm, turning him around.
“Who said I couldn’t enter? You haven’t given me any reason for refusing me permission. You allow hundreds of British tourists through each week. Why not me?”
“Please let go of me, Herr Dancer. I cannot do anything about it.”
Stein called to the guard over Eberlin’s shoulder, and he was pulled roughly away and pushed aside.
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