The Vopos stopped outside on the steps. Kardich ushered the other two ahead of him. Despite Hawn’s appearance, the clerk at the desk pretended to take no notice of them. They took the lift up to the fourth floor. The door was at the end of the corridor. Kardich knocked twice, and the door was immediately opened.
Hawn had difficulty focusing with his good eye. He could just make out a youngish man of medium height, with a plump, pale face and sleek black hair. He was casually but expensively dressed — rather too expensively for the ordinary East German, Hawn thought. But then what was the ordinary East German? Kardich? The Vopos? Doktor Oskar Wohl?
Kardich made no effort to introduce them. Instead, he turned to Hawn. ‘I shall be downstairs. The guards will stay at the door. There is only the one entrance. The exit at the back through the kitchens has been locked. I mention this in case you are foolish enough to try to escape.’ He nodded to them both, ignoring the guest whose room they were in, then turned back down the corridor.
The pale, sleek-haired man closed the door and beckoned the two of them across the room — a bland modern room, typical of any second-class European hotel. Television set in the corner; push button radio over the bed; a Gauguin reproduction on one wall; and by the door, next to the long list of the hotel’s rules and regulations, a map of the area — green, flat, with few towns or villages or roads, the whole area spattered with small lakes. A memory stirred in Hawn’s battered mind: two lines by Johann Wolfgang van Goethe, with words added by the late Doktor Hans Dieter Mönch. ‘The little birds are silent in the wood by the lake — just wait, soon you will be silent too…’
Their host had sat down on the bed, after waving them both into the two armchairs. It was obvious that he had only just arrived; his single suitcase — a cheap grip bag affair — stood unopened behind the door. He sat forward and gave Hawn a bright grin: ‘My goodness, they seem to have given you a good walloping! What did you do? Hit one of those bloody Vopos?’
‘That’s exactly what I did.’ Hawn’s mind was now fully alert. The man had spoken English — fluent, rather guarded English with a very slight, unplaceable accent. Not recognizably German, and not quite English either. He went on: ‘So you just arrived last night, eh? First time in the Workers’ Paradise! They certainly must have left you with a lovely impression. But you really shouldn’t go around hitting policemen. I’m not speaking up as the old bobby’s spokesman — I just believe in giving them a wide berth.
‘I once knew an Australian — news photographer based out in Beirut — biggest man I ever met. He was married to a South African girl, bust up with her, and she got custody of the three kids. Then this mad Ozzie bastard kidnapped them and tried to smuggle them out to what was then Botswanaland. He was picked up at the border by the police, and he put seven of ’em in hospital. And Afrikaans police are about as touchy as they come.’
‘What happened to the Australian?’ Hawn asked, though he was more interested in the man’s voice and accent than in his story. It had been about halfway through that Hawn had got it: pure, straightforward, genteel North London Jewish. The explanation, of course, was simple: his family had escaped from Nazi Germany and settled in England; then the war over, they had returned, as faithful comrades, to that rump of Germany where others were building the Workers’ State. It only surprised Hawn that the man had managed to keep his accent so intact. No doubt he had regular contacts with London — diplomatic, pseudo-diplomatic, or some other cover that Colonel Kardich and his friends had devised.
Perhaps Hawn’s beating bad left his appetite for life temporarily jaded: for he found that sitting face to face with a Communist secret agent — who had probably worked most of his adult life against Hawn’s own country, and yet who was perhaps a few years younger than himself — not so much dramatic or intriguing, as rather embarrassing. He could think of nothing to say; nor was he much inclined to, since every syllable filled his mouth with the taste of antiseptic.
Their host, who had still not introduced himself or asked for their names, quickly broke the silence: ‘Oh, the Australian? Well, they worked him over a bit, then they threw him out. I think they were scared of him. I say, I’m sorry, would you both like a drink?’ He bounded off the bed and went towards his grip bag. ‘I’ve got some Scotch — bit of a rarity in these God-forsaken spots.’ He paused. ‘Only I don’t think there’ll be enough glasses.’ He went into the bathroom and came out with a couple of tooth mugs. ‘Bugger — as I thought — only two.’
‘We’ll share one,’ Hawn told him.
‘I’m Sam, by the way,’ the man said, bending down over the bed and opening his grip bag: ‘Sam Hanak.’ Hawn noticed that his movements were leisurely, and that he was rather large around the hips. He certainly didn’t look like a dangerous adversary. ‘’Fraid there’s no soda,’ he went on, taking out an unopened bottle of Scotch. ‘Germans don’t believe in soda. Have to be tap water.’
‘We’ll have it neat,’ said Hawn, squinting carefully at the pale, plump features next to the bed. ‘My name’s Tom, and this is Anna.’
‘Tom — Anna — one straight whisky coming up for the two of you!’ Formal introductions were clearly no part of his game. ‘And if you don’t mind me saying so, Tom, you look as though you need it.’ He filled their glass to the brim — ‘Whoops! You can see I’ve never worked as a barman.’
‘What do you work as?’ Hawn said.
‘Ah, that’s a mighty question — a question that calls for mighty answers. Let us partake of the Demon Drink, before we bare our souls to each other. You’d better take the first sip — I’m spilling it.’
Hawn winced as the whisky seared his lips and bruised gums. He wiped the antiseptic off the glass and carried it over to Anna, his eyes watering with pain.
Sam Hanak had poured himself a more modest dose. ‘Chin-chin! To happy days!’
‘With two Vopos on the door, and a Colonel of the secret police waiting downstairs, Sam? Don’t they make you nervous?’
‘Nervous? My dear fellow, one must look upon the guardians of the State as the guardians of the People. The People are you and me.’ He gave Hawn a sideways grin. ‘Mustn’t let a little punch-up sour one’s broad philosophy of the world.’
‘And what particular world is that?’
‘There is only one world. We fight and squabble, and sometimes we even try and kill each other. Jolly silly. We’re all citizens together.’
‘And what country are you a citizen of, Sam?’
Hanak had stopped in the middle of the room, his glass half raised to his lips. A light flush had spread across his smooth cheeks. ‘Do I detect the tiniest ring of hostility in that question? Or is it just the brutal instincts of the questing journalist?’
‘It was a simple enough question. And you should be able to give me a simple enough answer.’
‘Then I shall answer you. I am a citizen of the world. No, I jest. I will give you the correct answer, but first I am obliged to ask you some questions. You see, those passports of yours are a bloody nuisance. I mean, you were taking enough liberties coming here in the first place — considering the sort of game you’re playing. But when you barge in with false documents, you’re not only making it perishing difficult for yourselves — you’re making it pretty bloody difficult for the authorities here.’
‘Now listen to me, Herr Hanak.’ Hawn was sitting forward, gripping what was left of the whisky in both hands, feeling the acids and adrenalin beginning to stir through his sluggish blood. ‘I’ve still got a bit of kick left in me. And if you think you can answer my questions with a little pep talk about how we’ve upset the authorities here, and what a nuisance we’ve been and so on, I don’t mind reserving that kick for you.
‘What the hell are you up to? Who’s playing you along? Kardich? The Central Committee of the East German Workers’ Party? Or someone else? Do you know somebody called Wohl? Acts like a playboy and calls himself an international lawyer? Yes, you know him. You’re in his class, just about. N
ice and breezy and anonymous.
‘But first you’ll tell me how you knew our passports were forged. Or rather, how Kardich knew. We picked up our visas at the border, with Wohl as our escort. At what point did they decide we were impostors?’
‘You mean, the East Germans?’ The young Jew sipped his whisky and stared out of the window. ‘Somebody was obviously telling tales out of school. Who gave you these passports?’ he added, turning back to them.
‘Ask Colonel Kardich. We told him.’ Hawn was now feeling mean and very angry; but Hanak either did not, or pretended not to, notice. His voice was still pleasant, with a dreadful mateyness: ‘Tell me.’
Hawn had difficulty suppressing his temper. He gulped at his drink and passed the glass to Anna. ‘A Frenchman by the name of Charles Pol.’
‘Ah, yes. Old Charlie Pol. I could have bet my last shirt that he’d get in on an act like this.’
‘You know him?’
‘Oh yes. I know him. A really naughty boy. Plays it mostly for kicks, too — that’s the funny thing. He’s made a fortune, in one way or another — most of them not quite legal. But it isn’t really the money that interests him. Charlie Pol is an old-fashioned adventurer — a buccaneer, freebooter, pirate. He makes his own rules and he expects everyone else to play by them. Otherwise, he owes allegiance and loyalty to no one.’
‘And whose rules are you playing by, Hanak?’
The man was pacing the room, making wide gestures as he spoke, and seemed not to hear the question. He paused by Anna’s chair. ‘Your whisky’s a bit low, my dear. Let me refresh it!’ This time he was rather clumsy, spilling some of the drink on the bed as he refilled the glass.
The whisky had anaesthetized Hawn’s mouth and stimulated his gut; and although the aggression it aroused still lingered, he found himself fascinated by Herr Sam Hanak: by the glib, breezy prattle of the better class of London car salesman or bouncy hairdresser — with none of the sad, morbid introspection of most Central European Jews, nor the hard phlegmatic anonymity of the prototype Communist agent. It occurred to Hawn that since Hanak knew Pol, he might only know Pol’s side of the story — something which the East Germans must be finding both confusing and a potential embarrassment. Murdering retired Nazi war criminals was a game they had long given up, if they had ever played it. But it was also a game of which they could not openly disapprove. Was Hanak’s job just to ease Hawn and Anna back to the West, without too many questions asked and answers given?
Sam Hanak tasted his second whisky. ‘What were we talking about? Ah yes, that Frenchman. You asked me how I met him. In a restaurant in Geneva, as a matter of fact. Pol had just been bankrupted by the Canton of Vaux — which is the most frightfully degrading thing. I mean, nobody goes to Switzerland and gets bankrupted. Like going to a top brothel and flopping on the job.’ He turned to Anna, with a little bow: ‘If you’ll forgive my coarseness?’
‘I didn’t ask you where you met him,’ Hawn said. ‘I asked you whose rules you were playing by.’
‘Oh I’m only a sort of linesman chap. I keep the score and make sure the ball stays in play.’
‘Herr Hanak, I think we’ve both been fairly patient with you so far. And we’re certainly grateful for your hospitality. But it’s about time you stopped poncing about and started being honest with us. Colonel Kardich told me that a very important person was coming to meet us — and Kardich doesn’t seem the sort of man who exaggerates. So I’ll accept that you’re important. High-ranking Party member? Security? — although you could have fooled me.
‘But what is it, Hanak, that makes us so important to you? Do you want to use us, or get rid of us? Or do you want to dandle us on your lap until it’s time to expose us as dangerous Western agents, then put us away for twenty years? We’d like to know.’
Sam Hanak smiled pleasantly. ‘You ask what’s going to happen to you? I shall be quite honest — I don’t know. I don’t know that it’s even been decided. I don’t even know what it’s all about. When one is put on to an operation like this, it is usual practice to be told only what is essential. What is essential about you is that you have been hired by Charles Pol — and that you have been working under his aegis for the last two months. The question is — what does Charles Pol want of you? Perhaps you could answer that for me?’
There was a slow pause. Hanak went on: ‘You ask what it’s all about. I can only tell you what I know. It’s about politics. International politics. Big power games — but without anything parochial, like East-West tantrums. Superpolitics. Super-national politics. At which point I should substitute politics with big business.’ He had stood up and was watching Hawn with his bright dark eyes.
‘Oil,’ said Hawn. ‘The Anglo-Britannic Consortium. Right?’
‘Spot on, old chap. Oil’s a funny thing. It gets everywhere, sticks to everything. It flows under the sea, underground, over frontiers, above ideologies — it can make governments, it can break them. It breaks friendships, too.’
‘We’re not friends,’ said Hawn. ‘We’re not even allies or colleagues. We’re here because we were brought here, under armed guard. We’ll go away under guard.’
The Jew gave them a sad smile. ‘You’re wrong. You’re staying tonight in this hotel, in the next room. The one condition is that you do not leave that room. Your things have been sent over from Headquarters and you can ring down for supper. Then tomorrow, at eight o’clock, we are going for a little drive.’
‘Just the three of us? No escort?’
‘Just the three of us.’
‘Where to?’
‘Not far. But please, don’t press me. You see, my position is rather like that of a surgeon preparing to undertake a difficult operation. I prefer to discuss the case when it is all over.’
Anna spoke for the first time; her voice was weary, uninterested: ‘I suppose that means you’re performing the operation on us? Oh God, how is it that we always finish up getting used? First Pol. Then that creep, Doktor Wohl. Now you — whoever you are.’
Hanak was blushing again. ‘That’s me — the mystery man. Now, how about a last drink?’
CHAPTER 28
They were woken by the 7.15 alarm call. Hawn had a headache that was not entirely due to the attentions of the two Vopos; and his mouth had a sour, furry taste flavoured with antiseptic and the aftermath of whisky.
They had a breakfast of omelettes and sausages and the brown bitter coffee. As Hanak had promised, their few belongings had been returned to them, with the exception of their passports and visas.
At 7.50 they knocked on Hanak’s door. A voice called out in German, and Hawn replied quietly in English. The door opened. Hanak stood in front of them, wearing only a vest and a pair of Y-fronts. His body was white and completely hairless. ‘Enter, my friends. Excuse my attire. Just trying to keep trim.’
He closed the door, dropped down on all fours, did six vigorous press-ups, then jumped up again, slightly flushed. ‘I’ll just nip into some clothes and we’ll go down. The car’s waiting.’ He dressed without embarrassment, this time in a tweed shooting-jacket with leather shoulders and button-down pockets, matching plus-fours, and thick steel-toed boots, like skiing boots. He clumped into the bathroom, and returned a moment later with his hair combed and wet; then swallowed the remains of a cup of coffee by the bed.
Hawn had noticed, more from the way the man moved than from his shape, that there was something heavy under the shooting-jacket. Hanak was armed. Nothing very surprising about that: but it was a detail worth knowing.
The corridor outside was empty, also the lift: and in the lobby, just an old woman with a mop and pail and a sleepy-looking clerk behind the desk. No sign of any Vopos outside the entrance.
At the kerb stood a black Skoda saloon. It was empty. Hanak went round and opened the driver’s door, which was unlocked. He gestured Anna to get in beside him, and Hawn in the back. The keys were in the ignition. People didn’t steal cars in the German Democratic Republic.
They
drove down the deserted street, in the opposite direction from Security Headquarters: into a broad grey avenue fringed with skeleton trees, pavements already busy with crowds hurrying to work: trolleys pasted with slogans swaying down the centre of the road between shoals of bicycles and belching trucks. There were few other cars.
Hanak was surprisingly silent. At the few attempts that Hawn and Anna made to find out where they were going, he either answered in a monosyllable or said nothing.
They drove on into straggling suburbs, past dilapidated factories bristling with red flags, but with chimneys mostly smokeless. The trolley wires came to an end and they turned on to a narrow humped road with edges partially devoured by weeds. They met several trucks hogging the crown of the road, and Hanak had to pull over briskly on to the verge to avoid collision.
The dark pine forests closed round them, casting a melancholy gloom under the pewter sky. The trees grew in almost perfect lines, tall and straight as ships’ masts; while under them it was black as night.
They had been driving for half-an-hour when there was a break in the trees and Hawn saw a small lake, greenish-black like the forests, giving off no reflection. He felt a strange thrill, as Anna turned in her seat and gave him a questioning look. He leant forward and she whispered, above the noise of the engine. ‘That German poem — the one Mönch sent us in Madrid?’
Hawn gave a quick nod, catching Hanak’s eyes watching him in the driving mirror; then sat back, saying nothing. If Hanak wasn’t going to tell them anything, why should they help Hanak? Wasn’t it he who was now calling the shots?
They turned left, down an even narrower road, and passed a rusted red sign warning of deer. Hanak was driving slowly now, hunched forward over the wheel. The road was very straight, a long grey scar between the endless marching stalks of pine trunks. Then, in the far distance, Hawn could just make out what looked like a hut, or perhaps a sentry box. As they drew closer, he could see the sign on the roof: big yellow letters spelling HO IMBISS.
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