by Henry Porter
Jay set off in the direction of the Grand Canal while Harland turned from the sea and headed for an old insurance building near the Carabinieri headquarters, where Ludovico Prelli was running the Italian surveillance operation as a personal favour to Harland.
On reaching the building he passed a security check at the door and leapt up the echoing stairway to the first floor, where two men inspected his diplomatic passport. He was directed through a wide passage that was filled with some of Prelli’s team of watchers. From within Prelli’s office, a little way along the passage, Harland heard the low, humorous growl of Alan Griswald, his CIA counterpart in Berlin, who had excused himself from a family holiday in Venice to be in Trieste for the next twenty-four hours.
‘Hey there,’ said Harland. ‘What news from the Rialto?’
‘Nothing, ’cept I doted on your very absence, Bobby,’ replied Griswald.
‘It’s good to have you here. Thanks for coming.’
‘It was wonderful but I couldn’t look at another Tintoretto ceiling.’
‘Has Ludo filled you in on what just happened in the Old Port?’ Harland shook Prelli’s hand and gave him the wallet. ‘He was a Pole named Grycko. A shoe salesman. Does that mean anything to you?’
Griswald shook his head. ‘What did he die of?’
‘Heart attack, maybe. He had a lot of saliva around his mouth. Maybe poison was involved, but my man tried to give him the kiss of life and he seems to be okay. Anyway, we’ll have the post-mortem results by tomorrow. Right, Ludo?’
‘No, by this evening, I think,’ said the Italian.
Harland sat down. ‘What did the police think of Rosenharte? What was his mood like when they took him back to the hotel?’
The Italian pressed his fingertips together and looked thoughtful. ‘The police say they thought that he did not want to show what he was thinking. He was shocked but he controlled himself, like you English.’ He smiled at Harland.
Harland nodded, picked up the straw hat, which had been retrieved from Molo IV, and examined the inside rim. ‘I wonder who the hell he was,’ he said.
2
Blackout
Rosenharte arrived at the restaurant with his hair damp and his shirt still showing signs of compression from the small plastic suitcase that he’d brought from Dresden. He was led to a table at the far end of the pontoon, where he sat down and ordered a bottle of local white wine. He turned his face towards the sea breeze that was beginning to tug at the corner of the pink tablecloth and, feeling a little conspicuous among these chic Italians, lit a cigarette.
All but two of the ten tables on the pontoon were occupied, mostly with young couples leaning into each other with unforced intimacy. He slipped down in his chair a little and watched the people drift along the banks of the canal. Some Latin-American music struck up in one of the alleys leading towards the centre of town. On hearing this, a couple strolling by paused, took each other’s arms and executed a few perfect steps of dance under the cone of a street light before fading into the shadows like phantoms.
It was still hot but the breeze was cooling him down and he was able to log the men and women strolling along the canal who seemed to have no particular object in view and yet were curiously attracted to this stretch of the water. He noted with a certain relief that the old muscles were beginning to flex; the instincts that he had been taught to use at an almost subliminal speed in Stasi training school were coming back. If the beginning of the evening was anything to go by, he would need them.
He was there ten minutes before he became aware of a woman standing on the gangway leading to the pontoon. Her gaze came to rest on him and she gave a shy little wave. For a moment he stared dumbly at her, unable to think of what to do, then gave a half-hearted wave himself. She was heavier than Annalise but the difference could easily be due to the passage of time. Her hair was about right, too - dark and pulled back by a clip, and her outfit - the white linen skirt, loose jacket, canvas shoes and sagging shoulder bag - was exactly what the middle-aged Annalise would have worn. But, to be frank, she was nothing like as beautiful as Annalise and had none of her lightness of movement and grace. She was now beside the table, wreathed in smiles and holding out both hands, palms outward.
‘For Christ’s sake stand up,’ she hissed in English without losing the pleasure in her face. ‘Stand up and take hold of my hands. Look into my eyes, then give me a hug and kiss me.’
He did as instructed, feeling rather foolish and then came to grief when she offered her right cheek and he went for her left. He apologized. The situation was too bizarre and he felt anyone watching would immediately see beneath this phony reunion.
‘Hey,’ she exclaimed, perhaps a little too loudly, ‘I remember you always did that. Rudi darling, it’s so wonderful to see you.’ She clasped him to her one more time and he smelt her perfume. Then she let him go and stepped away, seemingly to absorb her first sight of him for fifteen years. ‘Well, are you going to give me dinner, or what?’
Rosenharte mimed what he hoped was a charming admission of his clumsiness, then, realizing that she was waiting for him to pull out her chair, scurried round to help her. As he left her side, he touched her on both shoulders.
‘You’re getting the hang of this,’ she said, looking up and flashing her teeth at him. ‘I think we both need a drink, don’t you? I’ll have some of that wine.’
He filled her glass.
‘Did they give you another transmitter?’
He shook his head.
‘Good. My people can hear us, but it’s just one way.’
‘You’re not Annalise,’ he said. He had to put on record that this was not her because a vague suspicion that he had been set up by his own side still lurked in his mind. His microphone may have been dead but there was always the possibility that the Stasi were listening through another.
‘Of course I’m not her. You surely didn’t expect her?’
He said nothing and she produced a puzzled look. ‘Oh, I see what you want. Christ, this is complicated, isn’t it? You think you’re being set up by your own side?’
At least the woman was quick. ‘Where did Annalise’s parents meet?’ he asked. He knew the Stasi didn’t have this on their files because he had never told them.
‘Her father was a Belgian missionary in the Congo. Her Irish mother was a young nun. Annalise was the result of a scandalous affair, which forced the couple out of the church. They lived in Ireland until Michel Schering died, at which point both mother and daughter returned to Belgium. Is that okay?’
‘What was the characteristic that distinguished Annalise from ninety-nine per cent of humanity?’
The flame in the candle shuddered. She brushed the hair from her eye and thought. ‘Her ability at languages. She could speak seven or eight and was reputed to be able to learn a new language in under a month.’
‘Yes,’ said Rosenharte. ‘But everyone knew that. I was looking for something else.’
‘Her blood group. She had one of the most rare blood groups known to mankind. Okay?’
He nodded, still unsure, but now he had to make the gamble - accept this woman or not.
‘Put your hand on mine,’ she said, gazing into his eyes so effectively that something stirred in Rosenharte. ‘We’re being watched. There’re about a dozen Stasi. That’s good, because we want them to see us getting along and then in due course you beginning to seduce me.’ She gave him a mischievous smile.
He smiled and offered her a breadstick. ‘I hope I’m up to it,’ he said playfully.
‘Of course you are,’ she returned. ‘You like women, Rudi, and even if you don’t fancy me, you’re going to look as though you do. Now, light my cigarette.’ She exhaled the first drag. ‘The wind’s getting up. It’s a relief after the heat.’ She clasped her hands together and let her shoulders tremble like a small girl. She was pretty good at this.
‘You English always have something to say about the weather.’ He paused and glanced across th
e canal. ‘I don’t know your real name and I cannot call you Annalise, but—’
‘Then use a pet name.’
‘I called her Anna.’
‘Then use that,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Your people - British intelligence - can hear me now?’
She nodded.
‘They should know there are people’s lives at risk.’
‘If anything goes wrong, you can defect. We’ve got enough people here to help you at the first sign of trouble.’
He looked at her without bothering to mask his feelings. ‘My brother Konrad is in jail. They will hold him there until I return to the GDR.’
She absorbed this without changing her expression. ‘All the more reason to make this work without raising their suspicions.’
‘You talk of suspicion. Already your operation is compromised. That man dying out at the pier: the Stasi will know that something is wrong. Why did you ask me to go there?’
‘We wanted to see how many people were following you and identify them.’ She smiled again and brushed the back of her hand against his cheek. ‘Let’s order, shall we?’
‘The man who died - who was he?’
‘We don’t know yet. Look, it would be a lot safer if you were to leave all this to later; these questions are showing in your face. Just keep to the script and begin sweet-talking me, honey bun.’ She winked at him and her hand moved to touch his leg under the table. ‘Relax, Rudi, and tell me about your work.’
Almost directly above the restaurant there was an ornate first-floor balcony, which ran along four shuttered window bays. Behind these was an exceptionally well-appointed drawing room where Harland had set up his forward observation point. In the room with him were Harp, Griswald and Prelli with two of his assistants. From here they monitored the movement of the Stasi team that had followed Rosenharte from the hotel. Harland listened to the reports coming in. They were now aware of a pair loitering on the bridge nearby, three men in a car parked a little distance from the canal, a couple disguised as tourists who had been sighted on the corniche and two men who had just taken a table at the other end of the pontoon. There were about five others moving up and down the banks of the canal. In short, the area was crawling with East German intelligence officers. Harland knew this kind of close-quarter surveillance was a Stasi speciality. It’d be a miracle if so many eyes did not spot that Jessie and Rosenharte were faking it. Still, as far as he could tell they were responding to each other with a fairly convincing mixture of warmth and wariness. And if it looked good from where he was, then it might just fool others.
Something attracted his attention to the awning immediately below the apartment and he cursed. ‘Those men - who are they?’
‘Which men?’ asked Prelli.
‘The men who’re waiting at the maître d’s lectern.’
Prelli nodded and said something under his breath. A few moments later his watchers confirmed that they were part of the team that had come over the border. ‘It’s a damned shame you don’t have a two-way with the woman,’ said Griswald. ‘You could tell her about those goons.’
‘She knows they’re there,’ replied Harland. ‘Rosenharte’s just told her. He’s doing pretty well given the circumstances.’
There was silence in the room while he listened to the couple talk. He watched the waiter take their order, then turned to Griswald. ‘So what do you make of this thing about his brother being in jail?’
Griswald’s bulk shifted so that Harland saw his rubbery features and fine blond hair in the small amount of light coming from Prelli’s equipment. ‘They must suspect he’s going to run.’
‘They suspect everyone the whole time. That’s the point about the Stasi.’
‘And yet it may be to your advantage, Bobby. It means your fellow’s gotta go back East if his brother is in the slammer. And if he does go back, he’s gotta work for you. There’s no way out for him.’
‘Yes, but he won’t just be risking his own life. Could be his brother’s too, which will add to the pressure. That way people make mistakes.’
‘To me, he looks like the kind of man who can take it. A lot of bearing. A lot of poise. He looks like a damned prince sitting down there.’
‘Yes, that’s why they used him as an agent in the seventies.’
Finally the two Germans had gained the attention of the maître d’ and were being shown to the only free table, the one nearest the gangway.
‘Shit,’ said Harland. ‘That means they have to pass them on the way out.’
‘It’s going to be okay,’ murmured Griswald. ‘They’re doing fine.’ He paused. ‘Tell me about the brother.’
‘They’re identical twins. Our friend has made something of a name for himself as an art historian. He’s kept his nose clean, apart from the odd scandal - other men’s wives, that sort of thing. The brother is a dissident. In and out of jail, including spells in Bautzen and Hohenschönhausen.
‘The high pretty houses,’ said Griswald. ‘What was his crime?’
‘Consorting with demagogic and hostile elements - something of that nature. He’s a filmmaker. When he was released after a sentence served in Rostock, his membership of the union of filmmakers was revoked. We don’t know much else about him.’
A quarter of an hour elapsed during which they heard Rosenharte describe his life commuting between Leipzig and Dresden and tell Jessie about the lecture he was due to give the following day. The conversation was moving along quite well now. A radio crackled and Cuth Avocet, hidden in the van a little distance from the side of the canal, said, ‘Are you watching up there? One of those bogies is walking over to them.’
Harland moved his face up and down the slats. He saw a slim, middle-aged man in an open-necked shirt walking towards the table.
‘Jesus,’ said Griswald.
Rosenharte placed his hand on top of hers. ‘We’re about to be joined.’ Then he cupped her chin in his hand and leaned over to kiss her.
‘That’s good,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye and smiling. ‘You are rather good at that.’
‘Thank you.’ She was not the first to say it.
The man was within a few feet of them. He hesitated and craned his head as though not quite sure that he had recognized her then, seemingly satisfied that he had been right all along, he approached the table. ‘Annalise!’ he exclaimed, performing an embarrassed bow. ‘Annalise Schering, is this really you?’ He spoke in English. ‘It can’t be!’
She stared at him with a look of open bemusement. ‘I’m sorry . . . do we know each other?’
‘The Commission in Brussels! Yes, it is you. Don’t you remember me? Hans Heise from Bonn. We worked in the same Unit in DG8, the Directorate General for Development. My office was down the hall from you.’ He gave her an indulgent look.
She studied him, then glanced at Rosenharte, who smiled politely. ‘I’m sorry, I simply can’t place you. Which office did you say?’
‘The Development Directorate, under the Dutchman - Jan van Ostade. Surely you remember?’
‘I certainly remember him, but forgive me I . . .’ she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, it must seem rude, but I don’t remember your face.’
He looked troubled. ‘But you remember my name, surely. Heise - Hans Heise. We used to meet at parties held by the English couple, the Russell-Smiths. I was married then. My wife’s name was Martha. Perhaps you recall her. In the summer we attended a horse show in the country with the Russell-Smiths.’
‘His name wasn’t Jan van Ostade,’ she said. ‘It was—’
‘Ugo van Ostade,’ said Rosenharte, shooting a firm smile in Heise’s direction. ‘You introduced me to him in a restaurant. I think it was at Le Tabernacle. He was drunk, I seem to recall.’
She turned from Heise to Rosenharte, a look of relief beneath her smile. ‘Yes, exactly. And Ugo was replaced by Pierre Laboulaye.’
‘Laboulaye?’ said the man, now resting his hand on the back of her chair and looking up a
s though casually searching his memory for Laboulaye. ‘Wasn’t he the one who played the field with all the women in the Commission?’
Exactly, thought Rosenharte. He himself had filed the report to his superiors suggesting that Laboulaye was wide open to blackmail. Now this Stasi scumbag was playing it back to him, using his report to test the woman’s identity.
‘You know,’ she said, folding her fingers under her chin, ‘I remember everyone in that office. I can see them all now. Where did you sit? Not on the right, because the Italian and Spaniard were there. What were their names? Perhaps you remember. Carlo and . . . ?’
She was playing him at his own game. Heise opened his arms as though to say that he couldn’t be expected to remember everything.
‘Then on the left,’ she continued, ‘were the secretaries and the research group. Perhaps you were part of the research group?’
Heise hesitated. ‘No . . . I did not have my desk exactly there.’
‘But where then?’ she said. ‘Not in the Director’s office, surely?’
‘No, down the hall.’
She frowned and shook her head. ‘That’s not possible.’
‘Well, perhaps she will remember you later,’ said Rosenharte helpfully. ‘I should explain that we are seeing each other for the first time in fifteen years. Maybe one ghost from the past is enough this evening, eh?’
The man straightened. ‘You will excuse me for interrupting. Bon appetit.’ He nodded to both of them before retreating to his own table, where he acted perplexity and awkwardness to his dining companion, a younger man with a conspicuously pallid face and heavy spectacles.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I know what this means to you now.’
‘Do you?’ asked Rosenharte under his breath. ‘Do you really know what has just taken place? I mean really?’
‘Yes. You supported my identity as Annalise, so you are now committed.’
‘You understand it intellectually.’ He put his hand up to her face again, a gesture that had the advantage of hiding his own expression from the men at the other end of the pontoon. ‘I will listen to what your side have to say, but they must give me an assurance that they will do nothing to endanger my brother’s life. That’s the condition of my cooperation. He has two children. If anything goes wrong, the children will be taken from him and their mother for good. Is that all clear to you . . . and to your associates?’