Brandenburg

by Henry Porter

  ‘Until I leave it is.’ He moved to take the books from the shelves and began to pile them on his desk.

  ‘I’d like your full attention,’ said Zank.

  ‘You’ve got it,’ Rosenharte said, his eyes fixed on the volume about Giorgione.

  ‘We were concerned to ask you some questions about your trip to Trieste.’

  Rosenharte turned from the bookshelf. ‘What?’

  ‘There’re things that do not satisfy us. For instance, how Annalise Schering knew that you were at the restaurant by the canal.’

  This threw him. ‘Why are you asking this now? Surely the Stasi has got better things to do.’

  ‘We do, that’s for sure. But please answer the question.’ He folded his arms and let his eyes run over Rosenharte’s possessions.

  ‘I don’t remember. I think I told someone at the front desk that I was going there. No, wait, they recommended the place and I told them I would be there if anyone called for me.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Zank. ‘Because we had two people try the same thing - as an experiment, you understand. They reported that the hotel recommended an entirely different place. On both occasions they said the restaurant on the canal was too expensive. A tourist trap.’

  ‘All I can say is that the man in the red and black jacket told me that it was a fine place. Maybe he got a kickback for sending people there. I remember now that the maître d’ in the restaurant asked me how I had heard of the place.’

  Zank’s lips parted, but there was no hint of a smile. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said.

  ‘Then don’t, but it’s the truth.’ Rosenharte returned to the bookshelf to control himself.

  ‘We went to the hotel where you stayed with your friend, not your hotel but the Hotel Sistiana. ’

  ‘You’re obsessed,’ said Rosenharte.

  ‘No, just thorough,’ said Zank. ‘They call it a bijou hotel in the guide - small, comfortable and very good service. You know, Rosenharte, many of the staff have been there twenty or more years. It’s a family concern.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We talked to the maids there. Their memories are still quite fresh. After all, it was not long ago. They knew that you had tipped the night porter who brought you food and champagne late that evening. But they were unable to recall you leaving any money for the maid service, which is customary and was certainly expected by them after they had heard how you treated the night porter.’

  ‘That’s right. I didn’t leave them any money.’

  ‘Exactly, that’s why they remember Fräulein Schering’s occupation of that room. The other reason is that there were no signs of love. You are a man of the world. I do not have to explain what I am referring to.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, maids, being what they are, tend to speculate on the level of passion enjoyed by a couple from the evidence in the bed. In yours there was none.’

  Rosenharte shook his head. ‘Is that what you’re reduced to - sneaking around looking for semen stains?’

  ‘Don’t be frivolous, Rosenharte. This is an important matter.’

  ‘You’re trying to frame me to discredit General Schwarzmeer’s operation. I will not be used in the internal battles of the ministry. Last time I saw the general - you were not there, of course - he expressed his pleasure with the intelligence from the West. His scientists are looking forward to the next delivery. But there won’t be one unless my brother is released, and you’re the man who’s keeping him there. You’d better be sure of what you’re doing, Zank.’

  Zank walked to the desk and picked up the top volume of a pile of books and read out its title: ‘Art and Illusion by E.H. Gombrich. It might have been written by you, Rosenharte, because art and illusion are your two specialities. The question we have to decide is what is real and what is illusion in your life. I confess I’m beginning to think that most of your life is an illusion.’

  ‘That is not General Schwarzmeer’s view and I don’t have to remind you that this is his operation.’

  ‘It is, but we at Main Department Three like to keep an eye on things.’ He put the book down. ‘The man who died on the quay in Trieste was called Franciscek Grycko. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘I had no knowledge of him. I’ve said that before.’

  ‘He was once an operative of the Sluzba Bezpieczeństwa, the Polish state security service.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Rosenharte.

  Zank shook his head. ‘I never joke. I believe the same man visited this office. Subsequent to his death a person using his name also came here.’

  ‘I heard someone was looking for me here,’ said Rosenharte. ‘The woman who works for Professor Lichtenberg told me.’

  ‘Ah yes, Sonja. I don’t have to tell you what a pleasant girl she is, do I, Rosenharte?’

  Rosenharte stared at him.

  ‘We will return to her later, but now I want to ask how Mr Grycko knew that you were going to be in Trieste. What did he want? Evidently this fascination for an obscure art historian continued after his death. Is the second man who came looking for you here related, or merely using Mr Grycko’s identity? And how does he fit into the business of Annalise Schering? At the Main Department Three we are trying to make sense of it all, Rosenharte, and we want your help.’

  ‘But I can’t help you. If the man had left a note or something I might be able to find out.’ He let that hang in the air, but Zank didn’t react. ‘I’ve never been to Poland and have no Polish friends. The affair is a mystery to me.’

  Zank sucked air through his lips.

  ‘You’re trying to make something out of nothing when you know that all I have ever wanted is the release of my brother. I know you’re the one who stands in the way of his freedom. You can have me fired from my job. I can deal with that. But if any harm happens to Konrad, you will pay for it.’

  Zank gave him a chilling look. ‘I am merely doing the best I can to protect the state, Rosenharte. And it appears to me that you’re hiding something which may be a danger to the state. I will find out what that is very soon. Let me assure you of that.’

  ‘And for this you hold my brother?’

  ‘Naturally. Who can say how many people are involved in this plot?’

  ‘There is no plot! I am working for General Schwarzmeer, but I will cease to cooperate if my brother is not released.’

  There was a knock at the door. Another young Stasi thug beckoned Zank into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Zank reappeared and walked to the window with his hands in his pockets. ‘A very pleasant little berth you had to yourself here. You will miss the view over the Zwinger gardens. If only we at the MfS had such delightful circumstances in which to work.’ The men nodded. He moved to the door, brushing his upper lip with the edge of his forefinger. ‘I must return to Berlin. The rowdies are on the streets again causing trouble for tomorrow’s celebrations. What a world we live in, eh?’ One of the men opened the door for him. Zank paused and faced Rosenharte. ‘Oh yes, it seems you made a call from the director’s office two weeks ago - something you were anxious to keep secret. I have learned that it was to a Berlin number but we have experienced difficulties in tracing it. Odd that.’

  Rosenharte thought quickly and looked him in the eye. ‘I have been told to say nothing about this.’

  ‘Are you saying that the number belongs to the ministry?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  Zank considered him for a moment. ‘We will continue this conversation at the earliest opportunity.’

  One of the men handed him his raincoat and they left.

  Rosenharte slumped in his old chair and stared out of the window. When Zank found out that there was no such number at Normannenstrasse, his suspicions would be confirmed. But he already had enough information to hold and interrogate him. There was no need for him to wait to find out about the telephone number. He could arrest him whenever he wanted. So why didn’t he? During the exchange R
osenharte had noticed that instead of pursuing each point about the choice of restaurant, the hotel or the Pole to exhaustion - which was the Stasi’s usual nightmarish modus operandi - Zank had merely touched on them. He was putting a marker down, letting Rosenharte know what he knew. Maybe he was also trying to panic him into taking precipitate action.

  Two things were clear: Zank hadn’t managed to discredit Schwarzmeer’s operation, and the Minister of State Security wasn’t yet willing to abandon the hope of gaining more information about the Nato system. He sprang up and went to the director’s office.

  At this time on a Friday very few people were about. He listened at the door for a few seconds then opened it. Sonja was standing by the window. She looked guilty as hell and she had been crying.

  ‘Is he in?’ he whispered.

  She shook her head.

  He went straight in without asking and dialled five numbers - all of them with the prefix for Normannenstrasse. Four of the calls were answered and each time Rosenharte entered a random five-figure code and hung up. Then he dialled Vladimir’s number at Angelikastrasse and left a message with a ponderous Russian voice that he needed to speak to someone as a matter of urgency. Rosenharte hung up and grinned to himself. It might just throw Zank that little bit more if he knew he had dealings with the KGB. He was absolutely certain that Lichtenberg’s phone would now be monitored constantly.

  He left the office and went over to Sonja. ‘You deliberately deceived me,’ he said quietly. ‘You told them about the original phone call I made here. Was that necessary?’

  ‘I had to.’

  ‘No you didn’t. You went out of your way to help them.’

  ‘You used me,’ she said.

  ‘Used you? I’ve never used you, Sonja.’

  ‘You did. You used me.’

  He smiled. ‘We both know that’s not true. There’re all sorts of reasons why people help the Stasi. Usually they’ve been put in a position where they can’t do anything else. That I understand. But saying that you did this out of some kind of revenge is . . .’

  ‘Well, maybe I didn’t . . . hell, I don’t know. I’ve been confused lately. You’re so arrogant and wrapped up in yourself that you never noticed how fond I was of you. I’d have done anything for you, Rudi, anything.’

  This was all he needed but he understood: she had felt rejected that last time by the river bank and told Zank out of pique. He sat down on the edge of the desk beside her and took her hand. ‘It’s okay. You’re probably right, but I want you to know that I never felt anything less than the deepest affection for you.’ He paused and looked into her eyes. ‘How did they make you do it?’

  ‘My mother . . . You know she has arthritis. They promised to get her some new drug.’

  Rosenharte nodded. ‘Did you tell them anything else?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know anything else.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Just so long as you don’t think of yourself as taking revenge on me. You should spare yourself that, Sonja, because it isn’t true and it is unworthy of you.’

  He didn’t have time for this but he waited a few moments before standing and giving her a gentle peck on the cheek. He knew she would tell Zank about the phone calls he’d made. That was good.

  He walked straight to Angelikastrasse without bothering to check if he was being followed, and rang the brass bell at the door. Within a few seconds the door had been opened by a thickset man in his early thirties with a small scar on his chin.

  He looked across the street and to his right and left. ‘Rosenharte?’ he said. ‘Come in.’

  He was shown into a little interview room on the ground floor where the air was stale. A couple of minutes later, Vladimir appeared in a loose-fitting, double-breasted suit and tie.

  ‘I thought you were away in Berlin,’ said Rosenharte.

  ‘We’re leaving any second. How can I help?’

  ‘They’re moving next week. All their people will be in place in Leipzig by Monday evening.’

  ‘The evening of the next demonstration. Who will be there exactly - the British, the Americans - who?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ve been told to contact three members of the BND on Sunday evening at the Trade Fair ground.’

  ‘And you are to take them to Kafka. You were going to tell me her name.’

  Rosenharte hesitated. ‘How will you use it?’

  ‘Have no fears. The Stasi won’t hear of her from us.’ He stopped and adjusted his cufflink. ‘Maybe you don’t know this, Rudi, but in September this year a conference was held in Santa Monica, California, at the instigation of William Webster, the chief of the CIA. We were there. We have joined with the US in a special task force to fight terrorism. The man leading our side is Major-General Valentin Zvezdenkov, a former chief of counter-terrorism. Also General Sherbak, former deputy chairman of the Second Main Directorate of the KGB, is involved. These are contacts between the East and West at a very high level. You see, it’s not just words: the world is changing faster than most of us can comprehend.’ He tugged at his suit jacket and briefly checked his reflection in the window. ‘If this operation is fighting terrorism, we’re not going to disrupt it. So tell me her name.’

  ‘Before I do, I want to know I have your agreement about the passes. The date has been set for a week tomorrow, Saturday 14 October.’

  ‘What is it you want, exactly?’

  ‘A vehicle pass, a release form for Konrad, specifying the KGB’s need to question him and two passes for the men whose names I will supply this week.’

  It alarmed Rosenharte that Vladimir looked as if he was hearing the request for the first time. But then he said, ‘I think we can do this. Saturday the fourteenth. Yes, this should be possible.’

  ‘For delivery in Berlin on Friday the thirteenth?’

  ‘You’re not superstitious?’ he asked with a mocking smile.

  Rosenharte shook his head. Then he gave him Ulrike’s name and explained who she was. It troubled him greatly but he had to get Konrad out of prison.

  ‘That’s all good,’ Vladimir said at length, ‘and they’re going to take some kind of action next week? I’ll want to hear details of that the moment you learn of them. The Stasi have no hint of what’s to happen?’

  ‘They’re close, but Colonel Zank hasn’t made all the connections. I think they’re preoccupied with what’s going on. The riots at the station . . .’

  ‘To say nothing about the demonstrations in Berlin. People shouting our president’s name on the way from the airport. You should be careful in Leipzig. We think they will use force on Monday. Troops have been ordered to the city. Supplies of blood have been shipped in and specialists in gunshot wounds also. Mielke means business this time.’ He gave Rosenharte a curious look and several nods to underline that the information was good. ‘If you survive Monday, call me here, at any time. I want to be kept informed of the situation.’

  Rosenharte was aware the interview had come to an end.

  ‘May I ask you one thing, as a matter of curiosity?’

  ‘If it’s brief. I have to leave.’

  ‘Will President Gorbachev come to Honecker’s rescue?’

  ‘How can I know what the president is thinking? Be serious, Rudi.’

  Rosenharte then asked a favour of Vladimir. He listened impatiently, glancing at his watch twice before agreeing. One of the men who was staying behind in Dresden would be able to help, he said. This was all he could do.

  ‘Now please go, Dr Rosenharte,’ he said, ‘and keep in touch.’

  All over Dresden that night, groups of youths were gathering to jeer at the Volkspolizei, who responded by running them down and beating them. These were minor scuffles and there was no focal point for these demonstrations, but it was plain that feelings had not dampened after the mass arrests on Wednesday and Thursday. If the people weren’t allowed to leave on the trains that crawled westwards through the city, they were goin
g to make life hell for the Vopos. They seemed to have lost their fear: it was as if they wanted to be attacked, to hold up the mirror to the police and show them the reality of the state now celebrating its anniversary. They didn’t fight back, but ran shielding their heads, crying out: ‘No more violence!’

  He saw a young couple, no more than twenty years old, being clubbed viciously over their backs and shoulders by two Vopos in riot gear. He bellowed at them to stop. One policeman looked round, raised the visor on his helmet and shook his baton at Rosenharte. The young man had time to pull his girlfriend free and run off.

  On his way home Rosenharte stopped outside an electrical store, where a lone TV set showed the state network’s coverage of a youth parade in Berlin. Tens of thousands of kids, indistinguishable from the ones taking on the Vopos at every street corner in Dresden, were marching in the blue and green uniforms of the Freie Deutsche Jugend, along Unter den Linden in the heart of Berlin. The communist leaders looked on benevolently - Erich Honecker, Gorbachev, Ceausescu of Romania, Jaruzelski of Poland, Grosz of Hungary. Honecker appeared to be in a trance. ‘He’s ill. Look, he’s drugged,’ said a man who had stopped at the window to watch with him. ‘He won’t be long for this world.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Rosenharte.

  He got home late and sat down with an old bottle of pear liqueur, which was the only alcohol he could find in the flat, and thought about Sonja. Had she tried to give herself to him on the river bank as a kind of apology, or had his rejection been the cause of her betrayal? Either way he couldn’t bring himself to dislike her. During their affair she had often given him much joy.

  At one o’clock in the morning he turned on the BBC World Service news. There was a short item about the celebrations in Berlin that included a suggestion that the young people had turned it into a pro-Gorbachev demonstration shouting out, ‘Perestroika! Gorby help us!’ - the same cry that was heard in the crowds kept away from the march by the police. No doubt that accounted for Honecker’s parched expression on the podium. A West German radio station gave more time to the troubles in Dresden and on the fringes of the celebrations in Berlin. Next day would come the military parade, free funfairs for Berliners and a summit between Honecker and Gorbachev at the Schloss Niederschönhausen. Almost as an afterthought, the station ran an interview with Gorbachev that had been given at noon that day.